I hope you'll all be very happy being blond together. May people speak only in inside voices for the rest of your lives.
P.S. Lydia, your wedding dress makes your arms look fat.
Carmen opened the padded envelope and shoved in all her cash. One hundred eighty-seven dollars. She considered putting in the ninety cents in change, but it seemed like something a seven-year-old in an after-school special would do. And besides, it would probably cost more postage to send coins than the coins were worth. That thought stimulated her math-geek brain.
She stapled the envelope closed without including a note and carefully wrote out the address and return address, then hustled out the door to get to the post office before it closed. Who was her mom to complain that she loafed around the house with nothing to do?
On a sweltering afternoon, Lena was lying on her back on the tile floor, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Bridget. Bridget's last letter worried her. Bee followed her heart with such manic abandon sometimes, it scared Lena. Usually Bee sailed along in triumph and glory, but once in a while she crashed on the rocks.
For some reason Lena thought of a dream she'd had. In it, she was a small house with whitewashed knuckles clinging to the side of the cliff. She knew she had to hold on tight, because it was a long drop into the cauldron below. A part of her wanted to release those cramped fingers and just fall, but another part of her warned that you couldn't just fall for the thrill of it.
Grandma was sitting on the sofa, sewing something. Effie was off somewhere. Lena would have bet her paints her sister was making out with the waiter.
For some reason, thinking about Bridget or maybe the dream, or maybe it was the heat, put Lena in a funny, free-associating kind of mood. “Grandma, why does Kostos live with his grandparents?”
Grandma sighed. Then, to Lena's surprise, she started to answer. “It's a sad story, lamb. Are you sure you vant to know it?”
Lena wasn't totally sure. Grandma went on anyway.
“Kostos's parents moved to the United States, like so many young people,” she explained. “He vas born there.”
“Kostos is a U.S. citizen?” Lena asked.
Lena was too hot to turn her head, but she did anyway. Grandma nodded.
“Where did they live?”
“New York City.”
“Oh,” Lena said.
“His parents had Kostos, then another little boy two years later.”
Lena was beginning to guess how sad this story was going to be.
“When Kostos vas three years old, the whole family vas driving to the mountains in the vintertime. There vas a terrible car wreck. Kostos lost both his parents and his baby brother.”
Grandma paused, and Lena felt, even in 115-degree heat, shivery bumps rise over the length of her body.
When Grandma started up again, Lena could hear the emotion in her voice. “They sent little Kostos back here to his grandparents. It vas the best idea at the time.”
Grandma was in a strange mood, Lena observed. She was unusually relaxed, reflective, full of old sorrow. “He grew up here as a Greek boy. And ve all loved him. The whole town of Oia raised him.”
“Hey, Grandma?”
“Yes, lamb?”
This was her moment. She didn't let herself think long enough to chicken out. “You know that Kostos never hurt me. He never touched me or did anything wrong. He is just the boy you think he is.”
Grandma let out a long breath. She put her sewing down and settled herself back on the sofa. “I tink I knew that. After some time passed, I tink I knew that.”
“I'm sorry I didn't say anything before,” Lena said solemnly, filled with equal parts relief at having finally said it and sadness that it had taken her this long.
“In some vay, maybe you did try to tell me,” Grandma noted philosophically.
“Will you tell Bapi what I just said?” Lena asked.
“I tink he already knows.”
Lena's throat now felt painfully tight. She turned over from her back to her side, away from Grandma, and let her eyelids shut to release her tears.
She was sad about what had happened to Kostos. And someplace under that, she was sad that people like Bee and Kostos, who had lost everything, were still open to love, and she, who'd lost nothing, was not.
Bridget moved herself out to the little porch of her cabin. She could look at the bay at least. She had a pen and a pad of paper. She needed to send the Pants off to Carmen, but today was a hard day for writing.
She was sitting there, chewing on her pen cap, when Eric came over. He sat on the railing.
“How's it going?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said.
“You missed the game,” he said. He didn't touch her. He didn't look at her. “It was a good one. Diana tore up the field.”
