Bursting Bubbles (13 page)

The book her mother holds is
The Cat in the Hat
. When she was little and frightened of her parents’ arguments Marigold would get into bed with her sister if one happened at night. But if it was in the day, she would hide in her closet and read until the shouting, the sobbing and the sound of things smashing stopped. To Marigold it was like disappearing into a different – and better – world. The book in her mother’s hand is the only one she remembers reading the Christmas That Almost Never Was. The Christmas they didn’t open their presents until the evening, because her parents had such an awful fight that her father left the house and her mother went to bed. Marigold sat in her closet all afternoon, eating dry cereal and reading it over and over. Wishing the Cat in the Hat would come and rescue her and Rose.

“Yeah, of course I remember,” says Marigold. “But I’m not a little kid any more. Now I never even look at them. They just sit on the shelf .”

“Aw, but honey…” Her mother pulls the other two books from Marigold’s bag. “These are special. Don’t you want to read them with your own daughter some day?”

Unexpected, unasked and definitely unwanted, a random thought flutters into Marigold’s head. If this thought were a person, it would be sullen, scowling and wearing beat-up trainers. What if she has a child like Sadie Hawkle? What then?

“I can take her to the library and we can read them there,” says Marigold.

“If you don’t have room for them, we could put them in with Rose’s.”

Marigold’s sister’s room has been kept exactly as it was when she lived at home. As if she never left; as if she might be coming back.

“They’ll still be on a shelf, Mom. What difference does it make?”

“They’ll still be here, that’s the difference.” Eveline Liotta has a way of smiling that always makes Marigold feel as if it is she who’s the child and needs protection. “I really can’t bear the thought of you giving these away.”

Since her mother doesn’t know that Sadie exists, Marigold, of course, can’t very well explain that this is a special case. That because Marigold loved these books so much she’s hoping that Sadie will too.

“I know, Mom, but if some other kids whose parents can’t afford to buy them books can use them, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Not as good as Marigold thinks.

Her mother holds the books against her chest like a shield. “It’s like giving away a piece of my heart.”

The wrong move now could shove her mother into the very-bad-mood abyss. “Not really, Mom.” Marigold’s voice is gentle and coaxing. “They’re just some good books that deserve to be read and loved by other kids.”

“What about this?” Eveline looks like a little girl who thinks that she’s clever enough to wangle an extra cookie. “What if I donate some money to the library so they can buy some new picture books, and we keep yours? Then everybody’s happy.”

Marigold almost always does what her mother wants. She has certainly never done anything to cross her mother. Not on purpose. Even on that long-ago Christmas That Almost Never Was, when she and Rose were finally called downstairs to open their presents Marigold acted as if nothing had happened because it would have upset her mother if she didn’t. There is even a photograph of her, Rose and Eveline sitting in front of the tree together, as if it’s eight in the morning not eight at night, and ahead of them is a day of love and laughter – not a day of Rose going over to her friend’s and Marigold sitting in a closet eating Lucky Charms. But this time she doesn’t do what her mother wants.

“I already promised.” She snatches the books from Eveline’s hands and jams them back in her bag. “I have to go, Mom. I don’t want to be late for school. I’ll see you later.”

She doesn’t turn back to wave. Just in case her mother is standing in the doorway in tears.

“Picture books?” Claudelia gives Marigold a quizzical smile. She was looking for a pen in Marigold’s bag, but found something much more interesting. “Why are you lugging picture books around?”

“Happy endings,” says Byron. “You know what Marigold’s like.”

Marigold ignores him. “They’re for Sadie. I thought she might think they’re more interesting than the books they have at the school.”

“So do we have a Marigold Liotta success story here?” asks Will. “Gold spun from old shoelaces?

Marigold laughs. “I don’t know about gold, but we may yet get a base metal of some kind. We are making progress. You know, one step at a time. That’s what counts.”

Asher, who has been eating with one hand and tapping on his notepad with the other, looks up and smiles as if he’s about to ask the witness a trick question. “And you’re growing as a person, right?”

“Yes,” says Marigold. “Yes, I am.” She’s never in her life lied so much, been so unbending or resorted to such devious means of getting someone to do what she wants. Which means that Sadie Hawkle is making her grow as a person – though not necessarily in the right direction.

