Chapter Six
I hated the quiet, the type that crept in during the dark hours of the night—the dormiveglia, as Daddy used to call it. It was one of the few Italian words he remembered his grandmother speaking, but he said it with a tongue born and bred in America, a fact his nonna both celebrated and mourned.
Dormiveglia are the veiled moments between sleeping and waking, the space in time that floats instead of hurries—a reprieve for some and an unrest for others. Daddy and I shared a lot of those moments over the years, neither of us sound sleepers. I wondered if Nonna was the same way, if that’s why she used the word and taught it to him, who passed it to me.
When Daddy was still alive, I didn’t mind those silken hours, having a companion to sit with me and sip milk the cows had given earlier that day— or better yet, steal a piece of pie if we had any. We didn’t need to speak. We listened to the cicadas and tree frogs, the crickets and other night critters who sang their songs as others slept. We simply sat and sipped or nibbled, before slipping back upstairs to hopefully coax a few more hours of sleep to visit us.
And now, since Esther, the silence roused me each night, stirring me in anticipation of a cry to come, a need to attend to. Ensconced in dormiveglia, I pleaded with myself to fall back to sleep before I woke too much. I scooted toward Henry, feeling the warmth radiate off his body, willing it to act as a blanket that could soothe me back to slumber, but I quickly began to sweat and my mouth watered, thirsting for a sip of late-night milk and a dash of cinnamon. Too restless for sleep, I surrendered to the night and got up.
Our home had few sounds, at least compared to the home of my childhood, the one my great-grandfather had built—frame, floors, furniture, and all.
Georgie and I couldn’t even roll over in bed without our parents hearing the wood-plank floors creak beneath our bed frames, as if history cried out with each movement, especially the ones in the still of the dark night.
In our Greenwood home, the windows dampened the chirps of the frogs and crickets, the trees standing too far from our home for the hum of the cicadas to seep through the window panes. On the inside, the insulation and carpet quieted sounds. Even still, there was a creak in the floor right outside Wesley’s door. I had learned quickly in his newborn days to walk nearer the opposite side of the hall and take a giant step past the door, so as not to wake him. He slept more soundly now, not having received the family curse—I wondered if Esther had—but I still took that step with caution.
Henry had forgotten to pull the curtains closed before coming to bed, so the streetlights poured orange light into the living room, bathing the davenport, darkening the corners, reflecting off the mirrors Mrs. Mayfield had chosen, transforming the room into a combination of warm light and dark mystery. The lights reflected in the gaudy mirrors, but I refused to look at them, not simply because I hated them, but because I was afraid of what I might see. Though my rational mind knew ghosts didn’t exist, my imagination could be convinced otherwise.
Mirrors might hold haunted things, but windows showed reality. I moved closer to peer outside, to see Greenwood as the others slept. All the lights were off at the house across the street. With the car parked in the garage, it still appeared as if no one had moved in, as if it still sat waiting for me. If only. As if on cue, a light clicked on in the front bedroom, reminding me that the Betsers had arrived. I wondered if Katherine was a restless sleeper like me. But didn’t she know to keep the lights off so she could creep through the dark hours unnoticed?
I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, the light creating a wedge of
brightness, illuminating my nightgown. I hadn’t bothered to grab my robe, too hot for another layer of clothing. I welcomed the cool of the linoleum on my bare feet.
The milk was nearly gone, so I filled a tumbler (two books for a set of six, plus the pitcher) only half-full, saving enough for Wesley. I hoped he’d drink it in the morning with his breakfast. He had taken only a sip at dinner before asking to dump the rest down the drain. He typically drank two full glasses, knowing that it was good for his growing bones. But that night he had refused more than the sip. I hoped it wasn’t a sign that he was coming down with something. What would happen if he got Esther sick?
I touched the glass to my cheek, absorbing as much of its coolness as I could, when I realized I wasn’t the only soul awake in all of Greenwood. The cry was low, muffled. I stopped breathing and listened, waiting for Esther’s wails to get louder, for her to demand my presence. But this cry sounded different.
Maybe it was Wesley. Maybe he was sick after all.
My heart started to pound with the possibility as sweat began to form and prickle along my lips, neck, and hairline. I wondered how I would take care of a newborn and a sick child. What if they both needed me at the same time?
Don’t get ahead of yourself. I heard Henry’s voice in my head. He always told me that when he thought I was worrying too much, as if those words would stop the racing thoughts.
And then I heard a squeak, coming from the patio door.
A cat too fat to be a stray stood on the outside looking in. She reached upward, balancing on her hind legs as her front feet pawed and screeched against the glass door. As her mouth opened and a cry escaped, I laughed, relieved that the sound came from a cat and not one of the kids.
As I opened the door and stepped onto the patio, she tried to make her way into the house, but I moved her aside with my foot, her soft fur brushing
across my toes.
“Now, now, kitty,” I told her, and she responded with a quiet meow.
The cat circled through my legs, making figure eights, her gray body strutting with each step, her tail high as I walked to the lounge chair. I had barely sat down when she jumped into my lap. She kept her eyes trained on me, her white mustache shining even in the darkness. I tried to take a sip of my milk, but she bumped against my hand, attempting to get her nose in the glass, wanting a drink for herself.