They were rewinding the clock. He was back to being the benign coach, and she was the irrepressible camper. He was asking her permission to pretend that whatever had happened didn't happen.
She wasn't sure she wanted to give it. “I was tired. Big night last night.”
His face colored. He held out his hands and looked at his palms. “Listen, Bridget.” He seemed to be picking over a very paltry assortment of phrases. “I should have sent you away last night. I shouldn't have followed you when I saw you pass by my door. . . . I was wrong. I take responsibility.”
“It was my choice to come.” How dare he take her power?
“But I'm older than you. I'm the one who . . . I'm the one who would get in serious shit if people found out.”
He still wouldn't look at her. He didn't know what else to say. He wanted to leave. She could see that clearly. “I'm sorry,” he said.
She threw her pen after him. She hated that he'd said that.
Carmen,
Here are the Pants. I'm very mixed up. If I had listened to your advice about good sense, I wouldn't be like this.
So right back at you. Good sense rules. I wish I had some.
Love,
Bee
“Tibby, turn the camera off.”
“Please, Carma? Please?”
“Can you put on the Pants for the interview?” Bailey asked.
Carmen gave her a look of full disdain. “I'm not doing an interview. What are you guys, the Coen brothers?” she snapped.
“Carmen, just be quiet and cooperate for once in your life.” Tibby said it in a way that was irritable but not mean, if that was possible.
You antagonize people, Carmen reminded herself. You will grow up to be old and bitter. You will wear lipstick way outside the lines and shout at children in restaurants.
“Fine,” she said. She changed into the Pants, then sat and studied Bailey as she started to get her camera equipment in order. The girl was dressed almost exactly the same way as Tibby. She was mini-Tibby with a mike and a boom. Her purple undereye circles even matched Tibby's. Carmen briefly wondered why Tibby was hanging around with a twelve-year-old, but whatever. It wasn't Tibby's fault all her friends had gone away.
The room got quiet. Tibby fiddled with the lights. Both moviemakers got deadly serious. She heard Bailey gasbagging into the mike like Dan Rather minus the testicles. “Carmen Lowell is Tibby's beloved friend from when they were . . .”
This was making Carmen uncomfortable. “Um . . . you know, Tibby and I are fighting right now.”
Tibby cut the camera. Bailey looked up in irritation. She batted the fight away with a flick of her wrist. “You love each other. Tibby loves you. It doesn't matter.”
Carmen glared at her in disbelief. “Hello? You're twelve.”
“So? I'm still right,” Bailey shot back.
“Can we get back to work?” Tibby asked.
Since when had Tibby developed the work ethic of a Pilgrim?
“I'm just saying, it feels weird to go on without mentioning that you and I had a huge fight, Tibby,” Carmen said.
“Fine, you mentioned it,” Tibby said.
Most people avoided conflict. Carmen was
beginning to worry that she craved it like an addict. You antagonize people, she reminded herself. She shoved her hands into her pockets, fingering the grains of sand that were caught in the lining there.
“I'm going to ask the questions,” Bailey said. “You just be yourself.”
How had the modern world created such a confident twelve-year-old? Somebody ought to fill her in on that Ophelia syndrome right away. “Fine,” Carmen said. “Am I supposed to look at the camera?”
“If you want to, you can,” Bailey replied.
“Okay.”
“Ready to go?”
“Ready.”
Sitting on her neatly made bed, Carmen crossed her legs.
“So Tibby tells me your father is getting remarried this summer,” Bailey started.
Carmen opened her eyes wide. She shot an accusing look at Tibby, who just shrugged.
“Yes,” Carmen answered stiffly.
“When?”
“August nineteenth. Thanks for caring.”
Bailey nodded. “Are you going?”
Carmen pressed her lips together. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don't feel like it,” Carmen answered.
“Are you mad at your dad?” Bailey asked.
“No, I'm not.”
“Then why aren't you going?”
“Because I don't like his new family. They're annoying.” Carmen knew she sounded pouty and spoiled.
