The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [122]
Bean had to go open the library, so Cordy was left to go to the hospital herself. She dropped Bean off at work and drove alone, the windows open, the radio blaring futilely into the rush of air. Her trip with Max seemed a lifetime ago, and the motion of the wheels over the pavement stirred no wanderlust inside her.
You might think that it was Rose who had the strongest moral compass of all of us, but we believe that this is actually Cordy’s gift. Rose’s beliefs are cold and hard, and suffer no sympathy for humanity. But Cordy both knows right from wrong and understands that they are not inflexible ideals, that people compromise for the sake of war, and love, and pain, and that they are simply doing what they must.
“I’m here to see my mother,” Cordy said at the front desk, and showed her ID and signed her name.
“Third floor west,” the receptionist said, and Cordy clipped the proffered badge to her shirt and stepped into the elevator.
It was precisely because of her sympathetic scruples that Cordy felt so guilty for having left when she did. Oh, she had made a brave show of it to Bean, and while she knew that it was all a coincidence, a terrible, horrible coincidence, that her run and our mother’s fall would come so close together, she could not shake her sadness.
The light of day on her flight of fancy dulled the romance and pulled away the glitter to reveal the irresponsibility at its core. And this more than our father’s letters made her resolute—that she would stay, grow roots, be still. Not because there was anything wrong with the life she had lived, but because it was time to face the reasons she had been living it.
“Good morning,” she said, dropping a kiss on our mother’s hairline. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she said, though her voice was rough and her eyes tired. “Where’s Bean?”
“Work,” Cordy said.
“The doctor should be by soon. I was hoping she’d be here to talk to him, since Rose isn’t here,” our mother said. She glanced over at our father, but he was reading, stroking his beard thoughtfully, pushing his fingers through the bristles of salt-and-pepper.
“I can do it,” Cordy said. She reached into her bag and produced, after only a moment of rummaging, a tiny bound book and a pen. She held them up and smiled. “See? All ready for class.”
Our father humphed from behind his book.
“Where’d you go, Cordy?” our mother asked, holding out her hand. Cordy walked over and took it.
“I had to go away for a while,” she said. “But I came back. I’m better off here.”
Waiting, after Jonathan left for work, was torture. Rose puttered around his tiny flat, organizing, picking up her book and then putting it down again after staring, uncomprehending, at the pages. She called the airline to find out how she could change her ticket, and shuddered slightly when the agent quoted her a price for a new one leaving that night.
She looked at the clock over and over again, calculating the time difference, waiting until it was late enough to call. When she did, our father answered.
“Rosalind!” he said, and there was that same surprise in his tone, as though he had forgotten her existence completely. “What news from Oxford? Hold those justs and triumphs?”
“It’s fine, Dad. Bean called me. How’s Mom? I called the airline and I can come back tonight.”
“Don’t be silly. Your mother is fine. We just met with the doctor and she’ll be going home tomorrow. Gave us a great raft of information, but Cordelia’s got that well in hand.”
“Cordy?” Rose asked, the shock in her tone unchecked.
“Nay, stare not, masters: it is true, indeed. Bianca is working, but she’ll be home tonight, and Cordelia will take care of us quite well. How is Jonathan?”
“Fine,” Rose said. This was insane. Was he really saying that Bean—and Cordy, of all people?—were going to keep things running smoothly at home? “It’s not a problem for me to come, Dad. I haven’t really even unpacked.”
“Rosalind, calm yourself. We are fine. Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well. Your mother and I appreciate your