Page 27 of Clever Little Thing

Her reaction was so odd. How could she freak out about a slug or a koi carp but then take Blanka’s death in stride? Maybe she cared so much about other living things because she didn’t care about people. Maybe on some level she wasn’t capable of truly feeling—but no, I wouldn’t let myself finish the thought. “It’s a big shock,” I told Stella. “It must be a big shock.”

She wriggled out of Pete’s embrace and shrugged. “I’m not dead.”

Pete and I looked at each other, flummoxed. “I guess she needs time to digest it,” Pete said. I nodded, still parsing her previous words. “I’mnot dead.” Was she saying Blanka’s death didn’t matter, because she, Stella, was still alive? I thought she’d ask if I would die, if Pete would, if she would. Why had a child died before the parent? And what, exactly, had happened to Blanka? But she didn’t ask any questions at all.

Stella had been so lively when Irina was here. But now, when it was just the three of us, there was something different about her, something I couldn’t put my finger on—a vacant quality. An absence that was also a presence. Stella retrieved her half-finished doily from the dining table and moved to the sofa to work on it, barely glancing down as her needle nipped in and out. It really was remarkable she’d only learned that day.

16.

When Irina came over the following afternoon, Stella immediately begged to crochet. “Give us a minute, sweetie, I need to talk to Irina,” I said. In the middle of the night, I’d realized that of course I had to offer to pay her. The gift of her weekday afternoons was too big to accept. But first, I let her know I’d told my child the truth. “By the way, Stella knows about Blanka now.”

Irina nodded. “Good.” If she was hoping that Stella would offer condolences, she was disappointed. This made me wonder: Did Stella actually get that Blanka was dead? But I had to get the money issue out of the way. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. I hope this isn’t weird, but can I pay you?”

Irina looked confused. “For yarn?”

“For looking after Stella.”

Irina smoothed her skirt. “This is not my job. I am nurse. I do not do this for money,” she said.

Oh god, I’d made a colossal misstep. I had implied she needed a job. As if I thought every immigrant who spoke broken English must want money. “Of course not! I’m sorry,” I gabbled. “I’m just so grateful. So grateful.”

Irina nodded briskly. “Ah! I nearly forget.” Irina pulled a small wooden icon out of her bag: an angel with clasped hands. “Blanka’s guardian,” she announced. “For Stella’s room.”

“Thank you,” I said, and Irina’s mouth twitched. She didn’t like me thanking her.

“To watch over me,” Stella said in wonder, and she traced a finger over the chipped gold-leaf background. I stared: no way did my scientific daughter believe in angels. But she was smiling at Irina, and Irina smiled back at her, like they shared a secret.

“Let’s put it up over my bed right now!” clamored Stella.

Irina turned to me. “Where is nail and hammer?” I found Pete’s toolkit, and she bustled up to Stella’s room. What a difference from just a few days ago. When I first met her, Irina had moved as if the weight of the ocean pressed on her shoulders. She could have let that crush her. Instead, she decided to spend her afternoons with Stella. Now she had someone who needed her.

•••

That Friday, after Stella was in bed, Pete came home with a bottle of champagne and announced that we were celebrating. “Sixteen weeks!” he crowed. My worst miscarriage had been at fifteen weeks. “We’ve made it further than ever before. I really think we’re going to make it this time.”

“Don’t hex it,” I said. “Anyway, I can’t drink.”

“The app says you can have one drink, and also, I got pomegranate juice to mix with it, which is full of antioxidants,” Pete said. His beard was growing in nicely. It gave him a new authority.“Incidentally, we should also celebrate the fact that Stella’s been at school for over a week without her or the teacher complaining.”

He carried the drinks to the coffee table. “Red drink, white sofa?” I said.

Pete grabbed a crocheted afghan that Irina had brought and draped it protectively over the cushions. It was a generous gift, but it was the color of pond scum.

I sat down on the afghan. Pete clinked glasses with me and said, “To you and the baby.”

“To you too, and to Stella.”

“Yes, to Stella. She’s doing great with Irina.”

In the last couple of days, Irina had taken to ironing all our clothes, even our underwear. She also crocheted endless doilies with Stella and had continued to feed her meat. Stella had more color in her face, and I thought she had already gained a little weight. She now got herself ready for school without a murmur and bathed without complaint.

“It’s early days, but maybe we won’t even need that spreadsheet I made. Maybe you were right about not rushing to get her evaluated.”

“She is doing great,” I agreed. “But she’s still eating in her room unless Irina’s here. It would be nice if she ate at the table when it’s just the three of us. Or just me and her.”

Pete pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “Much as I love Stella, I like the extra time with you.”

I smiled and kissed his palm. Really, things were hunky-dory. I just wished I weren’t so tired all the time. I longed for the second-trimester energy burst to kick in. The bread that Irina brought did wonders for my nausea. But I slept all day.

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