Florence Adler Swims Forever(52)
“Gussie, we should be getting back,” Anna said in a singsong voice that was much cheerier than the one she normally used.
“Isaac, you mentioned the land in Florida but you failed to mention this lovely asset.”
What was Mr. Barnes talking about? Gussie hated it when adults spoke in code. Gussie’s father cleared his throat, and Anna, quick as a sand crab, grabbed Gussie by the hand and yanked her out of the booth and to her feet.
“Owww—”
Before Gussie had time to issue any more exclamations, Anna said, “We’ll let you get back to your conversation. Gussie just wanted to say hello. Nice to meet you, Mr. Barnes. Isaac, give my regards to Fannie.”
“When are you coming over?” Gussie thought to shout at her father as Anna began dragging her back the way they had come.
Gussie didn’t know why but by the time Anna had pulled her all the way out of the restaurant and onto Pacific Avenue, she was crying. It wasn’t nice of Anna to force her to leave so abruptly. And it wasn’t like her father not to give her a big hug hello. Ever since Florence had died, no—ever since her mother had gone into the hospital, no—ever since Anna had come to stay with her grandparents, everyone had been acting so strangely.
“I want my mother,” she whispered as tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Anna offered her a handkerchief and waited patiently for her to make use of it. The handkerchief had pale pink flowers at the corners and a scalloped edge, and in one corner, it was initialed AE. Gussie wondered if Anna’s mother had made it for her, and then asked as much. Anna nodded her head, yes.
“May I keep it?” Gussie asked, peering up at Anna, who looked far less sure of herself, considering the request, than she’d looked just a few minutes earlier, storming out of Kornblau’s. Gussie didn’t know why she wanted the handkerchief so much. She just knew that if her own mother had stitched her anything half as pretty, Gussie would have carried it around in her pocket like a kiss.
Esther
Esther had grown to hate the mornings, particularly those first few moments of consciousness, when she did not yet recall that her younger daughter was gone. For several seconds upon waking, her eyes remained shut tight, the images from her dreams still etched upon the back of her eyelids. When she opened them, she found the familiar artifacts of her bedroom—the white iron bedframe, the cherry dresser, the rocking chair by the window—all unchanged. Sometimes, for Esther to recall that Florence was dead, she had to first remember that tucked away in a dresser drawer were the trinkets Fannie and Florence had made for her in school—everything held together with paste—or that Joseph had purchased the rocking chair so that she could nurse her babies. The remembering was the worst part of her day, and she wondered how many days would have to pass before she felt Florence’s death in her bones, the way she knew her own name or the contours of her husband’s face, and could no longer be surprised by it.
It was always a little later—after she’d pushed the sheets off her sticky skin but before her bare feet touched the floor—that Esther remembered she was keeping the truth from Fannie. She lay in bed, listening to the quiet whir of the oscillating fan on her dresser and making mental lists of (1) people who knew Florence was dead and (2) people who were at risk of finding out.
On the first list there was herself and Joseph, Isaac, Gussie, Anna, Stuart, the lifeguards and bystanders who’d been on the beach that day, Abe Roth and his staff, Rabbi Levy, the members of the Chevra Kadisha, Samuel Brody, Superintendent McLoughlin, Dr. Rosenthal, and the nurses whom he’d pulled into his confidence. Esther didn’t like how many people were on the list but she took some comfort in knowing that, with the exception of the lifeguards and bystanders on the beach, she could identify most of them by name.
It was the second list that caused her the most anxiety. Esther was certain Joseph hadn’t told anyone, but she couldn’t be sure about anyone else. How many people had Samuel had to talk to in order to keep Florence’s name out of the paper? Who had been sitting around the dinner tables of the women of the Chevra Kadisha when they had returned home to cold suppers? It was possible that Isaac had told acquaintances and even perfect strangers about Florence’s death. She pictured him doing it not out of sorrow but out of spite. And then there was Gussie, whom she had kept very tight tabs on but who was impossible to truly control.
Whether Esther liked it or not, she was going to have to allow Gussie to visit Fannie in the hospital. There was no more getting around it. Gussie asked for her mother daily, and Fannie for Gussie. Esther had lied to Fannie about Gussie’s whereabouts on so many different visits that she’d begun making notes for herself on a small slip of paper she kept tucked in the interior pocket of her handbag. She found that if she reviewed the notes before her visits, it was easier to keep her story straight. After her visits—usually in the lobby of the hospital—she retrieved the slip of paper and a pen from her handbag and made any necessary additions.
Initially, Esther had said Gussie had caught a summer cold and that she didn’t want Fannie, or any of the babies on the ward, to catch it. When Isaac had taken Gussie to see his father, she’d extended that trip, with Isaac’s blessing, by several days. She felt guilty telling Fannie that Gussie was busy playing with friends from school, considering that Esther had actually forbidden such activity on account of the risk it posed, but she had used the excuse anyway—on several occasions now. And the other day, she had felt particularly desperate and explained Gussie’s absence by saying that she’d recently enrolled in baton-twirling lessons. The ease with which such an outrageous lie slipped off Esther’s tongue frightened her. When this was all behind her, Esther wondered if she’d even remember what was real.