Georgiana is twisting her hair around one finger and looking thoughtful. “Maybe I should take one for my old bag,” says Georgiana.

“Dr Seuss?” asks Will. “You really think that’s her speed?”

“Oh, don’t be such a jerk,” groans Georgiana. “Obviously, I don’t mean Dr Seuss. I mean a regular book. She’d have to shut up for five minutes if I was reading to her.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “You can read?”

Georgiana sticks her tongue out at him.

“I thought you said she was an angel,” says Claudelia.

Trust Claudelia to remember that. “She is. But she’s a really chatty angel.”

“What I find fascinating,” says Byron, “is that Georgiana’s met someone who talks more than she does.”

“Oh God.
Et tu
, Byron,” moans Georgiana. Things have moved on from Mrs Kilgour ignoring her, but not in a good way. “You wouldn’t think it was so hilarious if you had to listen to her. She really never shuts up. I swear, zombies could invade St J’s and she wouldn’t notice or miss a word.”

“And are you growing as a person?” asks Asher.

“Oh, that’s really funny, Ash. Don’t tell me the law’s loss is going to be the world of comedy’s gain.”

Claudelia wants to know what Mrs Kilgour talks about.

“Are you kidding?” Georgiana looks almost affronted. “You think I don’t have anything better to do than listen to her drone on? I mean, my God, it’s like listening to static.” Thank God for the World Wide Web and the cell phone or Georgiana might have lost her mind by now. “Seriously, she’s like somebody digging around in an attic the size of the White House and constantly coming out with dusty old pieces of junk.” She makes her voice shrill and raspy, which is not how Margarita Kilgour speaks, of course, but it is how Georgiana hears her.
“Oh, look at this! An earring from eighteen ninety! A picture of New York City before they put roads in! And here, here’s a bottle from the first batch of Coca-Cola ever made!”

Will helps himself to the half a cookie Georgiana’s abandoned. “See, that is the one really good thing about plants. They’re mega low-maintenance when it comes to emotional needs.”

Asher raises his eyes from his notepad once more. “Count yourself lucky, George. At least she doesn’t have any problems.” Asher is starting to understand that the trouble with suffering humanity is that it suffers. Pretty much constantly. “You should come to crisis headquarters if you want your head done in.”

“What do you mean she doesn’t have problems? Of course she has problems.” Georgiana’s fork taps against the rim of her plate. “She’s old, Asher. She’s old and she’s going to die soon. I think those are problems.”

“Just how old is she?” asks Marigold.

Georgiana grimaces. “She’s, like, practically ninety.”

“Oh, right,” says Marigold. But what she’s thinking is:
Ninety’s better than nine
.

Marigold is genuinely excited when she shows Sadie the books.

“These were my favourite books when I was little,” she explains. “Especially this one.” She puts
The Cat in the Hat
on the desk. “It always made me laugh. It still does. And if I was blue or in a bad mood or whatever, it cheered me up.”

Sadie isn’t so sure. “It’s not in colour. Why isn’t it in colour?”

“It is in colour.” Marigold points out the colours. “There just aren’t a lot of them.”

Sadie isn’t sure about the rhyming, either. “Songs rhyme,” says Sadie. “Not books.”

“But it is a little like singing,” says Marigold. “It’s really fun. I’ll read you some and you’ll see.”

Sadie does get into the rhyme, but then she isn’t sure about the story itself. “They’re going to get in trouble,” Sadie frets. “Their mom is really gonna yell at them when she gets home. She’s gonna punish them bad.”

Marigold glances over at her. She looks really worried. “You think so?”

“Uh-huh.” Sadie nods, her frown as solemn as a funeral. “They’re gonna be hit. Or not get supper. Or not be allowed to watch any TV.” Her fingers rub against the edge of the desk. “Or … or something.”

“It’s going to be OK, Sadie,” Marigold assures her. “I promise. I wouldn’t love something so much that ends sad. Let’s keep reading and see what happens.”

It takes a while. With each new page of chaos brought on by the Cat in the Hat, Sadie wiggles in her chair and her fingers rub harder, but she keeps reading and keeps turning the pages.

When they get to the end she falls back against her chair. “Whew,” she breathes, and laughs. A sound Marigold has never heard before. “That was close.” And then she actually smiles. “Do we have time for another one?”

