“I’m not busy.” It’s the understatement of the century. “What’s going on with Bert?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“Okay.” She comes farther into the room. “The thing is—” She extends a hand and wiggles her fingers. “—I’m getting married.”
I eyeball the diamond and smile like I’m supposed to, even though I’ve never seen what all the fuss was about when it came to those sparkly rocks. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
I glance at own my ring finger, naked for almost a year. The knuckle seems to protrude higher now, without its anchor weighing it down. “Does Bert not like the guy?”
“No. I mean, yes. He likes him. But he doesn’t want us to get married.”
“Why not?”
“He thinks our family is cursed. Yeah, and he’s not senile either. He’s always thought that. His wife, my grandma, died when my mom was a baby. And Mom died when I was four. He thinks if I get married, then the curse will continue.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks.”
“Why does he think it’s marriage causing the curse? Why not the baby?”
She gives me a strange look. This, I realize, is probably not helpful.
“Hey, I’m just pointing out that his theory isn’t watertight. Maybe you could convince him the baby part causes the curse?”
“But what happens when I have a baby?”
“You want a baby, too?”
She nods. Somewhere deep in my soul, I think she’s being a little greedy.
“Well, do you believe the curse?” I ask.
“No. I mean, my family has had bad luck, but … No. I don’t believe it. But I want Grandpa to come to the wedding, and he says he won’t. He says he can’t bear to watch me seal my fate.”
“Tell him if you don’t get married, your fate will be worse than death.”
She watches me through narrowed eyes.
“Tell him if you go to your grave with him as your husband, you’ll go a happy woman. Tell him that even if he’s right, you’d rather have a year of true happiness than die without knowing what happiness is.” I think for a moment. “If he says you’re wrong, ask him if he wishes he’d never married his wife.”
“Wow,” she says. “You’re good.”
There’s an expression that says this exactly, and I try to conjure it up. Slowly, it starts to come. “A life lived in…” I try to continue, but the rest slips away. Poof. Gone.
“A life lived in fear is a life half-lived?”
“Right. Exactly.”
“You’re right. He adored Myrna. There’s no way he wishes he hadn’t married her. Besides, if I listen to his silly superstitions, I’m reinforcing the idea that this curse could actually be true.” She sighs. “Thanks for being the voice of reason. I’d better get back.” She cocks her head toward the closed bathroom door. “Do you think she’s okay in there?”
“Who?”
“Your … grandmother?” She squints at the silver name-thingy on the wall. “Anna, is it?”
I often have trouble understanding things, so I don’t worry too much that this goes over my head. I’m about to nod as if I understand completely—when suddenly, it dawns. She thinks I’m visiting an old person named Anna.
“Oh … yes. She’s fine.” I smile at the girl whose name I didn’t catch, if she told me at all. “She’ll be out of here really, really soon.”
2
There’s something in my soup, floating between a chunk of carrot and a green bean. It’s not a hair or a fly. It’s white. It’s about two inches long and curved around itself like a spiral. I reach into my bowl and give it a squeeze. It compresses between my fingers, then springs back like a piece of rubber. Before I even put it in my mouth, I know what it will taste like: bland, chewy, but appealing. I like this food. Why can’t I remember what it’s called?
“Tastes like an old boot, right?”
When I look over, the old lady next to me is watching me. I’m grateful it’s her speaking because the alternative, on my other side, is an old bald man who keeps referring to the empty seat beside him as “Myrna.” At one point, he even asked someone to pass Myrna the salt. So much for no crazies at Rosalind House.
“I’m sorry?”
“The pasta,” she says. “It tastes like an old boot.”
Pasta! I feel a thrill akin to finding a missing, well, boot.
“Actually, the pasta’s all right,” I say. “It’s the rest of it that’s the problem.”
“I s’pose you’re right,” she says, examining the spiral on her own spoon. “Beans and celery and watery soup—the pasta’s the savin’ grace, really.”
The woman has a Southern accent, which cheers me a little. After all, how could you not like someone with a Southern accent? Then again, there’s the rednecks and Ku Klux Klan, but this woman doesn’t look like she’s affiliated with either. She’s younger than the rest of the residents, who remind me of mottled pieces of driftwood ready to sink to the ocean floor. This woman, on the other hand, while probably eighty, seems able-bodied—verging on spry.
“I seem to have forgotten your name,” she says.