Authors: Laura Pedersen
“I'll try and work it in between my bridge game and tennis lesson.”
Bernard walks over to the kitchen wall where a series of bright red blotches is splattered above Lillian's mural. “Ketchup or paint?”
“Tomato sauce, I think.”
“Salvador Dalí couldn't have dreamed all this up.”
I grab a dishrag to wipe up the peas on the floor.
“And look at you, Hallie—your clothes don't fit. Are you on a diet?”
“Yeah, right,” I say. “I thought dropping out of school and taking care of seven kids would be the answer to having thinner thighs in thirty days.”
Bernard gives me a sympathetic look.
“Whatever you do, don't pick up the phone,” I warn Bernard. “We're getting obscene phone calls from Just Call Me Dick over at the high school.”
I pick up Twin A, strap him into his car seat, and head over to the pediatrician's office.
“I'm so sorry about your dad,” Dr. Karpen says as we enter the examining room. “Heart disease.” He shakes his head from side to side. “How is your mom getting along?”
“Much better,” I lie. If the doctor knows that I'm in charge, he might threaten to call social services as well.
“And who do we have here?” asks Dr. Karpen.
“Roddy.” Okay, it's a guess. But one with a fifty percent chance of being correct. I wonder if there's anything on Dr. Karpen's chart that might indicate otherwise. Not knowing the names of the twins is one more sign of my incompetence.
The doctor says that “Roddy” has a cold along with an ear infection and prescribes some medication. Fortunately, he knows that we're on a tight budget and always gives us free samples.
“Watch the baby's temperature and call if he stops eating or drinking,” instructs Dr. Karpen.
I listen carefully. All I need is to have something happen to one of these babies on my watch. Not only would I never forgive myself, but I'm certain that will be the end of us as a family.
T
HE GOOD NEWS IS THAT TWIN A IS STARTING TO LOOK BETTER
after throwing up and spending a long night hollering. The bad news is that Twin B is beginning to look the way Twin A did yesterday morning.
The rest of the kids are playing in the basement. Except for Teddy, who has of course gone off on his bike to see Mom. We always assumed he was too rangy to play a sport, and now it turns out he might be an ideal candidate for the Tour de France bicycle race. Going to Dalewood is at least eleven miles round-trip, and the journey doesn't seem to faze him in the least.
I straighten up Darlene's bed where the kitten has torn open a pillow. Fortunately Mom is too economical ever to buy down-stuffed pillows or comforters, so there are just streamers of nylon scattered about.
Darlene comes upstairs crying because Davy is teasing her that she has pimples. An examination of her neck, face, and hands reveal what appear to be chicken pox!
Say it isn't so. Eric, Louise, and I had it when we were in elementary school. But I'm not at all sure about the rest of the brood.
Racing down to the basement, I frantically shout, “Who here has had chicken pox?”
Davy, Darlene, Francie, and Lillian all stare back at me uncomprehendingly.
“Oh no!” I examine the rest of them for telltale red spots. If I recall correctly, Louise was the one who had it first and then Eric and I went down a few days later.
“Sorry, Darlene, but you have to go upstairs to our room.” That's when I see Francie scratch her stomach. Sure enough, there are two spots on her chest and three on her back. “You've got it, too.”
Francie stares curiously at the area I've just condemned and then continues scratching.
“Don't scratch! Okay, we're changing rooms. Darlene goes in with Francie and Lillian sleeps in my room.”
I march the two girls off to their new quarantined quarters. The last thing I need is for the twins to get chicken pox on top of the cold they already have. I'd better call the pediatrician. But first the boys need changing, or else I'm going to be charged with reckless endangerment of children from diaper rash. I strap on the hockey mask that now doubles as a vomit shield as well as a pee protector.
As I open a new box of diapers the doorbell rings. Please let it be Bernard with the fried chicken he promised to bring over. Gil bought him a Fry Daddy along with a southern cookbook for his birthday, and he's been going to town making corn dogs, donuts, Thai fried bananas, breaded Gulf Coast shrimp, and even fried ice cream. Bernard told me that if you're really quiet while eating you can actually hear your arteries snapping shut.
