Clara. Mrs. Mueller. Real names. I looked to Isabel—half concerned, half relieved—to find her sitting straight. I watched her a moment more. There was something off, too rigid, in her stance, and her eyes were unfocused as if seeing the past rather than any of us.
“Isabel?” I handed her a cup of tea. I wanted to capture her focus. I needed to make sure she was all right. “Isabel?”
She looked at me and . . . She was not all right. There was an almost animal panic in her expression. It reminded me of Grant’s description of war. Before I could react or inquire, Clara plopped next to her, almost climbing onto her lap. “Momma said I don’t have to play anymore and Gertrude’s going to move chairs and pillows into the Day Room and make it like a movie theater this afternoon. We can have popcorn too. Do you want to? You can pick the movie.”
Isabel jerked away, and a startled Clara dropped her teacup straight into Isabel’s lap. Isabel jumped up, clutching at her skirt to pull it from her legs, and Clara fell to the ground.
I moved first and waggled Isabel’s skirt like a fan to disperse the heat as I reached for Clara, who sat wide-eyed and crumpled beneath us. “Are you burned? Are you okay?” One question to Isabel, one to Clara. It was hard to tell who was more distraught.
Grant was beside us in an instant and reached for the gown as well.
“Don’t touch me. Get away from me.” Isabel’s words didn’t hold panic. They held anger. They were piercing, guttural, and enraged. She thrashed at Grant, then rounded on Clara. “You ruined it. I knew you would. I said you would. You shouldn’t even be here.”
I was holding Clara’s hand by this time. She slid from my grasp as she sank lower, and I let her go. I was shocked by Isabel. Everyone was.
All the air left our circle. Our camaraderie dissolved. I felt exposed and, as I looked around, it seemed as if everyone else felt the same. We all darted our eyes across the scene as if avoiding a harsh light or the emotions in front of us.
Aaron stepped in front of his daughter and time unfroze. We unfroze. I watched Sylvia’s face darken to a low crimson. It was not the red of embarrassment, but the deeper tone of fury.
“What—” Sylvia’s one word came out low, but she cut off. Her eyes fastened on me. Whatever she saw in my face stopped her cold. I was unsure what my expression conveyed, but it felt cold, blue, and clammy. All of me felt as if I’d broken a fever. Sylvia’s eyes shifted back to Isabel, as did mine.
Isabel paled further, if that was possible, as Aaron scooped Clara up and walked away. We could only see her eyes peeking above her father’s shoulder. The tears and confusion there jolted me to action.
“Isabel? Hey—” I grabbed for her as she teetered. She stiffened and pulled from my grasp. Her lips parted, and an odd, strangled sound reached me. I twisted to follow her line of sight. She stared at Nathan.
“Isabel?” He stepped toward us.
She turned and ran.
I looked around at what was left of the group. Herman and Helene had tucked closer together. They were holding hands. Their heads turned in unison to follow Isabel, then turned back to me. Sylvia’s focus never left me. Her questions were tangible.
“I’m sorry. I can’t explain right now.”
Grant stood beside me. He had backed away at Isabel’s cry. The only muscle now moving was that small one below his right ear. It flexed as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.
With an “Excuse me,” he strode away in the opposite direction Isabel had run.
“I’ll find her . . . I’m so sorry.” I took off after Isabel, leaving Nathan and Gertrude to explain what they would or could to anyone left.
It didn’t take long to find her. Upon entering the hedgerow and the woods behind them, the main path met up with another. Turn right and I would head deeper into the woods to the terraced garden beyond. Turn left and I would drop to the stream. I knew Isabel would always choose water.
She sat on the bench where Nathan and I had blown bubbles only yesterday. I sank beside her, unsure what to say.
We sat a full minute before her words broke the tension. “Mary, I need help.”
I swung my arm around her and pulled her close. “I know.”
She sank into me. “It was so confusing. I saw Clara, but it didn’t feel like her. It felt like me. I remember that age now. I never did anything right. Before the tea fell, I saw it for the first time. We were in our kitchen. The walls were white like the tent and we even had a table with those same knobby legs. Daddy was so angry. I had done something, something about the table, and there were colors. Maybe it was paint, I don’t know. Anyway, I’d ruined it, as I ruined everything. He said that’s why my mom left. I’d ruined that too.” She glanced up at me. “He used to yell a lot when I was a kid, then one day he stopped. I guess I wasn’t worth the energy anymore.”
“That’s not true. And none of it was your fault.”
“I think the paint actually was.” She offered a sideways smile. “Do you remember when we did that at your house?”
I nodded. It was soon after Isabel and I had met. We had a project for social studies, a three-dimensional map that we’d built together. Our mountain ranges were formed from quick-dry clay and mounted to the foam board, and it was my idea to color them with Sharpies. Ink got all over the table. Dad just laughed, but Isabel almost threw up. She also almost sheared the skin off her knuckles scrubbing the table with Comet before Dad gently but firmly pulled her away.
I remember he was quiet all night. As I was going to bed he asked me, “Is everything all right in Isabel’s home?”
I’d answered, “Of course, Daddy. She lives in that new big house on Vine Street. You should see inside. It’s super nice.”
I closed my eyes and hugged Isabel tighter. Sure, I’d been young then and my blindness had a valid excuse, but how long had I held that narrative?
Isabel continued. “Maybe it was my fault, Mary. All of it.”
“You can’t rationally think that.”
Her exhale was so derisive and self-abasing, I couldn’t call it a cry or a laugh. “What about me is rational?”
I squeezed her tighter yet. “Stop.”
“An ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it back there. That poor child—I didn’t even see her, until I did. I saw Aaron first.”
“An ‘I’m sorry’ will cut it, Isabel. Explain it to them, privately. They’ll understand.”
“That I’m crazy?”
“You’re not crazy. You’re hurt.”
She nodded, then shifted away and twisted to face me. “Nathan Hillam is here.”
It was a statement full of questions.
My answer held more. “Yes.”
We stared at each other. I broke the tension this time because I couldn’t hold on to it. I wasn’t angry. It was too hard and too heavy to carry. “He called you, and I answered your phone. He came to help.”