When Women Were Dragons(102)

“More tea?” he said.

“No thank you. I have to go.” I pulled my bag onto my shoulder. Dr. Gantz put his hand on my arm.

“My advice? Let her dragon. Maybe she’ll stay that way. Maybe she won’t. But there’s no point in preventing a chrysalis from opening if it’s ready. Indeed, doing so could kill the creature inside. I would prefer a world with Beatrice in it, regardless of her form,” Dr. Gantz said. He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his chin. “And, if you don’t mind, I would love to be permitted to come and observe her transformation. For science. It could be she is not as unique as she appears, but the research right now is scant. The only way we challenge poor thinking and bad ideas is through the careful examination of the facts and the publication of data. I have always believed this.” He interlaced his fingers as though in prayer. “Please,” he said.

I will admit it now: I took a dim view of Dr. Gantz’s request. “I’ll think about it,” I said. My voice was flat. At the time, what I meant was no. It was one thing for me to throw caution aside and allow my greatest fear to happen to the person I loved the most, regardless of the consequences, and without knowing what the emotional, biologic, or situational fallout might be (and yes, I was beginning to understand, with greater clarity, that my fear was likely unfounded), but to agree to have a man we barely knew sit and watch? For something this . . . private? And take notes? And maybe try to get it peer reviewed and published? Well. We’ll see. Science was all fine and good, but scientists also need to know when to notice that enough is enough. I didn’t want my sister to be anyone’s lab rat, no matter how well intentioned.

I didn’t say any of this to the doctor.

“Thanks, Dr. Gantz,” I said. “I’m so glad we had a chance to meet.”

And I left.





41.

I didn’t tell Marla and the aunties about Dr. Gantz’s advice right away. I could barely put it into words inside my own thinking. The very notion of not being able to braid Beatrice’s hair, or hold her on my lap, or hang on to her hand as we walked, felt like a needle in my heart. And while I hadn’t told anyone about the nature of my questions with Dr. Gantz, I did, unfortunately, tell Aunt Marla about his desire to come by the house and meet the family. I thought she would reject it out of hand. Instead, she and Edith were inexplicably thrilled by the prospect of seeing him again and catching up on old times, and called him immediately to invite him to Christmas dinner. We were already hosting Sonja and her grandmother—and who knows how many extra dragons, as well as some of the other vendors from the farmers’ market—and really, what was one more? I was miffed, I must say, about the prospect of having too many people around the table on Christmas. It had always been Beatrice and me, just the two of us. And now we were many. And it took some getting used to.

Beatrice remained in school for another week after my term ended, as her break didn’t start until the day before Christmas Eve, a fact that struck her as deeply unfair. I had carefully arranged my schedule first semester with an open space around three-thirty so I could continue picking Beatrice up from school every single day and walking her home. Just like old times. Before moving. Before the dragons living in our house. I wanted Beatrice to know that at least some things would never change.

Except one change—now Sonja came with me.

Snow drifted slowly from the late-afternoon sky as we waited outside the school. We sat at the edge of the playground, in view of the front door, sitting side by side on one of the benches. The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the sun still hung low over the trees, and we knew it would be dark soon. Several mothers milled about in front of the school, checking their watches, stomping their boots on the ground to warm up their toes. They ignored us. Neither of us was a mother as far as they could tell, which made us deeply uninteresting. Which was fine. I only wanted to talk to Sonja anyway.

Though it turned out I didn’t have very much to say.

“You’re quiet,” she said. There was no petulance in her sentence, no note of disappointment. She was simply stating the fact. She reached her arm across my back and held me close for a moment.

“I know,” I said. Dr. Gantz’s advice had settled in the center of my guts like a heavy stone. I carried that weight for days. I barely ate. I hadn’t slept. I had taken to tiptoeing into Beatrice’s room at night and lying on the floor next to her bed, just as my mother had done, my face turned toward the window, my eyes full of stars. “Too much on my mind, I guess.”

I turned to Sonja. Thick snowflakes clung to her hair and eyelashes. They gleamed in the slanting light. She was so pretty I could hardly breathe. I took her mittened hand in mine. And then, I leaned in close and kissed her. Her cheek. Then her forehead. Then her mouth. Did anyone notice? Did anyone see? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. What else could I do, in the face of that much beauty? The smell of clove and paint. The smell of cinnamon and something else—something dark and slightly acrid, like smoke. Her chapped lip, her cool cheek, her pale hair clinging damply to my skin. There was no one else in the universe. We were a universe of two.

I could be this happy all the time, I thought first.

But what about Beatrice? I thought next. Doesn’t Beatrice deserve to be happy?

The stone in my abdomen grew even heavier.

The bell rang and the children streamed out—running to their buses or their bikes or heading home in little packs. Sonja and I stood and separated (though even in the space between us, a thread pulled). I watched Beatrice emerge from the front door. She held her hand over her eyebrows like a visor, looking out. Her shoulders deflated as she spotted us. She carried her knapsack like it weighed a thousand pounds, her footsteps trudging through the snow.