The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [29]
She shut the car door, walked up the front path, and let herself in. Julia had never locked her door, not when Kathryn was growing up and not even now, when others did. In the kitchen, Kathryn once again smelled the unique scent of Julia’s house — a mix of orange sponge cake and onions. Kathryn took off her parka and laid it over a chair in the living room.
The house was cramped, but stood three stories tall. When Kathryn’s parents died, Julia had encouraged Kathryn to take over their bedroom on the top floor. After some hesitation, Kathryn had put her books there and a desk that looked out through the single window. On the middle floor were two tiny bedrooms, one of which was Julia’s, and on the ground floor of the house were the living room and kitchen. In the living room was Julia’s furniture from her marriage — a faded brown velvet sofa, two soft chairs that needed reupholstering, a rug, a side table, and the grand piano that took up nearly all the remaining space.
Holding onto the banister, Kathryn climbed the narrow stairway to her old room, now her daughter’s when Mattie slept over, which was often. Kathryn walked to the window and drew the drapes a crack so that she could see her in the bed. Mattie slept, as she nearly always did, huddled into herself, her stuffed tiger having fallen onto the floor. Kathryn could hardly see her daughter’s face — it was bent into the covers — but it was enough to see her hair spread out behind her, to see the shape of her delicate body beneath the blankets.
Quietly, Kathryn moved to a chair opposite the bed so that she could keep watch over Mattie. Kathryn didn’t want to wake her just yet, was not ready for the way the knowledge of the day before would hit Mattie afresh, just as it had hit her earlier in the morning. But when it did happen, Kathryn wanted to be there.
Mattie lifted her head off the pillow, turned, and rolled over. The sun was fully up now, the light threading itself around the curtains and making a slit of bright color along the left side of the double bed. It was the same mahogany bed Kathryn’s parents had slept in, and she sometimes wondered if couples had made love more often in the old days than they did now, simply because the beds had been narrower. Mattie stirred dreamily, as though snuggling in for another hour or so. Kathryn got up from her chair, picked up the stuffed tiger, and placed it near Mattie’s head. For a moment, Kathryn could feel her daughter’s warm breath on her fingers. Then, perhaps sensing her mother’s presence, Mattie stiffened. Impulsively, Kathryn lay down beside her, folding her arms around her. She held her daughter tightly, heard a quick snort of breath.
“I’m right here,” Kathryn said.
Mattie was silent. Kathryn relaxed her grip and began to smooth the top of her daughter’s hair. It was thick with an unbrushed curl, the way it always was first thing in the morning. Mattie had inherited the curl from Jack, the color of her hair from Kathryn. From her father, Mattie had also inherited the two-color blue eyes, which until recently had pleased her no end. She thought that bearing a mark different from others made her special in some way. But with the onset of serious middle adolescence, when any characteristic that deviated even slightly from her friends’ was cause for severe anguish, she had begun wearing a single contact lens to even out the hues. Of course, she didn’t wear it to bed.
There was a movement of the sheet, as though someone were tugging at it. Gently, Kathryn lowered the covers from
Mattie’s face. Her daughter’s mouth was stuffed with cloth, the white sheet bunched between her teeth.
“Mattie, please. You’ll choke.”
Mattie’s jaws clamped down more tightly on the cloth. Kathryn pulled gently at the material, but Mattie would