mechanical. So lean and chrome. Looking back, I suppose it was self-defense. A robot canât get hurt.â
âIt can break down.â
âOf course, but they can also be fixed, like a toaster or a car. Thatâs what I thought. But even mechanical things sometimes canât be fixed.â
âLike the Heap. Like me.â
Quiola rested her hand on top of the suitcase and gave C.C. a look that said, without speaking:
and this is why I have to leave, for now. When you say things like that
.
âWell? Itâs the truth, isnât it? Iâll never be entirely the same.â
Quiola stared at the wood floor, silent.
âGoddamn it, Quiola. Canât we even talk about this? Iâm not the same, Iâll never be the same, and thereâs no guarantee Iâll even make it. You ask me to promise to get well, but you canât really ask me, for your sake, to believe in a miracle, can you? You canât just ignore the fact that Iâve been bent, spindled and mutilated, that Iâm sick, and that youâre leaving.â
âIâm not leaving, leaving. Iâm coming back. Three weeks.â
âFine! I stand corrected. Iâll be alone for three weeks.â
âBut you wonât be alone! Thereâs Margaret next door, and then Valerie will be here â and you said youâd be all right, you said it was a good idea! I can cancel my trip ââ
âNo. That would be a mistake.â She glanced up warily. âFor both of us.â
âYes, it would. I need to get â Iâm sorry, C.C. I need a break. Iâm not perfect.â
âNeither am I,â said C.C. quietly. âNeither am I.â
Â
â¦
Â
âMom.â Her long, thick dark hair in a single braid down her back, Quiola stood solemn, a point of stillness in her blue Catholic school uniform. The cramped kitchen bustled, as the first wave of the dinner hour swung into tempo at
Rose Garden.
Tucked into a corner of the Lower East Side, the tiny restaurant had grown hot as a furnace with local traffic. Rose Otter turned away from the gas stove sheâd been supervising at the sound of her daughterâs voice. A spry woman, Rose Otter was just thirty; her employees called her Mrs. Dynamo.
âWhat is it, Quiola? You can see how busy we are. Why donât you go upstairs and start on homework? Then come back in an hour or to help us out. Tonight looks like a rush already. But then it is Friday ââ
âMom, I â I donât feel well.â
Rose frowned. She touched the shoulder of the woman standing at the stove beside her. âBritta? Can you handle this by yourself?â
âSure, no problem â itâs early yet. Go on.â
Rose wiped her hands on her chefâs apron, and laid a palm against Quiolaâs forehead, her gaze full of concern. âI donât think youâre running a fever.â
âNo, itâs not like that,â said Quiola lowering her voice to no more than a whisper, which got lost in the clamor of pots, flares, chopping, dicing, the fragrance of onion and garlic, vegetables simmering, meat sizzling.
âHey,â said Rose to a young man. âWatch how much of that oil you use! Iâm not Mrs. Gotrocks, ya know! So tell me, Quiola, how donât you feel well?â
âIâm sick.â
âTo your stomach?â
âNot exactly. Maybe. Please, Mom, canât we talk about this upstairs?â
âHave you lost your mind? Do you see whatâs going on here, hmm? Dinner. I canât just leave and you know it. Quiola, honey, what is wrong with you? Do you have a headache? I donât think it can be flu, you arenât running a fever and you donât look flushed.â
âOrder up, number nine!â cried Britta. âNow, George!â
âNever mind,â said Quiola. âIâll go up and lay down.â
âDo you think aspirin would
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