The Boston Girl(21)
That’s when she opened her eyes and said, “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
I said, “It’s okay. Stay still. I’ll be right back.”
People were standing on the sidewalk to see what was going on with Jacob screaming and when they saw him and me covered with blood, someone hollered, “Murder!”
I tried to tell them about Celia but they were yelling “Call a cop! Get that kid away from her!”
A policeman pushed through and said, “Hand me the boy.”
I told him Jacob wasn’t hurt. “It’s my sister. She cut herself but I can’t carry her. She needs a doctor. Hurry.”
He ran inside and I stood on the stoop with Jacob, who was whimpering and shivering in my arms. I could feel the blood starting to harden between my hands and his shirt.
The cop came flying out with Celia in his arms, her head folded against his chest like a sleeping baby. “Out of my way,” he said, and ran to the saloon across the street. He kicked the door open and yelled, “Riley, I’m taking your beer cart!” He wrapped Celia in a horse blanket and set her down on the seat beside him. When I tried to climb in back, he said, “You get the little boy someplace safe and go fetch the husband.” He sounded calm but I could see his hands were shaking; he wasn’t much older than me.
As he was driving away, I yelled, “Where are you taking her?”
Someone behind me said, “He’ll go to the Mass General on Fruit Street.”
Someone else said, “No. Mount Sinai is closer.”
“I don’t think it matters. Did you see the color of her?”
A woman crossed herself and said, “Poor thing.”
I ran home, handed Jacob to Mameh, said Celia had had an accident and I was going to get Levine.
I was still covered with blood when I walked into his office and before he could ask I said, “Jacob is fine. Celia cut herself.”
“What are you saying? Where is she?”
“Mount Sinai, I think. I’m not sure. A policeman took her.”
He told me to get Myron from school and wait for him at my house. But first, I went for Papa and I swear the lines on his face got deeper when I told him what happened.
When I got back with Myron, Jacob was wrapped in a towel, his hair wet from a bath, and my mother was feeding him carrots. Papa sat across from them with a prayer book in his hands, rocking back and forth.
I stood by the window to wait for Celia. I imagined the cop carrying her through the door but now her eyes would be open. Her hands would be covered with clean white bandages. Mameh would scold her for being so clumsy. Papa would take her face between his hands and kiss her forehead and I would become the sister that Celia deserved.
Celia wouldn’t have let me apologize for being late. She would have said, “An accident can happen anytime.” Nobody could forgive like Celia. She was the only person in my family who ever kissed me.
I closed my eyes and prayed, “Come home now, come home now.”
The afternoon dragged on and on. Jacob fell asleep on my bed. Myron went out to the stoop and no one tried to stop him. When it started to get dark, Papa turned on the light and stood in a corner with his prayer book while Mameh stared at the door, chewing her lips and wringing her hands. I heard the neighbors whispering on the landing, and as much as I wanted to go out there and chase them away, I was afraid to leave the window. I got it into my head that I had to stay there or Celia wouldn’t come home.
The chatter on the other side of the door stopped and Levine walked in, red-eyed and stooped, followed by Betty, who looked scared and lost, still carrying a cake box for Thanksgiving. Then the policeman who had taken Celia to the hospital came in. The front of his uniform was black with blood but his arms were empty.
He took off his hat and walked over to Papa. “Sir, I’m sorry to bring such terrible news. The doctor said your daughter lost too much blood and there was nothing they could do.”
“Sima!” Mameh fell on her knees. “My jewel!” she screamed. “She was like gold, that one. Pure gold.”
“I’m sorry,” said the policeman. “Maybe if I had gotten there sooner . . .”
“It was not your fault,” Papa said. “My daughter said how fast you were to help. I want to thank you.” Levine leaned his forehead against the wall and cried without making a sound. Betty held on to Papa.
I opened the door for the policeman, Michael Culkeen—I’ll never forget his name. He said, “Can I have a minute, miss?”
He led me past the neighbors and we walked down the block until there was no one to hear us. He took off his hat again and sighed. “I feel real bad about this, but I have to ask if you saw what happened with your own eyes. The doc says I have to make a report because of the way she had those cuts across her wrists. He said it would take a while for a person to bleed like that.”
I said it wouldn’t have happened at all if I’d gotten there earlier. I said my sister could sew the wings on a butterfly, but in the kitchen she was always cutting her fingers. I couldn’t stop talking; “She was the sweetest person you’d ever meet. This is all my fault.” I told him he should arrest me.
Officer Culkeen sighed and said, “Don’t you go blaming yourself.” He had kind blue eyes and an Irish lilt that reminded me of Rose. “It was you that gave her a fighting chance.” His next sigh turned into a groan. “I’ve been on the force just a year and I got to think it’s like the priest says: God wants the good ones with him. I shouldn’t have said anything. Your sister was such a little slip of a thing. Put me in mind of a cousin of mine,” he said. “You go back inside now. You’re shaking like a leaf.”