The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [98]
“Iago was a liar,” Rose said.
“Forget Iago,” Cordy said. “I say we take a vote. Everyone who says Rose should move to England, raise your hands.” Bean and Cordy put their hands in the air. “All opposed?” Rose made no response. “The ayes have it,” she said triumphantly.
Silence fell for a moment, and then Bean reached out and put her hand gently on Rose’s. “It wouldn’t be forever, you know. Maybe it’s a sign or something.” Rose snorted lightly, but Bean pressed on. “Like you were meant to do something else. You’ll see when you go visit him. You’ll see if it’s the right thing.”
“Stop pushing me,” Rose said, her eyes snapping open, pupils hard and dark, crowding out the iris.
She knew they were right. She knew it when she woke in the morning, fresh from dreams where she was locked outside of her classroom, pounding on the door, begging to be let inside. She knew it when she sat in the window seat, staring out at the garden and wondering what was beyond the path she had so neatly trod. Rose was not one to believe in signs, or meanings beyond what she could measure and see, but she couldn’t help wondering if someone was whispering something to her, and she couldn’t help wondering how long she would be able to refuse to hear it.
Bean looked at our sister and sighed. Cordy leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her knees, her shoulder blades flexing like angel’s wings. “For use almost can change the stamp of nature,” she said, and leaned her cheek against her knee, looking at Rose.
“What is in my nature that so needs changing?” Rose asked.
No one answered her.
It’s a good thing that Cordy had told us she was pregnant when she did, because it was suddenly impossible to ignore, the swell of her stomach no longer attributable to the fact that she was getting actual nutrition instead of existing on noodles and bean sprouts of questionable origins. Her hair had grown thick and dull, her nails stronger, and she caught Bean looking enviously at them when she passed the salt at dinner. Before dressing, Cordy stood naked in front of the mirror, tracing a newly formed road map of shadowy veins across her expanding breasts (another thing Bean looked at enviously). She drank a glass of water every hour, it seemed, standing by the kitchen sink and gulping greedily, desperate to quench this unfamiliar new thirst, and found herself in the bathroom just as often.
Her bloom counterpointed our mother’s withering. Our mother had lost a breast; Cordy’s grew. Our mother’s mouth was dry; Cordy drowned in liquid. Our mother’s hair had disappeared, her pale skull hidden underneath an assortment of scarves that made her look curiously glamorous; Cordy’s hair grew thicker. Our mother’s skin, oddly, glowed; Cordy developed pimples that made her moan in grief, asking whither the much-touted complexion of pregnancy, and how it was possible she should have to deal with wrinkles and pimples at the same time.
Cordy’s nausea was fleeting, leaving her hungry and creative. Our mother’s was persistent and the smell of food aggravated it most. One night, Cordy had decided to make bread with orange juice instead of milk, and it had turned out so stiff and crumbly the only thing to do with it was make French toast, which she and Rose were working on in the kitchen in the morning.
“Stop!” our father cried, clattering down the stairs. Rose and Cordy, doing nothing more dangerous than dipping bread in eggs and listening to a news show on the radio, froze.
“Your mother can’t take the smell,” he said. He was still in his pajamas, his hair gone slightly wild from sleep, his glasses askew. His belly poked out against the pajama shirt. Our parents have always been so formal about dressing for bed; they have never gone the route of night-shirt or sweatpants. Our father wears traditional cotton pajamas with executive stripes, our mother, nightgowns that were more than once pressed into service for various and sundry mad scenes in our theatrical productions.
“Oooookay,” Cordy said, a slice of bread still