The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(12)

And it was steaming.

I sucked in breath as if someone had punched me in the gut.

Mrs. Lindholm turned in her chair, and I could almost see her folding her own shock and grief away into neat squares so she could be a good hostess. “Oh! You look like you’re feeling a little better.”

“I—yes…” I took a step closer to the television, horrified and fascinated in equal measure.

“A state of emergency has been declared across the Eastern Seaboard. The Army, Navy, Air Force, and Red Cross have mobilized, and are providing aid to refugees in need.”

The camera cut to footage from the ground of aid workers gathering refugees. In the background, a little girl with burns on her arms toddled next to her mother. Another cut to what had been an elementary school. The children’s bodies … it must have been morning recess when the meteorite struck. I had thought that anything I could imagine would be worse than the reality. I was wrong.

Mrs. Lindholm turned off the television. “There now. You don’t need to be watching that. What you need is some dinner.”

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have told Eugene to bring you if you were going to be a bother.” She tucked her handkerchief into the waistband of her skirt as she stood. “Come into the kitchen and let me get a little food into you.”

“I—thank you.” My etiquette instincts about being an unplanned-for guest warred with the simple reality that I should eat, even if I wasn’t hungry. Plus, if she was anything like my mother—I brushed the back of my hand over my eyes—if she was anything like my mother, then turning down food would be inhospitable.

Under my bare feet, the kitchen’s linoleum floor was cool. The walls had been painted mint green, and there were crisp white cabinets above pristine counters. Had she cleaned when they said I was coming, or was her house always this tidy? As she opened the refrigerator, I suspected the latter.

She must have a friend that sold Tupperware, or maybe she did. The food was all in matching pastel containers. If I hadn’t seen that moment of shock and grief as she watched the television, she might have stepped out of an advertisement for GE. “Now … how about a ham and cheese sandwich?”

“Oh … maybe just cheese?”

“After the day you’ve had? You need to have some protein.”

Mama said it was always better to get the conversation over with. “We’re Jewish.”

She straightened, brows rising. “Are you really? Well … I’d never have known to look at you.”

It was kindly meant. I know it was. I had to believe it was, because I was a guest in her home and had nowhere else to go. I swallowed and smiled. “So, just cheese would be fine.”

“What about tuna fish?”

“That sounds lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.” Neither of us came from families that had kept kosher, but after the war began, I’d stopped eating pork and shellfish. The discipline, if nothing else, helped me remember who I was, and why that was important.

“Not a bit.” She pulled a pale pink container from the fridge. “Eugene always has tuna fish for lunch, so I keep some made up for him.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Just sit down.” Another container, this one green, followed the first. “It would be harder to explain where everything was than to just do it.”

On the wall by the refrigerator hung a dull brown wall phone. Somehow, the sight of it hit me with guilt like a brick. “May I … I hate to impose, but may I borrow your phone? It would be a long-distance call, but…” I trailed off, uncertain of when I could repay her.

“Of course. You want me to step out?”

“No. It’s fine.” That was a lie. I desperately wanted the privacy, but I didn’t want to impose on her any more than I already had. “Thank you.”

She slid the sandwich fixings over on the counter and gestured to the phone. “It’s not a party line, so you shouldn’t have to worry about anyone listening in. One of the benefits of staying in a major’s house, hm?”

I crossed to the phone, wishing it was in another room in the house, or that I had the guts to tell her the truth. After I dialed, I got that damnable circuit busy sound. I managed not to curse. Well … not aloud, at any rate.

I tried again, and the phone rang.

The relief sapped my strength and left me leaning against the wall. With each ring of the phone, I prayed: Please let them be home. Please let them be home. Please—

“Hello? Wexler residence.” My brother’s voice was calm and professional.

Mine cracked. “Hershel? It’s Elma.”

A ragged gasp, and then just the crackle of a long-distance line.

“Hershel?”

I have never heard my brother sob before. Not even when he split his knee open to the bone.

In the background, I could hear Doris, his wife, asking a question—probably “What’s wrong?”

“Elma. No—no. She’s alive. Oh, praise God. She’s alive.” His voice came back to the microphone. “We saw the news. What … what about Mom and Pops?”

“No.” I pressed my hand over my eyes and leaned my forehead against the wall. Behind me, Mrs. Lindholm made the sandwich with unnatural quiet. I had to press the words out of my throat. “Nathaniel and I were out of town. Mama and Daddy were home.”