Though she heard her mother’s voice less often now, which made her relieved and sad at the same time.
She pushed a plate of toast toward Francesca, who shook her hair about her face. “I’m a freak,” she said.
Mira exhaled through her teeth. She flicked the gas under the tin teakettle (a gorgeous gust of gas and flame) and disappeared into the dining room. From the built-in china cabinet she chose two teacups and matching saucers. Mira thought she could see the brushstrokes in the gold filigree pattern encircling each cup. She balanced them on top of each other with the saucers in between, china tinkling as she walked.
Francesca sobbed again.
The teakettle whistled. Mira ran to lift the pot and the whistle died. As she poured steaming water into the tiny cups, Mira wished the water would move faster. Anything so that she could finish her pretty tableau and make Francesca feel better. Mira dropped a tea bag into each cup and stepped back swiftly, a small cock of her head. She moved the tag of one cup to the opposite side and stood back again, frowning. She disappeared into the pantry and returned with a box of sugar cubes, which she stacked in a glass bowl, and poured milk into a matching glass creamer. She scanned the kitchen and settled on a cutting board, on which she set the cups, sugar, and milk.
Francesca blotted her nose on the inside of her shoulder and reached for her tea.
“Wait,” Mira said. “Let me serve you.”
Francesca sniffed. “I can serve myself.”
“Let me serve you.” Mira used a small gold spoon to deposit two squares of sugar and placed the cup in front of Francesca.
“We’re not supposed to have caffeine,” said Francesca.
“It’s mint tea. It’s calming.”
“Daddy said I should have juice.”
Mira placed the gold spoon in front of her. “There is no juice.”
Francesca stirred her tea awkwardly. “Do you think I tried to … you know … do it, and I don’t remember?”
“Of course not,” Mira said. “That’s crazy. Besides, there were no instruments.”
“By instruments you mean razor blades,” Francesca said.
“You ought to drink your tea,” Mira said, marching to the refrigerator and pulling out a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. She cracked one and peeled it, washed it and set it on a shot glass. Mira wrinkled her nose at the smell. She placed the egg next to the tea. “And eat. Please, Francesca.” Mira thought of feeding Francesca, after she found their mother. Right before Dr. Amendola was about to insert the feeding tube, Francesca had allowed her sister to pop a bite of yellow custard into her mouth, for show. Only Mira and Connie understood that Francesca could fast for months and still go on, gaunt and spiny, but herself in most ways.
“Salt?”
“Stop trying to make everything pretty and perfect. What are we going to tell Connie?” Francesca pushed the egg away. It fell off its perch and rolled across the table.
Mira set the egg back on its perch. “You don’t have to explain. I will. She’ll want to come over right after school.”
“What if I don’t want Connie knowing?”
“Connie knows about your episodes. This is just another one.”
“She’ll make such a big deal out of it. She’s my blood, and I love her, but she gets so worked up.”
“Connie’s in awe of your talents. Besides, your talents make her special by association,” Mira said, thinking, even if no one knows but us.
But Francesca ignored the gap in Mira’s logic. Instead, she snorted. “Special.”
“Gifted, then,” Mira replied.
Francesca raised her hands. “You can’t even call this a gift. A gift is something you use for good. The birds, the languages, the fasting. At least those things aren’t horrid. And I can hide them. Seem like a normal sixteen-year-old. Holes in my hands are not something I can hide.”
Their father’s voice came, rushed and insistent, behind his closed office door. Francesca mashed her cheek against her swathed palm and stared through the kitchen doorway. “Who’s he talking to? And why can’t he talk in front of us?” she murmured, piqued.
“Eat. Before I go,” Mira said.
“Don’t leave me home alone. Staying home is so depressing.” Francesca covered her head with her hands. “I’m a freak. This will become one more reason for Daddy to keep me locked in the house.” She dropped her head to the table with a thump and tented her forearms around her ears, shoulders rising with fresh sobs.
“You are not a freak.” Mira came beside her and leaned over, pressing her body over her sister’s heaving back, as if to stamp her with her calm. “This new gift only makes you more special.”
“Please stop using those two words!” Francesca cried, muffled.
Mira turned her head to the side, her sister’s hair cool on her cheek, and thought for a moment. “Touched.”
Francesca’s body stilled underneath her.
From his office, their father’s voice grew excited. Mira straightened and Francesca wiped her tears, both faces to the door.
Francesca straightened her neck. “Shh!”
“I didn’t say anything,” Mira said.
Francesca slipped from her seat and ran lightly across the linoleum tile to her father’s office. She pressed her ear to the door.
“Francesca, get away!” Mira whispered harshly.
Francesca’s head snapped, eyes bulged. “He said Nick!”
Mira wasn’t sure. It made no sense, that her father should call Mr. Falso about Francesca’s problem that seemed so personal. But she was used to agreeing with her when it was easier. Her best skill was being Francesca’s ideal audience, of saying exactly what her older sister needed to hear. It was a talent she had cultivated through years of fielding Francesca’s insecurities, nearly always related to the veracity of someone’s love for her (this boy, their father, Mira herself). Mira knew the truth: Francesca’s heart was so big and she loved so hard that it was nearly impossible for anyone to love her back as fiercely. Mira had often pictured Francesca’s heart—overgrown, muscular, pulsing—barely contained inside her narrow chest. So, when they talked, Mira never asked, “Are you certain?” Rather, she asked for details that served to make Francesca’s vision more real: the color of his cheeks, the set of his shoulders, the smile on his lips. Anything to keep Francesca calm, anything to keep her near. Because nothing frightened Mira more than when Francesca moved away from her into that space inside herself and went dim.
Mira inched toward Francesca. “Then I’m certain it has to be Mr. Falso.” She brushed her older sister’s hair behind her ear and whispered inside it. “There’s no other Nick.”
PART 2
Hair
AUGUST 2016