I look at Joyce and note the lines that fan out from her dark eyes. See hair that was once sandy streaked with gray now gray streaked with sandy. Yes, Joyce certainly knows what it’s like to be dealt a bad hand. Not that she would ever breathe a word of her history to me, but Walter has.
Joyce was raised in a middle-class family in Peoria, Illinois. She had a steady beau and plans for college when she found herself pregnant. Walter says she never has divulged details about his father—was it the boyfriend? Another man who took advantage? A mistake of passion? Regardless, Joyce’s parents sent her to Chicago for an abortion and she never returned home.
Joyce certainly knows a little something about not letting life get you down. But still.
“I won’t treat Jane like she’s some sort of blessing.”
Joyce’s mouth flickers in a frown. “Then, Piper, how will she ever become one?”
I lower my gaze to my book and refuse to say any of the caustic words locked behind my lips. Joyce lingers only a moment longer before carrying on her way to the family bedrooms.
A breath I had been holding leaks out. I stare at the words on the page until they blur.
The rap on the front door jolts me from my daze. How long have I just been sitting here? Nick, who’s coming down the stairs with a briefcase in hand, opens the door.
Lydia stomps inside. Her blue eyes are ice as she rips her wide-brimmed hat from her head. “I’m furious.”
“Yes, I see that.” I snap shut my novel. “What’s going on?”
“It’s my parents. Would you believe—” She catches sight of Nick in her peripheral vision. “Oh, hello.” Her smile is a shade bashful. “How are you this afternoon?”
“I’m doing fine. I would inquire about you, but I think I already know the answer.” He winks at her, but Nick’s attempts to flirt only embarrass her further.
Lydia laughs lightly and ducks her head.
I give Nick a pointed look, and he clears his throat. “Well, I’m on my way to the library to study with some friends.” He holds up his briefcase as if submitting evidence. “I’ll see you later.”
She murmurs a good-bye and then perches beside me on the couch. Lydia fusses with her beaded handbag until the front door closes behind Nick, and then she giggles. “That was foolish of me. Why didn’t I think to greet the person who opened the door before I spoke?”
“Because you’re angry. He’s sweet on you, you know.”
“You think everyone is sweet on me. And anger is no excuse for bad manners.” Her face pinches. “But, yes. I’m furious.”
“What happened?”
“Mother and Daddy have confined me to the house.” Lydia collapses onto the couch, in a startlingly unladylike manner. “They’ve even pulled me out of school.”
“With not even two weeks before graduation? Why would they do that?”
Lydia regards me with a serious gaze. “It’s these fainting spells I have. Apparently, they’re more of a concern than Mother and Daddy have let on.”
Seizures. The correction sits on my tongue, and I bite it back.
Lydia’s chin trembles. “They say it’s nothing I need to worry about, and then . . .” She takes a deep breath. “Then they go and pull me out of school, and now they’re making me . . .”
Tears overtake her. Lydia falls against my shoulder and releases a loud sob.
I wrap her in a tight hug. “It’ll be okay, Lydia. It will.”
Footsteps thunder down the hall and Walter bursts into the living room. “What’s wrong? Oh.” He takes in the scene of me and Lydia on the couch. “I’m sorry, I heard crying. I’m sorry.”
He backs out of the room.
“He’s gone,” I murmur to Lydia.
“No doubt he thought it was you crying yourself silly in here. Not that you’d ever do such a foolish thing.” Lydia fumbles in her bag and retrieves a handkerchief. “But he thought it must be you, and he rushed to help, because that’s just how it is for you.”
She dabs at her eyes with a damp handkerchief. I pull a fresh one from my cardigan pocket and hand it to her. “There were a lot of false implications in those statements, but you’re upset so that’s okay.”
Lydia clutches the offered hankie but doesn’t use it. She looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. “They’re sending me to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota.” Her voice is flat, as if she used up all her emotion moments ago. “To some doctor friend of Daddy’s who thinks a special diet can help me with my condition.”
Always such delicate terms with the LeVines. Lydia’s condition, Lydia’s episodes, Lydia’s spells. But they can frame it however they want if they’re being smart enough to get her expert help.
“This is a good thing, Lydia.” I’m afraid she can hear the relief in my voice, see it on my face. Can she tell I know more than she does? “You’re going to get better.”
Lydia’s mouth is in a firm line as she looks at me.
“Don’t you want to get better?”
“Of course I want to get better. But I don’t want to be shipped off to Minnesota like this! Not when . . .” She pushes herself off the couch and turns the Victrola bell toward the wall, quieting Bessie Smith. “How can you hear yourself think with that playing so loud?”