![]() The woman lowers the flame on the stove and descends to the basement. She removes sheets and pillowcases from the dryer, irons and folds them, then carries them up to the girl’s room, along with clothes she notes now smell of spring rather than reeking of regurgitation.Īfter stashing the clothes and making the bed the woman is at a loss for what to do next. Yet this morning she noticed the girl still had that small scar right below her left eye. After her precious child contracted chickenpox, she stayed up nights to keep those frantic fingers from scratching open the pustules covering that perfect face. Still there is the chance something had managed to slip by her. Even the one prescribing those useless B-12 injections. All so condescending, saying it was just a phase. And those American doctors she consulted once her endearing darling became a sullen, lethargic girl. She begged him to examine her newborn only to have him laugh when he took a look, saying any infant sleeping with her arms above her head like a ballerina could not be anything but healthy. That physician on the train barreling across Europe during the flight from her homeland. So utterly unfair since she was the one who was so conscientious while the most they ever did was to recommend she stop fretting. She wonders why women get blamed for the way their children turn out while men remain beyond reproach. ![]() The woman still feels the sting of the nurse’s censure. This morning when she told the girl how disgusted a nurse had been about having to divert resources from deserving people to a drunken kid, the girl just glared and asked why on Earth she needed to tell her that now. Each time she opens her mouth, she says something stupid the girl is sure to point out. The woman stayed behind so the man could talk to the girl alone. All she hears is the screaming ambulance, pushing through impassable streets, the unconscious girl hooked up to the breathing apparatus. All she sees is the girl face down in vomit, unresponsive to the most forceful shaking. Steam fogs the windows so she cannot see the glittering snow outside. His wife warned he should keep quiet or he would regret it.Ī woman stands in a kitchen, stirring a pot of soup. On several occasions he tried to talk some sense into the tenant, chiding her for the cars and kids she could not afford. He regrets how closely the girl has come to resemble that tenant, always finding fault with everything but her own behavior. This morning in the middle of everything else a tenant called to complain. Annoyed by her silence the man seeks distraction, pointing to the massive icicles forming under the eaves of an imposing home. He says they shimmer like the crystal chandelier inside but thinks about the snow piled up on the flat roof of the duplex he owns across town. The man asks the girl why on Earth she did what she did. ![]() What around here could possibly torment a teen? Particularly one who was never forced to endure years under foreign occupation and the remainder in exile, doing mind-numbing manual labor and supplementing meager paychecks by renting to riffraff. He wants to cheer her up but cannot comprehend how she has the audacity to act so unhappy. All she needs is insulin to set her right and stays in the shade to protect her porcelain skin. The girl says she agrees but thinks about the old woman who lives with them. Invigorated by the cold the man says sunshine cures all ills. The man waking her to say she should take a walk with him before sitting down to a late lunch. The woman saying she should spend the rest of the day sleeping. Hot water inundating her in the first-floor shower, clean clothes left for her on the toilet seat, a big blanket covering her on the living room couch. Just light so bright she had to close her eyes on the drive home. Apart from some soreness where a tube was shoved down her throat and occasional pain in places where people must have grabbed her she feels fine and wants to forget what happened.Īs it is she recalls nothing past six or so last night and little of this morning. The girl spent the past night on a gurney in a hospital hallway, the only available space since the emergency room was already overrun with casualties from cars colliding in whiteout conditions. Sun strikes the snow, making it sparkle like fairy dust. The man says they are walking in a winter wonderland, thinking of the song. The girl agrees but sees the affluent area as a wasteland, thinking of the poem. A man and a girl stroll along shoveled sidewalks, between tall snow banks, beneath a faultless sky.
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