this?” Bean sat up, putting her book down beside her. Rose winced at the broken spine, the leaves of the book spread out like a bird’s wings. “How’s about you stay here until Mom is through her treatment, and then you go to England and wherever else Jonathan wants to go?”
“I have a job. I can’t just leave it.”
“Does Jonathan get a salary?”
“Of course.”
“Do they put him up in housing?”
“In Oxford they are, but in the next position, who knows?”
“Then you don’t need to work.”
“This may shock you, Bean, but not everyone works exclusively for the money.”
“Of course they do. That’s why they call it work. If we got paid just to sit around and look cute, they’d call it something else entirely.”
“I don’t want to be the kind of person who doesn’t work. I don’t want to be a housewife. I don’t want to be like . . .” Rose censored herself, but the sentence was hanging in the air and Bean pounced.
“You don’t want to be like Mom? This may shock you, Rose, but I’m fairly certain Mom could have worked if she wanted to. It’s not like Dad was keeping her in some kind of pre-suffrage dungeon. Besides, I’m not suggesting that you never work again. I’m just saying that you don’t have to worry about a job right this very second. Lots of people would love to be in that position. Me, for one.”
“I don’t exactly see you running right out to get a job.”
“I’m gearing up for it.”
Rose huffed and looked out the window. The afternoon was gathering into gray clouds. There was a storm coming. She pressed her hands together and then pulled at each finger, stretching the muscles, while her mind played over the future. Planning to leave after our mother was better would make it look like she didn’t care, like she saw our mother’s brush with death as an inconvenient delay to her own plans. What kind of daughter—what kind of person—thought like that? And what if she planned to leave and then our mother didn’t get better? What if it turned out that she was sitting around, plane ticket in hand, waiting for our mother to die?
“What if she doesn’t make it?”
“You just said it was bad luck to say it.”
“I know. But now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Don’t get so dramatic, Rosie. I was just saying. It’s not going to happen.” Bean turned back to her book.
Rose fidgeted with her fingers nervously for another minute, until Bean put down her book and looked at her, long and hard. It wasn’t like Rose to look ill at ease, and it made her a little nervous.
“What will I do? What will I do if she dies?” Rose asked, and she spoke so quietly the words seemed to disappear in midair.
Bean sighed. “If you had a brain in your head, you’d quit your job and go to England to be with Jonathan. Do you see the theme here?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Then you’re out of excuses. Whatever happens with Mom or doesn’t means absolutely nothing to you in terms of your future.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, sister mine, that the only thing keeping you here is you.”
FIVE
I n Rose’s dream, she was sitting in the backseat of Jonathan’s car as it moved down the highway, the trees whipping by in a blur of green. There was no front seat and no driver, and she scrabbled with her fingers, reaching desperately forward, trying to grab the steering wheel and the pedals. When she looked out the windshield at the road ahead, it was dark and blurred. The car sped faster and faster, and Rose reached forward again, her hands still falling in empty space, no matter how she twisted her body.
A clap of thunder so enormous it rattled the windowpanes jerked her awake, and she sat up in bed, clasping her hand to her pounding heart. Calm, Rose, calm, she thought to herself, breathing in and out slowly, in through her nose, out through her mouth, deep yogic breaths that stilled her mind and brought her heart back from its racetrack speed.
Rose had
“I have a job. I can’t just leave it.”
“Does Jonathan get a salary?”
“Of course.”
“Do they put him up in housing?”
“In Oxford they are, but in the next position, who knows?”
“Then you don’t need to work.”
“This may shock you, Bean, but not everyone works exclusively for the money.”
“Of course they do. That’s why they call it work. If we got paid just to sit around and look cute, they’d call it something else entirely.”
“I don’t want to be the kind of person who doesn’t work. I don’t want to be a housewife. I don’t want to be like . . .” Rose censored herself, but the sentence was hanging in the air and Bean pounced.
“You don’t want to be like Mom? This may shock you, Rose, but I’m fairly certain Mom could have worked if she wanted to. It’s not like Dad was keeping her in some kind of pre-suffrage dungeon. Besides, I’m not suggesting that you never work again. I’m just saying that you don’t have to worry about a job right this very second. Lots of people would love to be in that position. Me, for one.”
“I don’t exactly see you running right out to get a job.”
“I’m gearing up for it.”
Rose huffed and looked out the window. The afternoon was gathering into gray clouds. There was a storm coming. She pressed her hands together and then pulled at each finger, stretching the muscles, while her mind played over the future. Planning to leave after our mother was better would make it look like she didn’t care, like she saw our mother’s brush with death as an inconvenient delay to her own plans. What kind of daughter—what kind of person—thought like that? And what if she planned to leave and then our mother didn’t get better? What if it turned out that she was sitting around, plane ticket in hand, waiting for our mother to die?
“What if she doesn’t make it?”
“You just said it was bad luck to say it.”
“I know. But now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Don’t get so dramatic, Rosie. I was just saying. It’s not going to happen.” Bean turned back to her book.
Rose fidgeted with her fingers nervously for another minute, until Bean put down her book and looked at her, long and hard. It wasn’t like Rose to look ill at ease, and it made her a little nervous.
“What will I do? What will I do if she dies?” Rose asked, and she spoke so quietly the words seemed to disappear in midair.
Bean sighed. “If you had a brain in your head, you’d quit your job and go to England to be with Jonathan. Do you see the theme here?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Then you’re out of excuses. Whatever happens with Mom or doesn’t means absolutely nothing to you in terms of your future.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, sister mine, that the only thing keeping you here is you.”
FIVE
I n Rose’s dream, she was sitting in the backseat of Jonathan’s car as it moved down the highway, the trees whipping by in a blur of green. There was no front seat and no driver, and she scrabbled with her fingers, reaching desperately forward, trying to grab the steering wheel and the pedals. When she looked out the windshield at the road ahead, it was dark and blurred. The car sped faster and faster, and Rose reached forward again, her hands still falling in empty space, no matter how she twisted her body.
A clap of thunder so enormous it rattled the windowpanes jerked her awake, and she sat up in bed, clasping her hand to her pounding heart. Calm, Rose, calm, she thought to herself, breathing in and out slowly, in through her nose, out through her mouth, deep yogic breaths that stilled her mind and brought her heart back from its racetrack speed.
Rose had
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