“Why don't you like them?”
Carmen fidgeted. She switched her legs. “I don't fit in.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm Puerto Rican. I have a big butt.” Carmen smiled in spite of herself.
“So are you saying you don't like them or they don't like you?”
Carmen cocked her head. She paused. “I guess both.”
“But what about your dad?”
“What do you mean?” Carmen asked.
“I mean, isn't he the one who matters?” Bailey asked.
Carmen stood and waved her hands at Tibby. “Hang on. Hang on. What kind of movie is this?” she demanded.
“It's a documentary,” Tibby said.
“Right, but about what?” Carmen asked.
“It's just about people. Stuff that's important to them,” Bailey supplied.
“Well, do you really think anybody is going to care about me and my dad?”
Bailey shrugged. “If you do,” she said.
Carmen studied her fingernails. They were bitten short, with little hangnails decorating the sides.
“So why did you throw the rocks?” Bailey continued. “You must have been pretty mad.”
Carmen's mouth fell open. She glared at Tibby. “Thanks a lot. Do you tell her everything?”
“Only important stuff,” Tibby replied.
For some reason, Carmen felt tears welling in her eyes. She didn't blink for fear of pushing them out for the camera to see. “I'm not mad at my dad,” she said forcefully.
“Why not?”
The tears were bulging now. Sometimes just having tears made you start feeling sorry for yourself and needing to make more. “I'm just not,” Carmen said. “I'm not mad at him.”
It was no use. The tears spilled out. They chased each other down her cheeks, over her chin, down her neck. Vaguely she heard a clatter and saw that the boom and microphone were on the floor. Bailey was sitting next to her, cupping her elbow in a gesture that conveyed more sympathy than Carmen could understand. “It's okay,” Bailey said softly.
Carmen crumpled. She let her head settle against Bailey's head. She should have told this strange little girl to get lost, but she didn't. She lost track of the camera and the movie and Tibby and even the fact that she had arms and legs and that the world was turning.
Before long, Tibby was sitting on the other side of her, holding her around the waist.
“You're allowed to be mad,” Bailey said.
It was seven minutes after four, and Bailey hadn't shown up at Wallman's. Tibby looked at the big clock on the wall behind the cash registers just to make sure. Where was she? She'd never arrived even one minute after Tibby's usual shift ended at four.
Tibby went out the automatic doors, felt the blast of heat, and squinted across the street at the 7-Eleven. Sometimes Bailey played Dragon Master with Brian while she waited for Tibby to be done. Today Brian was playing alone. He looked up, and she waved at him. He waved back.
By eighteen after four, Tibby was starting to feel really bothered. She counted on Bailey to hang around her practically every moment of the day. She took it for granted. Sure, she'd minded it at first, but now was different.
Had Bailey gotten stuck at her house, waiting for Loretta to let her in so she could pick up the movie equipment? Had she gotten tired of their movie all of a sudden?
Knowing Bailey, she didn't quite believe any of those things, but they passed the time. She paced for another eight minutes and jumped on her bike. She checked her own house first. No Bailey. She rode back past Wallman's just in case. Then she biked to Bailey's house.
No one answered when Tibby knocked on the door. She rang the bell a few times. She was standing in the middle of the front walk, looking up at Bailey's window for signs of life, when a neighbor passed slowly on the sidewalk.
“Are you looking for the Graffmans?” the woman asked, pausing at the Graffmans' front gate.
“Yeah. For Bailey,” Tibby answered.
“I think they went to the hospital a couple of hours ago,” the woman said. She looked pained.
Tibby tempered the feeling of worry that began to clot in her chest. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
“I really don't know,” the woman said. “They're at Sibley.”
“Thanks,” Tibby called, getting back on her bike. She pointed herself in the direction of the hospital and started pedaling fast.
Bailey probably just had one of her checkups, Tibby thought. They were probably just sucking out a few ounces of her blood to make sure the leukemia wasn't doing stuff it wasn't supposed to. Bailey was obviously fine. Sick kids were in bed. Bailey was all over the place.