On second thought, I'm not sure he should come inside if we've got chicken pox. With my hand about to turn the knob I peer through the side window before opening the door.
It's Pastor Costello! I've never been happier to see anyone in my entire life.
“Thank goodness you're back!” I dash out onto the front stoop to give him a tremendous hug.
“Hallie?” he seems to say in a questioning tone of voice.
“Of course it's me!” But then I realize I'm still wearing the hockey mask. I pull it off and we give each other big smiles. My heart is racing and I feel flushed all over. And also a little dizzy from not having had anything to eat yet.
“Come in, come in,” I say and head back through the door. “Wait a second, have you had the chicken pox?”
“Yes,” says Pastor Costello, “though I believe it was long before you were born.” His gentle singsong voice is so reassuring, making every sentence sound as if it could be the start of a hymn.
“I have to finish changing the twins,” I say.
He follows me into the hall outside the downstairs bathroom that serves as the staging area for changing and dressing the little boys.
Pastor Costello is tanned like an English saddle, giving him an especially healthy glow during the time of year when everyone in Ohio walks around pasty white, sneezing and hacking with flu, and when the suicide rate is at its highest. He's also shed the belly that wasn't visible under his clerical robes but was somewhat noticeable when he was wearing street clothes. For a few years Pastor Costello had experimented with a comb-over before finally settling upon the more distinguished silver fringe that currently surrounds his brow like a halo. Now in his early forties, I suppose people would say that Pastor Costello looks his age, not any younger and not any older. Though despite not being what one would consider attractive in the conventional sense of the word, he carries himself with the calm confidence of a man who knows that he has nothing to prove.
“You look
thin
, Hallie,” says Pastor Costello.
“So do you!” I say in a complimentary way.
He smiles and admits, “I had a few pounds to lose, which isn't the same for you, I daresay.”
“With all the running around—”
The doorbell rings again. “That must be Bernard,” I say. “Would you mind answering it while I finish up here?”
As I pull on Twin A's shirt I begin to feel a pounding in my forehead. And when I look up there's an unfamiliar woman in the front hall holding a briefcase under her arm and shaking hands with Pastor Costello. A social worker! They're going to take the kids away and put them in different foster homes all over the state!
A great rush of heat fills the area behind my eyes so that for a moment I can't see, and then everything goes black for good.
S
LEEP ARRIVES LIKE A KNOCKOUT BLOW. I'M ON A BEACH SOME
where with the sun beating down and I see the kids playing near the edge of the water. A big wave is heading toward the beach, but the kids are busy building a sand castle and they don't see it. I yell for them to move out of the way, but they can't hear me over the roar of the ocean.
Then I'm four years old and riding a tricycle in the driveway while Dad tosses a little orange Nerf football to Eric on the lawn. Mom comes out smiling and wearing an apron, underneath which is a bulge indicating pregnancy. She's carrying a little girl in one arm who looks exactly like Louise. Mom tells us that it's lunchtime, but when she turns to go back inside she trips and drops the baby.
Now I'm working in the yard at the Stocktons’ and hear Olivia's delicate voice calling me inside for lunch. “We're having celery,” she says. I think celery is an odd thing to have for lunch. But the day has become very hot and I'm hungry and thirsty and welcome the break. “Hallie,
where
are you?” she calls again. Now I'm standing directly underneath the kitchen window. She's looking straight at me but doesn't see or hear me. “I'm right
her e!”
I say over and over.
Olivia's voice sounds as if it's inside the house but at the end of a long corridor. “Yes, you're here. Everything is fine.”
“Olivia?” I open my eyes, but I can't tell if this is still a part of my dream. The room is so bright that I have to squint to see anything. Yet it really is Olivia, perched on the edge of the bed like a butterfly. She smiles at me and a series of tiny pleats around her blue eyes smile along with her. Her thick white hair is pulled back with a few strands hanging loose around her face.
It takes a few moments to try to make sense of things. “I thought you were coming back in April. Have I been in a coma for two months?”
“Only a day. The doctor gave you something to sleep,” says Olivia. “I came back early from my trip.”
“Oh.” I want to ask why but I vaguely start to remember the moments before passing out—the social worker! And the house is too quiet. I don't hear kids playing or the twins crying.
