Page 80 of Clever Little Thing

When Irina reaches our house, I ask her to stay. I carry Stella up to her room. Irina pulls back her comforter and I lay her down and cover her. Then we sit in the dark with just her nightlight on, listening to her deep, struggling breaths. It almost sounds like the way someone breathes when they are dying. Should I call an ambulance? Maybe Blanka is ready to go now, but she’s taking Stella with her. Perhaps, once a spirit has entered your body, it can’t just exit painlessly. Blanka’s like a knife, pulling Stella’s guts out as she withdraws.

I try to push down my panic. My mother instinct tells me nothing. I don’t think any doctor can help her, but I don’t know that she’ll be OK. All we can do is wait. We sit by her bed for a long time, listening to that terrible breathing.

At first, I’m not sure, but then I am: her breaths are smoothing out. Irina, seated in Stella’s desk chair, grows more and more hunched. At long last, Stella’s breathing is quiet and steady. Irina stands stiffly. “I sleep in my own bed. You take care of daughter.”

When Irina is gone, I listen to Stella inhale and exhale, just like when she was a newborn, and I felt that the only way she would take another breath was if I was there to listen. She’s alive. But is she Stella now? I should let her body rest, but I can’t wait anymore. I press my face into her hair. No meat stew, no chlorine, just the scent of ordinary sleeping child. “Stella, honey?” I whisper.

“I was asleep,” she says groggily.

“Yes, it’s still night. But just look at me for a moment.” We gaze at each other. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. I count. Please let this be the hugging stare. “Quack, there’s a saddle on my back,” I say, my voice trembling.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” she replies, “I’m a kangaroo.”

My heart feels as if it will burst from my chest. My daughter. She’s still gazing at me. “Why are you awake, Mommy?” she says. “Are you having trouble sleeping?” She sighs deeply, as if forgoing something very precious. “You can borrow my book on aviation if you want.” I clench my fists with the effort of not hugging her.

Two Months Later

41.

“More soup, anyone?” I ask Irina and Stella. I made it out of nettles we gathered together, Stella and I, while Irina stayed at the cottage with Luna.

Irina holds out her bowl, but Stella says, “I’ve had enough.” She only spooned up a little, but I didn’t have to serve it as components: progress. “Can Luna try it?”

“Not yet,” I say.

“Do they think they will close school?” Irina says.

They’re talking about a shutdown to limit the spread of coronavirus.

“Yay!” says Stella.

“If that happens, maybe I’ll finally become good enough to crochet a decent sock. Right, Irina?” I nudge her. It’s a running joke how terrible I am at crocheting.

It’s March now, and I’ve rented a cottage on the Devon coast. Pete deposits money into my bank account every month. If there’s ashutdown, we’ll have enough to live on, and the four of us will keep each other company, drive each other crazy, or both.

Meanwhile, Irina looks after Luna so I have time to work out what I want to do. I don’t know what I am passionate about, but I am going to find it. I have begun to cook again.

All those meals Stella refused to eat—I never enjoyed cooking them. I told myself I didn’t enjoy cooking because she wouldn’t eat. But what if she didn’t eat because I didn’t enjoy cooking? Now I cook whatIfeel like eating, and I enjoy it. Sometimes, Stella does too.

Stella goes to the village school. Her handwriting needs work, the teacher tells me. At break, she mostly reads hefty science books while hiding from the teacher on duty behind a bush, but I’m fine if she doesn’t want to socialize. She’s changed so much, and she will get there in her own time. Plus, she has Luna now.

“I put wild garlic in the soup,” I tell Irina. “Like you showed me the other day. Is that something you gathered when you fled Azerbaijan?”

Irina shakes her head. “For three days, we have nothing to eat but dandelion.”

“Where did you sleep?” I ask.

“Were you very scared?” says Stella.

“I walk with Blanka, she is three years old. I carry nothing but wedding dress and often Blanka too. There is nothing more to tell.” Irina scrapes her spoon around her bowl.

I once wondered if she was exaggerating when she told us about her life. The little house in the forest. The husband shut in an oven. Could she really have walked over the mountains for three days,carrying her daughter and her wedding dress, with only dandelions to eat? But living with her, I’ve noticed that she tells her story in the same words every time, and if I press her for more information, she shuts me down. This happens and then that happens and then there’s nothing more to tell. I think this is her particular way of making the past manageable.

After dinner, we crochet, or try to. Stella is as bad as me. But we find it calming. Irina inspects my work. “Your stitches are too tight. Relax hands.”

“But this sock is going to last forever,” I say. “Look how thick it is.”

“Perfect for one-legged man,” mutters Irina.

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