If, in fact, this was just a checkup, it would be a little weird for her to show up there, Tibby realized as she walked, sweating, into the freezingly air-conditioned lobby.
She paced the lobby, considering her options, then spotted Mrs. Graffman entering the wide hospital doors. She was wearing a suit, and she carried a bag from McDonald's.
“Mrs. Graffman, hi,” Tibby said, popping up in Mrs. Graffman's face. “I'm Bailey's friend.” Vaguely she remembered her weeks of resistance to letting Bailey call them friends.
Mrs. Graffman nodded and smiled briefly. “Of course I know who you are.”
“Is, uh, everything okay?” Tibby asked. She realized her legs were shaking. God, this place was way over-air-conditioned. They'd make you sick here if you weren't already. “Is she just having a checkup or something?” Tibby was walking right alongside Bailey's mother, though she hadn't really been invited to. Who was the stalker now?
Bailey's mom stopped short, and Tibby just about ran past her. “Do you want to sit down with me for a second?” Mrs. Graffman asked.
“Sure. Okay.” Tibby studied the woman's face. Her eyes were red and tired. Her mouth was a little like Bailey's.
Mrs. Graffman led Tibby over to a couple of chairs in a quiet corner. She sat down. There was no chair across from Mrs. Graffman, so Tibby sat right next to her and leaned far forward.
“Tibby, I don't know how much you know about what Bailey's been through. I know she doesn't talk about it.”
Tibby nodded numbly. “She doesn't talk about it.”
“You know she has leukemia. Cancer of the blood.”
Tibby nodded again. That seemed like such a bleak way of putting it. “It's pretty treatable, though, right? Don't kids get better from that?”
Mrs. Graffman's head seemed to loll a bit to the side, like it was getting too heavy to hold up. “Bailey was d
iagnosed when she was seven. She's had eight rounds of chemotherapy, radiation, and a bone marrow transplant last year. Bailey has spent most of her life in a treatment center in Houston, Texas.” She let out a ragged little gasp and then collected herself. “Whatever we do, it keeps coming back.”
Tibby was so cold her teeth were chattering. All the little hairs on her arms stood up straight. “Aren't there more treatments they can try? Aren't there?” Tibby's voice came out louder and ruder than she'd intended.
Bailey's mom shrugged with pointy shoulders. “We wanted to give her a couple of months to live in the world like an ordinary kid.”
“Are you saying you're just letting her die?” Tibby demanded.
Mrs. Graffman blinked a few times. “We don't know . . . what else to try,” she said, her voice squeaky. “Bailey has a bad infection now. We pray her body is strong enough to fight it.” She looked up through swollen, teary eyes. “We're very afraid. You need to know that.”
Suddenly Tibby's chest hurt. Her breathing felt wrong. Her heart seemed to be leaping around without any particular rhythm.
“Bailey adores you,” Mrs. Graffman went on. The lines at the sides of her mouth quivered. “You've made these two months the most special time of her life. Her father and I really appreciate everything you've done.”
“I have to go,” Tibby whispered. Her heart was going to explode, and she was going to die herself, and she didn't want to do it in the hospital.
On a morning in early August, Lena shared her customary silent breakfast with Bapi, then packed up and scaled the cliff to the flatland. She was going back to her olive grove. No. His olive grove.
When she reached her spot, she saw that the colors had changed since June. There was more yellow in the grass, different wildflowers. The olives on the trees were grown fatter—they were teenagers now. The breeze was stronger. The meltimi, her grandmother called it.
She might have come hoping to see him here; she wasn't sure. But painting stole her thoughts from any other thing. For hours, in deep concentration, she mixed and painted and squinted and painted. If the sun was hot, she stopped knowing it. If her limbs were tired, she stopped feeling them.
When the shadows grew too long, she came back to regular life. Now she looked at her painting through critical, earthbound eyes. If she hadn't been herself she would have smiled, but as it was, she just felt the smile.