“This is mine,” I said, reminding myself of something I would correct Wesley for saying.
I stretched to the side, moving out of her reach so I could take a sip. As the first drop hit my tongue, instead of the refreshment I had hoped for, a sour taste filled my mouth. Grocery-store milk never tasted as good as fresh from the cow, but this taste went beyond the store-bought difference. No wonder Wesley had refused to drink it for dinner.
I held the glass to my nose, trying to sniff it as the cat did the same. I hadn’t been to the grocery store since Esther. I thought I could stretch a few more days, but apparently I would need to get there sooner than I had realized.
The cat didn’t seem to mind the sour smell. She tried to fit her head inside the glass but could barely get past her whiskers. Her tongue lapped up what it could. No use in it going to waste, so I reached for the Flying Saucer that Wesley had left outside, turned it upside down to use as a bowl, and poured the rest of the milk into it. The cat immediately jumped down and began lapping up the milk, her purr growing even louder.
When she was done, she jumped back onto my lap, tucked herself into a crescent, and closed her eyes. I welcomed the touch of her softness, her purr vibrating my lap as she settled. But I quickly began to sweat under the warmth of her body.
Even still, I didn’t want her to leave. I stroked her fur as she drifted to sleep. I had missed the feel of an animal. I had taken for granted all the animals who filled our farm: cows, goats, chickens, a few pigs, ducks, wild rabbits, a stray cat or two each season, a dog to herd the livestock. Daddy preferred the animals who served a purpose or held a job. I liked the ones that I could pet, cuddle with, take on walks along the creek, curl up alongside for an afternoon nap under my oak tree.
Remnants of milk glistened in the moonlight, covering the cat’s natural mustache. I ran my fingers through her smoky-gray fur. She blended in with the night, nearly invisible as clouds passed over the moon.
“Luna,” I said. “That’s what I’ll call you.”
Luna seemed to approve of her name. She twisted her head so the underneath of her chin pointed to the night sky. Her purr deepened before fading. She slept so easily, peacefully, effortlessly.
I tried to do the same, but my mind wasn’t ready to settle. I thought about the grocery store and the list I needed to make, wondered how many stamps that trip might give me, and how much closer I’d be to getting that treasure, especially since I had to start over when I got the percolator. I thought about Wesley and how much he had grown in the time I had been at the hospital. It hadn’t even been that long, but the moment I walked into the house, I saw the difference. I thought that perhaps I should introduce him to Katherine across the street. Why couldn’t she have been a boy so they could better play together?
Then I thought of the pie, hoped it tasted fresh, and wondered if the Betsers had liked it, if they had enjoyed the fruit swimming in thick syrup with cinnamon and nutmeg, the crust flaky. They wouldn’t know this, but it tasted just like Mama used to make. And I wondered if she would be proud of me. If she could taste what I had made, would she be happy that I had figured it out, that I had worked to replicate her prize-winning dessert? It had taken
trial and error and so many peach pies that Henry asked if I couldn’t use another fruit, just once. But then I got it. The spices balanced. The crust golden. The peaches sliced to the perfect thickness.
Would she be happy? Or would she say, “Don’t expect awards. Life rarely gives them,” as she’d said countless other times? I didn’t need a blue ribbon from the county fair like she’d gotten. I only wanted her to be proud of me.
It’s surprising how much you can miss someone you’re not sure ever really loved you. Maybe I should write her a letter. It had been a while since I had called and even longer since I had visited. A letter would be easier to manage.
I could update her on Esther, how Wesley could ride a tricycle. But maybe she wouldn’t want to hear that, especially since her own son couldn’t do something of that sort.
Maybe I should tell her I now understood how exhausting it was to care for someone else, to be the one who must meet their constant needs. But those in my charge would grow and become capable and move on to take care of themselves. Unless they were dealt the same fate.
But I couldn’t think of that then. I couldn’t let those thoughts wriggle in.
Henry always told me that I couldn’t blame her. But she blamed me, so why not?
I tried to do like Luna. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and begged sleep to come. I listened to the frogs, crickets, and cicadas calling in the darkness. I felt the night breeze across my bare legs, toes, hands, cheeks, and still- throbbing head. For a moment, I thought I could will myself to join Luna in her slumber.
But then the voice whispered through the night and blew cool across my skin, It was your fault.
I turned to look, to make sure Henry or Wesley hadn’t woken. But I was alone on the patio with the cat on my lap. I knew the voice hadn’t come from them.
Your fault, it said again, filling every inch of my body, forcing goose pimples to pop along my arms and legs. I shifted in the lounger, attempting to draw my legs into my body. Luna chirped awake, her sleep disrupted by my movements.
“I’m sorry,” I said, running my hand across her head, rubbing the wells beside her ears, willing her dormiveglia to turn back to rest, praying she wouldn’t leave me, becoming jealous of how easily she fell back asleep as I sat in the silence of the night and reminded myself, I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.
