Outside, the sounds of summer continued—the buzz of bees, shouts of children free from school, a sprinkler whisking in circles. It seemed wrong and harsh for there to be such happiness in the world at that moment.
“Is she going to die?” Bean asked uncertainly. Her voice shook a little, and she stared hard at the plate in her hand, watching the streaks of damp disappear into the air.
Rose snapped off the faucet. “Don’t say that. Don’t even say it. She’s going to be fine.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t.” Rose held up her hand, her fingers wrinkled and white from the water. She wouldn’t meet Bean’s eyes. “We can’t even think about it. It’s bad luck.”
Bean said nothing. She finished drying and put the last dishes away and then disappeared into the living room.
Rose went upstairs and peeked in the door to our parents’ room, looking at the dim shape of our mother lying on the bed. She was sleeping; Rose could hear the steady whisper of breath. When we were little and had nightmares, we would slip into our parents’ room and beg to sleep in their bed. Our mother rarely agreed to this, usually walking us back to our own beds and giving us a kiss as protection against the darkness. Now she only shifted slightly, her mouth falling open as she slept. Rose felt the urge to crawl into bed beside her. Instead she tiptoed back down the hall and down the stairs. Bean had assumed her position on the sofa, a book held loosely between her fingers. On the floor beside her was a glass of water she’d tipped over.
An impotent fury caught in Rose’s throat. “Bean, look at what you’ve done.”
Bean bent her head slightly so she could see over the edge of the sofa. She lifted a hand enough to right the glass and then went back to her book.
Rose stomped into the kitchen and returned with a towel. Kneeling, she dabbed at the water on the floor and then, less successfully, the rivulets of liquid already soaking into the edges of the rug.
“It’s just water, Rose. Relax.” Bean tugged at one of her nails with her front teeth. Having the acrylics removed had exposed the weakness of the nails beneath, and they constantly folded in on themselves, tearing down to the nail bed so the edges of her fingers were always bloody and sore.
“Water causes damage, Bean.” Rose finished mopping up and pushed herself to her feet. She restrained herself from throwing the wet towel onto Bean’s perfectly made-up face in order to prove her point.
Bean looked up at Rose and then waved her hand dismissively. “Move along,” she said. She hooked one leg over the top of the sofa and went back to her book.
“You are impossible. Do you have any idea what life would be like without me here?”
“It’d be a hell of a lot quieter, that’s for damn sure,” Bean said. She bit another nail, tearing the white off, and spat it into the air.
“I do everything around here. Everything.”
Bean sighed and rested her book on her chest. “Which is precisely the way you like it. Now, do you want to talk about what’s really bothering you, or would you prefer to shut the hell up and let me read?”
“What’s really bothering me is the way you just come back here and take everything for granted, like we’re here to serve you. You get to go out all night and no one says a word. And I’m sick of running around like Cinderella, cleaning up your messes.”
“No one’s stopping you from going out, Rose. Go wherever you want. You’re free and twenty-one.”
“Right. So I’ll just go off to England and live with Jonathan. How’s that?”
“Fine with me,” Bean shrugged. She lifted up her hair so it spread out over the arm of the sofa, like Ophelia drowned in the brook.
Rose sat down, the wet towel still clutched in her hand. “Don’t be silly. I have to be here to take care of Mom.”
“They have people for that, you know. I like to call them doctors.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Okay. Then how’s
“Is she going to die?” Bean asked uncertainly. Her voice shook a little, and she stared hard at the plate in her hand, watching the streaks of damp disappear into the air.
Rose snapped off the faucet. “Don’t say that. Don’t even say it. She’s going to be fine.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t.” Rose held up her hand, her fingers wrinkled and white from the water. She wouldn’t meet Bean’s eyes. “We can’t even think about it. It’s bad luck.”
Bean said nothing. She finished drying and put the last dishes away and then disappeared into the living room.
Rose went upstairs and peeked in the door to our parents’ room, looking at the dim shape of our mother lying on the bed. She was sleeping; Rose could hear the steady whisper of breath. When we were little and had nightmares, we would slip into our parents’ room and beg to sleep in their bed. Our mother rarely agreed to this, usually walking us back to our own beds and giving us a kiss as protection against the darkness. Now she only shifted slightly, her mouth falling open as she slept. Rose felt the urge to crawl into bed beside her. Instead she tiptoed back down the hall and down the stairs. Bean had assumed her position on the sofa, a book held loosely between her fingers. On the floor beside her was a glass of water she’d tipped over.
An impotent fury caught in Rose’s throat. “Bean, look at what you’ve done.”
Bean bent her head slightly so she could see over the edge of the sofa. She lifted a hand enough to right the glass and then went back to her book.
Rose stomped into the kitchen and returned with a towel. Kneeling, she dabbed at the water on the floor and then, less successfully, the rivulets of liquid already soaking into the edges of the rug.
“It’s just water, Rose. Relax.” Bean tugged at one of her nails with her front teeth. Having the acrylics removed had exposed the weakness of the nails beneath, and they constantly folded in on themselves, tearing down to the nail bed so the edges of her fingers were always bloody and sore.
“Water causes damage, Bean.” Rose finished mopping up and pushed herself to her feet. She restrained herself from throwing the wet towel onto Bean’s perfectly made-up face in order to prove her point.
Bean looked up at Rose and then waved her hand dismissively. “Move along,” she said. She hooked one leg over the top of the sofa and went back to her book.
“You are impossible. Do you have any idea what life would be like without me here?”
“It’d be a hell of a lot quieter, that’s for damn sure,” Bean said. She bit another nail, tearing the white off, and spat it into the air.
“I do everything around here. Everything.”
Bean sighed and rested her book on her chest. “Which is precisely the way you like it. Now, do you want to talk about what’s really bothering you, or would you prefer to shut the hell up and let me read?”
“What’s really bothering me is the way you just come back here and take everything for granted, like we’re here to serve you. You get to go out all night and no one says a word. And I’m sick of running around like Cinderella, cleaning up your messes.”
“No one’s stopping you from going out, Rose. Go wherever you want. You’re free and twenty-one.”
“Right. So I’ll just go off to England and live with Jonathan. How’s that?”
“Fine with me,” Bean shrugged. She lifted up her hair so it spread out over the arm of the sofa, like Ophelia drowned in the brook.
Rose sat down, the wet towel still clutched in her hand. “Don’t be silly. I have to be here to take care of Mom.”
“They have people for that, you know. I like to call them doctors.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Okay. Then how’s
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