Page 23 of Clever Little Thing

“When you marry, you put bread on shoulders of man and woman like cape. For luck,” Irina said.

“Did you wear a bread cape when you married?” Stella had come down the stairs so quietly we hadn’t heard her.

“Of course,” said Irina. “My husband and I are very happy. We live in little house in forest.” I was puzzled. A little house in the forest? It sounded like the beginning of a fairy tale.

Sure enough, Stella said, “What happened next? Did something bad happen? Was there story trouble?” Story trouble was an idea they’d taught her in writing class at school.

“Sweetie, Irina was telling us about her life, it’s not a story.” Though I reflected that because the husband was no longer with us and Irina had left her country, something bad obviously did happen. I felt uncomfortable. I didn’t want to ignore her suffering. But I also didn’t want to revive her trauma. Or worse, betray an appetite for it.

I would let her choose how much she wanted to tell me. And apparently, she’d told me enough.

“You rest now.” She turned to Stella: “Little Wolf, you want to make doll?” I tensed. Stella loathed dolls. But she bounced up and down, almost shrieking. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Really?” I said. Irina picked up50 Stress-Relieving Designsfrom the coffee table and opened it to a mandala I had completed.

“You do this? Beautiful. Like window in church.” She nodded approvingly, handed the book to me, and followed Stella back to her room. I could hear Stella chirping and Irina murmuring back. My mother had never played with Stella like that. I still had to tell Irina not to mention Blanka’s death, but surely it wouldn’t come up. I didn’t want to bring her down by talking about Blanka, not when she was clearly enjoying the distraction. I decided to spoil myself by taking50 Stress-Relieving Designsto work on in bed.

Usually, I was on high alert for any sign that Stella needed me. But with Irina in charge, I lost myself in a swirl of goldenrod and magenta.

A knock on the door roused me from my trance. Just over an hour had passed. “Stella wants to show you something,” Irina said. I followed her to Stella’s room, where Stella held something aloft, like a trophy. “We got stuff from outside, and look what I made!” It looked like a bundle of twigs tied together with dried grass. I was perplexed: Why not use her craft supplies? She handed it to me, and as I examined it, crude arms and legs emerged. If you looked at it right, you could see that it had a dead leaf for a dress, an acorn for a head, hair of moss glued on with sap. I smiled as I gave it back to her. “What are you going to call it? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Stick Thing,” Stella said.

Irina smiled. “Is good to make doll when baby comes.”

Stella laid out her softest hoodie on the bed and began to swaddle Stick Thing. It was a little odd to see her playing with that poky dark bundle. But I told myself it was only my cultural blinkers that made me think dolls had to be cheerful and lifelike. Maybe it was a folk tradition from Irina’s homeland for a soon-to-be older sibling to make a doll.

I’d told Stella about the baby when I reached the end of the first trimester. She didn’t ask what the baby’s name would be or if it would share her room. She asked what would happen if the baby came out too soon. She’d focused on the possibility of something bad happening. Irina was teaching her that a new baby was something to look forward to.

Not to mention the fact that it was pretty amazing to see Stella playing with a doll. She spent so much time reading, and maybe Pete was right, maybe she didn’t play enough. Maybe if she learned to play, she would connect better with other kids.

Irina said she had to go, and I suddenly realized it was time to make Stella’s dinner. The afternoon had flown by with Irina here. I walked her to the door. “I can’t thank you enough.” For the bread, for getting Stella to act like a kid for once, for the hour in which I was free from anxiety about her.

Irina paused on the threshold. “In my country, if mother is sick, she is not alone. She has mother, aunts, grandmother.” She was close enough for me to smell her, and she didn’t smell bad: sensible soap, stewed tea, something vaguely spicy underneath. She reached up and touched my cheek. Out of nowhere, I remembered that mymother once gave me two jars of mustard as a combined Christmas and birthday gift. It was gourmet mustard, but still, clearly a regift. She couldn’t even shop for a present for me, let alone make one. I swiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “When can you come back?” I asked. “Tomorrow?”

