The Lost Girl of Astor Street(12)

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?”

“Not when what, Lydia?”

She twists the hankie in her hands, and I see my initials—embroidered by Lydia—fold in on themselves. “Not when Matthew is showing signs of having feelings for me.”

It’s all I can do to keep my eyes from rolling. To not say the exasperated Oh, Lydia that’s ripe on my tongue. Why do girls allow themselves to be so foolish when it comes to men? Why does being in love seem to fill their heads with nothing but empty space and giggles? Even my practical, duty-driven, even-tempered friend.

As the silence grows, so does the shade of pink of Lydia’s cheeks. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I think he does, anyway. This afternoon, when you and I were getting back in the car at the store, he even touched me. Put his hand on my back as I got in the car, just like Daddy does with Mother. Perhaps I’m imagining things . . .”

“Lydia. If Matthew has half a brain, he’s in love with you. But that’s not going to change just because you spend a few days at a hospital in Minnesota.”

“More like a month or two.” Lydia perches on the edge of the couch. “Maybe more.”

“Fine, a few months then. Perhaps some time and a change of society would even be a good test to know if this is real.”

Lydia chews on her lower lip for a moment. “Or maybe I just won’t go.”

“You can’t be serious, Lydia. This . . . condition of yours is no small thing. You have to get help. You can’t jeopardize your health just because you fancy yourself in love.”

Lydia’s blue eyes turn flinty. “I know you’re afraid of growing up, but that doesn’t mean you get to pin your fears on me, Piper Sail. I know I love Matthew. If he asked me to marry him today, I’d have no hesitation saying yes.”

“Lydia.” The horror I’m feeling—or at least part of it—is surely evident on my face. “It’s one thing to carry a torch for your chauffeur, to flirt with him as he’s driving you around. It’s quite another to be his wife.”

She turns away from me, nose in the air. “I didn’t know you were capable of such snobbery.”

“I don’t wish to be a snob, I wish to be practical.” My voice rises with each word, and maybe if I’m loud enough, she’ll actually listen. “But whether you want to hear it or not, I can’t imagine you being content in some low-rent apartment, wearing a homemade dress as you fix beans for the third night in a row.”

Lydia shoves my handkerchief into her pocket and wrestles her handbag closed. “Oh, so you think me a snob?”

“Not at all. I think you’re a girl who’s grown up in a fine house. Who doesn’t know how to cook or do laundry or go a month without a new bauble.” I can’t believe the words coming next will be mine directed to Lydia. “I beg you to be cautious. To think this through.”

My friend just looks at me. Doesn’t speak, but doesn’t stand to leave either.

She scratches behind her knee. “It’s the medicine, Daddy said.” Her words are quiet and tear-soaked. “The medicine makes me feel like I have bugs crawling on me. It makes me paranoid too. I kept thinking this black car was following me. Or like at the store today. I was convinced that woman was listening to every word we said. Following me.” She chuckles humorlessly. “Last night, I fell asleep at the dinner table. Right in the middle of eating my pot roast.”

I press my eyes closed, hoping it’ll keep tears from spilling. “This is why you need to go to the Mayo Clinic. So we can get you healthy.”

“What if I can’t get healthy?”

Her words push all the air from my lungs, like when I fell out of a tree as a kid and couldn’t seem to take a breath. “Don’t say that, Lydia. We’re not going to think like that.”

She fiddles with the clasp of her bag. “I think we both know these fainting spells of mine aren’t merely fainting spells. They’re getting closer together. And for all we know—”

I squeeze my eyes tight. Don’t say it. Please.

“—the next one I have could be my end.”

The wailing of Bessie’s voice is the only sound of the room. I open my eyes and study Lydia. The matter-of-fact line of her mouth. The blue eyes that hold only reason, not fear. “You’re going to get healthy, Lydia. You . . . you just are.”