child’s fault. She’s a wildflower, that one. Where are her parents? Why doesn’t anyone take the child in hand?
Suzanne studies the grass stain on her knee before diving into the stacks of books. It is a nice pattern, like sun on a field of green. Sprinkled. Blurry.
“No scabs, Carla,” she whispers to her knee.
The first time they took Suzanne to the optometrist, he said, “There’s nothing wrong with her eyes.” She had correctly identified not only the letters on the chart that Dr. Marsh had pulled down over his bookshelf, but the letters on the books behind it as well.
“Could you . . .” he pulled out a bottle of pills and had her read the fine print. “Just spell it if you can’t say the words.”
And Suzanne read the dosage and side effects for Dr. Marsh.
“Thank you. Damn little labels.”
Adele Cardinal had taken the morning off work for this and stood facing Dr. Marsh, holding her daughter’s head between her hands as if to steady it.
“But she says she sees blurs.”
He put his hand under Suzanne’s chin and lifted. They were arguing over her head.
“You don’t see anything blurry, do you, Little Sue?”
“Only when things are blurry.”
“There you are,” Dr. Marsh smiled.
Adele Cardinal couldn’t believe it. Maybe she was going crazy.
Her life has not gone well these last years. Oh, no. How does one survive the death of a child, a perfect child who caused no trouble or worry, a child who brought only happiness, and no confusion, to the home? It was such a comfort to see her in her pink flared coat and bonnet, a new garment, not a hand-me-down from Suzanne. The child had dark curls and an open expression devoid of the quizzical squint of her older sister. She was a joy, and that joy had found a way to turn the latch on the balcony door, toddle out past the wicker chair and petunias, and fling itself away. Joy. Gone. The door bumping open and shut.
It is not the same between her and Robert any more. How could it be? He is constantly distracted. Robert writes in his “must-do” ledger, yet the more he plans, the less he does.
He will wash the car.
But the car stands there in the driveway, a permanent taupe colour, the grime thick with loss and Suzanne’s printed “Hello.”
And so. What is there for Adele but the offices of Honoré & Stevens? What else except typing up wills and property settlements, the who-gets-what of deaths and divorces? You are miserable? You are in despair? Here, you may have a duplex.
Absurd, she tells herself in triplicate, as she carries the papers in to be signed.
Supper. Suzanne is putting raisin climbers on the side of the mountain of mashed potatoes. A trail of brown sugar and ketchup is edging down the other side.
“Look out, look out! What is it called again?”
Suzanne’s father looks over with his absent eyes. “Lava,” he whispers.
“Lava,” Suzanne nods, as the raisins unknowingly head toward doom.
This cannot go on. Adele has been resisting the offer to send Suzanne to Sophie’s. The child likes her Aunt Sophie well enough, but Adele is not convinced her sister truly understands what it is like caring for Fire Engine Sue.
“Just the summer. What can it do? I’m alone here since Vince is gone. I have the time. Send her to me. You and Robert can have some time of your own together.”
Adele bites her lip.
Then she thinks of Suzanne, wandering the town by herself all day, probably bored to tears.
“Yes, yes, okay. Next Saturday.” She hangs up but keeps the phone in her lap, and gently pets it, like a cat.
“This is too small,” Adele admonishes, throwing a pair of pedal-pushers and a pop-top onto the floor. “And this?” She holds it before Suzanne’s slender body. “Yes. Finished.”
The child watches as the pile grows at her feet.
“When did this happen?” her mother demands, as if it is spilled sugar that is drawing ants.
“I don’t know,” the child replies. She looks down at her legs then holds out her arms. “Do you think it’s perm-mament?”
Adele is forced to drag Suzanne down to the only dry goods store in town, where summer outfits hang on pegboards in the window. One Sunday dress, green. Three sets of shorts and tops. Suzanne points to the pink set with puppies on it.
“Linda has that. And Cassie. I’ll look like twins,” the child says.
Back at home, the small suitcase with the cloth-embroidered flowers is filling up. A bathing suit is thrown in. Who knows if it fits? It is when she sees her lamb go in, her battered lamb that survived the fire and her sister’s pulling, that she starts to cry.
“Oh, what now? It will be fun for you. Aunt Sophie has time to take you to the zoo, and the park. She’ll even read to you.”
Suzanne curls up in her mother’s arms, and Adele holds her while trying to take the tangled elastic out of her hair.
“If I go, Mrs. Reidel will die,” Suzanne whispers to her mother’s thighs.
She must warn Mrs. Reidel to be very, very careful while she is away. She doesn’t want to scare her, but she must tell her all the same. Suzanne throws on her new dress, slips out on Saturday morning, and runs, runs, runs along the path by the house. Nobody is outside. The trucks are quiet. The dogs and birds are awake, but she notices the peacefulness of the morning and slows her pace a moment. The trees overhead make a green ceiling, but if you look up, you can see the sun behind them. And then—quick—she runs until she sees the pale yellow house. The tomatoes are well. The beet greens wave at her like always.
She knocks at the screen door.
Mrs. Reidel likes to get up early, but not this early. Suzanne listens. No toaster popping, no coffee percolating, no cat whining for his breakfast. Too early. She will be in trouble again. She runs around the side of the house. Mrs. Reidel’s big hollyhocks are in the way. Suzanne looks around. There, on the ground, the small flat ladder the old woman walks across on muddy days to get to her toolshed.
Suzanne bends and lifts one end. Too heavy. She pulls with all her might and drags it across the yard, over to the hollyhocks.
“Sorry, flowers,” she says. She is a little afraid of the hollyhocks. They loom. No time to worry now, though, and she tips the ladder up against the side of the house. She climbs, feeling the flowers scratching her legs. She is in the hollyhocks. Suzanne puts her hands on the window frame and peers in. The filmy white curtains make everything hazy, but she can make out the dresser and the bed over to the right. Mrs. Reidel is definitely in the bed, her large body covered in pale blue. Suzanne wonders if the tea stain is still on the coverlet. The window is open a crack to let in air. To let in only small insects. Suzanne can fit her fingers under it, so she does then yanks up. The force nearly topples her from the ladder.
More space. For bigger insects. Or, if she just . . . ouch! . . . now. Yes. Big enough for her. Suzanne climbs up on the sill and slips her legs in. The drop to the floor is not great, and she plops down almost silently. Ferg the cat looks up from the bed and starts to scowl, but seeing who it is, turns away contentedly.
“Hi Ferg,” Suzanne says quietly. She tiptoes over to the bed. Of course, Mrs. Reidel is asleep. It is early Saturday morning. If Suzanne wakes her, she will be in trouble.
“Mrs. Reidel,” she shakes gently. “Mrs . . . Mrs. Reidel.” Her voice gets stronger as the woman does not move or mutter. The cat has sprung to the floor in the commotion and now adds his voice to the chorus.
Suzanne saw something once on television, so