“My brothers and sisters!” I manage to say, though it burns my throat to talk. I start climbing out of bed to find them.
“Whoa,” says Olivia. “They're all fine. The girls are upstairs recovering from the chicken pox and the twins had a twenty-four-hour virus—they're better now.”
“And you, Wonder Woman, have a doozy of a case of infectious mononucleosis.”
“Mono?” I whisper. A freshman guy at school had mono and everyone called it the kissing disease.
“I know,” says Olivia, correctly guessing what I'm thinking. “You may have picked it up at school, but with all the germs coming through here, the doctor said he wouldn't be at all surprised if one of the kids passed it to you.”
“But are they all still here? What about the social worker?”
“Everyone is here. Pastor Costello is dealing with the agency,” says Olivia. “Never underestimate the power of the clergy in Cosgrove County. Though it certainly doesn't help that Mr.
Collier is apparently still holding a grudge against you for managing to graduate without attending classes. On the other hand, there's no way the children can be taken away unless social services comes over and finds you with a drug habit or a loaded gun on the kitchen table. Even then there would have to be a trial.”
“What about Mom?” I ask.
“Pastor Costello says she's making a bit of progress. I must say, I've never bothered much with the Christian community in this town, but he's a very sweet man and dedicated to social causes. He's been telling me the most fascinating stories about Cambodia. In fact, I've signed up to go on the next mission.”
“But who's taking care of—”
Olivia puts her finger to my lips. “Pastor Costello has moved in—lock, stock, and barrel. Mrs. Muldoon took the twins to her place so they wouldn't catch the chicken pox. My goodness, that woman is besotted with the babies—offering to keep them night and day, for weeks if need be. She must have eighty all but surrounded, and yet she still has the energy of someone half her age.”
My throat is too sore to explain to Olivia that Mrs. Muldoon has a grown daughter but she'd wanted a large family. It's too bad because she's definitely mad for kids—always inviting us in for lemonade and cookies and baking brownies for our entire school class on our birthdays. However, she also doesn't hesitate to get on our cases when we're bad and report back to Mom and Dad. To Mrs. Muldoon the community-watch signs in the windows mean that you should be monitoring the local children for bad behavior more than keeping an eye out for intruders.
“Lillian is staying with Bernard and Gil and the girls,” continues Olivia. “And we found out that Teddy was skipping school to visit your mother.”
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling to express the fact that I'm somewhat aware of this problem.
“We've made a deal with him so that he does a full day at school and then gets rides to and from Dalewood afterward and on weekends. They have a van service he's able to use.”
“Do you think it's good for him to be there so much?”
“Pastor Costello spoke to her doctor and they don't believe it's harmful to either party.”
My eyelids begin to droop. I shake my head to signify my horror at how the family almost fell apart while all I could do was stand by and watch, or, rather, fall down while watching.
“You need to stop worrying about how everyone else is doing and get some rest.”
Olivia stands up. “I'll get you a nice bowl of soup. You're skinny enough to pass for a Brancusi.”
“Huh?” I'm a bit groggy for one of Olivia's impromptu art history classes.
“He was the Romanian-born French sculptor known for a simple and streamlined geometric style intended to lay bare an image's underlying nature.”
For some reason the word
bare
brings to mind the story of Old Mother Hubbard who went to the cupboard. “What about dinner and the lunches and—”
“Pastor Costello ran Bible camp for eight summers. You'd be amazed at how organized he is!”
Sinking my head back into the pillows, I close my eyes, but the light fixture continues to burn in my brain like a giant sun.
“When you feel a bit better you'll have to let the rest of us in on the secret of telling the twins apart. Mrs. Muldoon said there used to be a blue ribbon around the ankle of one.”
Uh-oh.
W
HEN I NEXT AWAKE IT'S TO THE STRAINS OF MUSIC. THIS IS ODD
because our stereo conked out years ago, after the kids covered the knobs with Play-Doh. Someone is singing.
I lie in bed for about ten minutes summoning the energy to rise—using the time to go over and over the same problem that's been on my mind since the night Dad died. This infinite loop of thought has taken up the space in my brain that should have been occupied with other things—like taking better care of the kids—but obviously wasn't.