Looking
at them, Georgiana and Mrs Kilgour seem as unalike as two members of the same species and sex can be. Age, build and hair colour aside, Georgiana (who does judge books by their covers) is stylish and fashion-conscious, and Mrs Kilgour (who always reads the book before passing judgement) has never been either of those things. Georgiana would wear a silk dress and six-inch heels to go to the deli for a box of cookies and Mrs Kilgour would wear jeans and sneakers to a Park Avenue party. How they dress reflects other things about each of them, of course. Georgiana is neat, organized and conservative by nature, while Mrs Kilgour, even before the years made her slower and even simple things harder to do, has always been slapdash, impetuous and anarchic. But there the dissimilarities end.

Unfortunately, the things they have in common aren’t things that make it easier for them to get along. Both of them are argumentative. Both of them are stubborn. They are both women of strong opinions – and, of course, their strong opinions are rarely the same. Indeed, between the obstinacy, the contrariness and the attitudes, putting them in the same room has a similar effect to mixing sulphur, charcoal and potassium nitrate: step back and watch your eyes! Nothing is so trivial or insignificant that Georgiana Shiller and Margarita Kilgour can’t bicker about it. TV shows. The weather. How long it takes to drive from St Joan’s to Shell Harbour. How to peel an orange. Movies. Books. The exact shade of Georgiana’s skirt or Mrs Kilgour’s sweater. Whether Christmas is better than Thanksgiving, or tomato juice better than grape. Which of the nurses is the nicest, which the most irritating, which of them probably owns a cat. How many times it snowed last winter… If they were dogs they’d fight over bones so small that no one else could see them.

And yet, unlikely as it may seem, Georgiana and Mrs Kilgour have developed a routine together that suits them both enough to make the other’s presence bearable. They go for walks. Not around the easy-to-clean corridors of St Joan’s, but long, leisurely strolls down wooded roads and quiet streets of unpretentious houses and into town. The walks were Mrs Kilgour’s idea. Although at first she rejected Georgiana’s suggestion that they do any such thing (rightly guessing that Georgiana’s concept of a walk was nothing longer than to and from the car), when she thought about it later she realized that they could go much further than the borders of the centre. She’d be able to buy things she usually does without – her favourite candy, a magazine that is about more than celebrities and what they wore to some party, a bottle of wine. She’d be able to see things she never sees – children and houses and dogs sleeping in the sun. Being cooped up in her room for so long, she said, was sapping her will to live.

Being cooped up in Mrs Kilgour’s room for an hour was enough to suck every particle of joy from Georgiana’s heart. Even being able to perch on the bed and text or go online didn’t help as much as you might think. The bathroom was private and quiet, as isolated in its way as being in a space capsule – albeit one that never left the ground – which meant that Georgiana could forget where she was until her phone told her it was time to go. Not so the bedroom. With the TV blaring or Mrs Kilgour talking, it was hard to forget she was in Room 10a at the St Joan’s Nursing Centre. And she had to look up all the time to make sure the old bat hadn’t noticed what she was really doing and was ready to start making sarcastic comments; look up and see exactly where she was and want to weep.

Not that Georgiana greeted the idea of leaving the grounds with a rousing cheer and a fistful of confetti. Even though she knew it had to be better than just sitting there like a tethered goat, she still found something to complain about. Georgiana said you’d think they were actually going somewhere nice – to a party, or a new super mall – and not just the one, dull parade of brick storefronts and parking meters of Main Street the way Mrs Kilgour carried on. Georgiana calls it the Fifth Avenue of Nowheresville.

“I mean really,” said Georgiana, “it’s not somewhere you want to go more than once, like Baja or Hawaii.”

“I’m not saying it’s Paris in the springtime,” retorted Mrs Kilgour. “But there’s only one season in this damn room, and that’s bleak midwinter after the crops failed.”

“More like bleak midwinter in a Russian jail.” Georgiana does like to have the last word.

“After the crops failed.” So does Mrs Kilgour.

Nonetheless, despite her grumblings and misgivings, the weekly walk has turned out to be better than Georgiana could have expected. True, she does all the pushing and the walking, but she has become something of an expert at shoving a wheelchair along with one hand while texting or keeping busy online with the other.