Page 39 of Clever Little Thing

“Do you want your phone?” I said. Slight head shake. Why wouldn’t the woman ever accept anything from me? I would feel better if she would allow me to make her comfortable. “Glass of water? A snack? Wine?”

Blanka nodded at her bound wrists, and I realized, obviously, she couldn’t eat or drink. But she didn’t seem to mind the prospect of sitting there doing nothing. It was like Blanka had pared down the things she was willing to do until nothing was left except simply exist.

When I came downstairs after putting Stella to bed, I cut her out as quickly as I could, feeling horribly guilty that she’d had to wait, even though she was the one who’d allowed Stella to put her in this situation.

When I finally freed her, Blanka didn’t get up right away, not until I prompted her: “Thank you, you can go home now.” She gathered her things while I knelt and picked up tangles of wool and twine. Finally, she trudged to the door and paused on the threshold. There was that moment then when I could have asked her how she was, how she really spent her time, because nobody could spend every weekend doing “not much.” I should have known that if a person is content to sit alone, bound hand and foot, there is something wrong. Maybe if I’d done something, I could have stopped her: it took so little to stop a person from killing themselves. I’d read that all you had to do was smile at someone as they made their way to the Golden Gate Bridge, and that could be enough to make them turn back.

But I was too tired to smile. She turned as she walked down the path and waved, always that same wave for hello and goodbye, with a circular motion of her hand, as if wiping clean an invisible pane.

She came back two days later, even though it was a Sunday, because she wanted to collect her pay cheque, which she’d forgotten. She often forgot to take it—Was that her excuse to come back ondays she didn’t work? Did she need us, was she asking for something? But the day she came back for her pay cheque, I was at a prenatal yoga class, and Pete was home with Stella.

And the next day,“I cannot come anymore.”

I hated myself for not realizing that Blanka was so depressed. But Irina lived with her and still didn’t realize. Maybe depression wasn’t always obvious, but Irina knew that Blanka had no periods. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Irina should have pushed Blanka to see a doctor, even if this was uncomfortable. Who knew, Blanka could have had a hormonal imbalance, which could also have caused her depression. She could have got treatment. I thought of Blanka’s school photo: her hair had been in braids then, and she’d had the same hairstyle until she died. Perhaps Irina liked having an adult daughter who was like a child, who would never grow up and leave home.

Maybe Irina wasn’t the mother I’d thought.

23.

“Yoo-hoo! Charlotte!” Emmy came over at pickup time, pushing Madeleine in the stroller. Lulu and Stella were nearby. It was No Uniform Day (a FOMHS fundraising scheme, all the parents donated a pound so their kids could go to school in their own clothes), and Emmy and Lulu wore matching mother-daughter outfits: navy-and-white striped dresses, their hair in ballerina buns. Cherie walked by with Zach in tow and fluttered her fingers at me, and I felt a pang.

“You look great,” Emmy said, surveying my figure. “How do you stay so skinny? You barely even look pregnant.”

“Hm,” I said, thinking that with talk like that, Lulu would be anorexic before she hit puberty.

“Lulu and I are going to try out the new patisserie,” Emmy continued. “I know, I know, like Muswell Hill needs another patisserie! But I’ve heard their gluten-free raspberry croissants are really good. Do you want to come?”

“Thanks, but we really should get back.” I didn’t want to go to the patisserie with Emmy and make superficial conversation. It was nearly two weeks since Irina had told me about Blanka’s suicide, but the last time I’d seen Blanka still played on a loop in my head. If only I’d smiled. If only I’d said something.

But Stella was already nodding, letting Lulu drag her along.

“Looks like the girls have already decided,” Emmy said, and I had no choice but to follow. When we found a table, Emmy went to order, leaving Madeleine with us in the stroller. Lulu whispered to Stella, and Stella nodded and began to murmur something under her breath. Stella’s hair hung in skimpy plaits, secured with the plastic bobbles. Lulu listened intently. I caught phrases here and there. “Her little old father and her little old mother…” Stella continued to mutter under her breath. Then Lulu gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. A nervous giggle erupted.

“No way. An oven! How did they fit him in?”

My stomach clenched tight, the baby a little fist.

“That’s enough,” I told Stella. “Not another word.” She clamped her lips shut obediently.

“But how—” asked Lulu.

“It’s a fairy tale, it doesn’t have to make sense,” I snapped.

“What’s going on?” said Emmy, returning with our order, and I managed to distract everyone by babbling about Lulu’s gluten-free croissant. “It’s amazing how it looks identical to the normal kind. Same color, same flakiness. It must be really hard for them to tell the difference. Do you think they ever get them mixed up?”

This caused consternation, and by the time it was resolved, Lulu had forgotten about hearing the rest of Stella’s story.

•••

On the way home, I asked Stella, “I heard you telling Lulu how Blanka’s father died. How do you know about that?”

“Irina told me.”

“Irina?” I was stunned. How could she think the pogrom was appropriate information for an eight-year-old?

“I know what happened to Blanka too,” Stella remarked. “She took too much medicine on purpose, so she would fall asleep and drown.” She fell silent and trudged along.

My head throbbed. Now that Stella knew these terrible things, she seemed sullied somehow, no longer a child. She spoke of the horror so casually, as if she felt nothing. She was like a disaster survivor who was still in shock. It hit me that of course Stellawasin shock. She’d shut down because Irina had told her about the worst things humans could do.Thiswas why she barely spoke—to me, at any rate—and dragged herself about, why her mind worked at a fraction of its usual speed.

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