When Women Were Dragons(61)

Mrs. Gyzinska didn’t move.

She sat there for a long time.

Beatrice continued to splash in the marsh with Mr. Burrows following fussily behind. She hooted with laughter.

Mrs. Gyzinska tilted her head to the left. “She’s a wild one, your Beatrice,” she said.

I didn’t reply. What was there to say? Was she wild because I was bad at this? Maybe, but I didn’t think so. Beatrice has always been herself.

“Tell me about her mother,” Mrs. Gyzinska said gently.

My head snapped up. “Our mother is dead,” I said. My words were quick and fast, like a slap.

Mrs. Gyzinska sat in silence for a moment. “I mean . . .” She paused. “I mean. Tell me about her other mother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

We didn’t speak for a good long while. I became intensely aware of the woosh of blood through my veins, and the ringing of my ears. With each breath, I felt the heat of my body begin to surge, until I worried I might burst into flames. I clenched my fists tight, and my nails dug into the heels of my hands until they bled.

How do we remember the moments when we fall apart? Time doesn’t work the same when we become frightened or frustrated or enraged. Moments loop over themselves and split apart, like a knot fraying from the inside out. What happened in that moment is a tangle. I’ve spent years trying to unwind the thread of memory, and lay it flat, but it is an impossibility. What I do know is that my reaction to her question was swift, defiant, and utterly out-of-bounds. I remember raising my voice. I remember throwing a book against a notice-covered wall. I remember the smell of glue in my nose, and the sound that the legs of the wooden chair made as they screeched across the floorboards, and the smack of my hands on the table. I remember Mrs. Gyzinska with her hands folded in her lap, her head tilted slightly to the left, her softly rumpled face gazing at me in a look of mild curiosity, and without any anger in response—which just made me angrier. I remember stomping into the stacks and slamming the door behind me. I remember feeling ashamed of myself.

Indeed, it is the shame that I remember most.

As I raged and swore, as I swung my bag onto my back and stomped out of the workroom, I became suddenly flooded by memory. Memories of my mother. Memories of my aunt. They came thick and fast and sharp, like an assault. I remember thinking about the dinner table at my house—the uncomfortable adults, my aunt needling my mother about her skills and accomplishments and my mother shutting it down.

My mother didn’t dragon—but could she have?

My aunt did dragon—but what if she hadn’t? What if she had stayed, and Beatrice and I could have lived with her after my mother died, with her wide stance and wider smile? With her competent hands and keen observations?

And I was angry. I was so angry. At my mother. At her cancer. At my father. At his abandonment. And I was angry at my aunt. For leaving my mother. For leaving Beatrice. For leaving me. Because I needed her.

I scrambled up the stairs as Mrs. Gyzinska strode behind. She appeared calm and unhurried even as she moved swiftly and kept up. This made me mad as well.

“Beatrice has no mother,” I said without turning around. “I have no mother. We only have each other.”

That is not all I said. I know I said more than that. Hurtful things. Hateful things. I don’t remember most of it. I remember that I called her a nosy old bag and a busybody and a snobby bore. I didn’t think those things before, and I don’t believe I even thought them then. I just said them to be mean. Even though Mrs. Gyzinska believed in me. Maybe she even loved me. My bag thumped against my hip. I needed to find Beatrice.

“I’m merely saying—” she began.

“There’s nothing to say,” I nearly spat. I strode through the library, looking for my sister.

“I just feel that it’s worth mentioning,” Mrs. Gyzinska soothed, keeping pace with me despite her age and the shortness of her legs.

“Beatrice!” I called. Loudly. Even though we were in the library.

“That some outreach could be possible. Do you understand what I’m saying? Your aunt, in whatever state she’s in, could be—”

“Where is that girl?” I groaned to myself. People in the library looked up.

“You’re going to need all the help you can get. In whatever . . . form. So it’s worth . . .”

“BEATRICE,” I shouted. They weren’t in the children’s section. I looked out the window. They weren’t outside anymore. I turned on my heel and hurried to the arts and crafts room.

Mrs. Gyzinska was so old. And yet. She kept trying to stand in front of me, cutting me off as I raced through the stacks. Mothers took their small children by the hand and got out of my way. “This is difficult to talk about, I grant you, given the ridiculous situation our culture puts us in. Suffice to say, though, there are researchers who are patiently, carefully, and, alas, secretly studying these sorts of situations. It isn’t easy. Congress has been ardently investigating everyone these days. In any case, it is possible that options exist. Do you understand me? There is a precedent, Alex, a precedent. This is what I’m trying to tell you.”

I ignored this and ran down the stairs and found Beatrice elbow-deep in fingerpaint. “Come on,” I said. “We’re going.”

“But I just started!” Beatrice said, bringing her hands to her cheeks in dismay, leaving two large handprints on each cheek—one red and one blue.