15.

On Monday morning, I woke up longing for the oily bread. The thought of any other food nauseated me, but I was pierced by hunger for this one specific thing. Irina said she’d return today, but we didn’t settle on a time. I’d felt so sated when I said goodbye I hadn’t thought to ask her for more bread.

But you couldn’taskfor a gift, especially not one like that. Surely, she’d understand I needed more. I wanted to google the recipe, but I couldn’t remember the name.

I dropped Stella off at the school gate, and for once, she let me drop a kiss on her head. As she walked in, I noticed that, even though she’d finally worn the school dress and brushed her hair, she still looked out of place. Her hair seemed greasy, and she walked with shuffling steps.

I walked home quickly, reminding myself of how hard mornings used to be. I should be rejoicing at this change. But at home, Icouldn’t settle to any activity. All I wanted was the bread. I called Irina, but it went to her voicemail. I wanted to growl, “Bring more bread now.” I forced myself to take a breath. “When you come over later, I mean, if you are coming, I would love some more of that bread, if you have any.”

To distract myself, I folded laundry. I used the duvet case as an envelope for the pillowcases and fitted sheet, so each sheet set formed its own neat little package. I kept checking my phone: nothing from Irina. In my column, I’d railed against people who say when parting, “Let’s have coffee sometime,” or “We should go for a drink.” Charlotte Says: If you’re not intending to follow through on plans, then don’t make them. Bite your tongue. Had Irina simply said she’d come over out of fake politeness?

I left another message with Irina. “Not sure if you got my first message, but I thought you said you’d come over today? With more bread, if you have any.” The nausea had become so intense that the room seemed to tip sideways. Before I staggered off to pick Stella up from school, I left a third message: “Can you please, please come over and bring some bread?”

She came at 5:00 p.m., when I was in despair. I practically snatched the muslin-wrapped bundle from her arms. “Irina!” Stella ran to the door. “More nazook!” she sang, having noticed the troika tin at the top of Irina’s bag. In the kitchen, Irina set some nazook on a plate for Stella without asking me if this was OK, but I liked it. I liked that she made herself at home and fed my child. School moms asked if we had special dietary requirements before offering us any food. When Pete’s mom, Dianne, visited, she always asked, “Is this OK?” and “Would it be OK if?” before giving Stellaanything. And then there was my own mother, who honestly would never have thought to prepare a snack for Stella.

The bread was still warm, even more delicious than before. Irina watched me finish the bread and Stella inhale the nazook. She glowed, as if she were a mom watching her kid guzzle kale. Today her hair had an impressively luxuriant chignon, and I thought it was probably a hairpiece. Where could you even buy such things? She had on full makeup, a black cardigan and white blouse and elastic-waist black skirt. Her eyebrows were carefully penciled.

After I finished the bread, I felt self-conscious, grease on my face. I brushed the crumbs on the table into the palm of my hand. I’d been so desperate for the bread that I hadn’t even bothered with a plate. I shook out the square of muslin she’d used to wrap the bread. It was like the swaddling wraps I’d used on Stella when she was a baby, although this square was as fine as a cobweb from being washed many times. I realized suddenly what it meant that the bread was warm: Irina had made the oily bread again. For me, she had again rolled the bread out seven times. That was why it had taken her so long to come over. My eyes watered, and Irina patted my hand.

After the bread, I couldn’t stop yawning as we sat at the kitchen table. Irina pulled out her tapestry bag, which she had stowed under the table. She opened it to show me that it was full of bright yarn. “I teach Stella to crochet,” she announced. “In my family, girls learn at three, four years old. Already is very late to start.”

“That’s so nice of you, but I’m not sure if it’s really her kind of thing,” I began. She didn’t like instruction; she liked to do things her own way. But Stella dusted the last flakes of nazook off herfingers and jumped off the chair to peer into the bag. “What are we going to make?”

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