Page 23 of The Book of Magic

She awoke with a gasp, spitting water. She could feel her baby moving inside her, and sat up in bed. Her window had been left open and the rain had come in on gusts of wind and now everything in the room had a damp green sheen. The Charles River had flooded and Storrow Drive was impassable. It was a Sunday and even though she would have preferred to try to track down her mother and Gillian and Franny, she kept her promise to look in on Reverend Willard, driving up in Gillian’s car, bringing along some packaged cookies. She unpacked the biscuits in the car, arranging them on the paper plate before going into the retirement home. There, she thought, as good as homemade.

When she walked in the door, everyone knew who she was, the Owens girl who was a medical student. A woman who was visiting her father stopped Antonia in the hall to ask if she could check in on her dad, for she’d arrived to find him listless and clearly unwell.

“I don’t work here,” Antonia said.

“Just a look,” the woman pleaded. Everyone knew what an Owens woman was capable of and this one was studying to be a doctor as well.

The woman’s eyes were brimming with tears, and there Antonia was, the responsible sister once more. “Fine,” she allowed. “But I’m only a medical student.”

Still the woman insisted; she’d gone to Jet on several occasions, searching for cures for headaches that wouldn’t cease, a husband who complained night and day, and a son who couldn’t seem to get or hold a job.

Antonia went into a corner room, shared by two elderly patients. The one by the window was the father. He was so close to death a black cloud of ash was already spreading across the ceiling. Antonia tried not to pay attention to such illogical signs, especially when working at the hospital. But some things couldn’t be ignored. There were ashes on the old man’s bedsheets. Antonia quickly took the father’s vitals and listened to his chest. A nurse had come in to watch. “He had the flu and it’s just lingered,” the nurse said. “He says he’s feeling fine.”

“I say it because it’s true,” the old fellow said feebly. He was listless and half asleep, eyes closed.

“Pneumonia,” Antonia decided. “He needs IV antibiotics.”

The nurse was cautious. “I have to have a doctor’s order.”

Antonia lowered her voice. “When does the doctor come? If it’s tomorrow, this gentleman will likely be dead.”

Antonia and the nurse shared a wordless exchange of agreement. The medication was brought in, the door clicked shut, and an IV was inserted. Half an hour later the old man had opened his eyes.

Antonia finally made it to the Reverend’s room, still carrying the plate of biscuits, though they were a bit worse for wear, flaking pale crust. “Hey there,” she called. “Here at last.”

She sounded ill-tempered, even to herself. Half of her morning was already gone and she was eager to get back in the car and head home. Reverend Willard sat in a plastic chair, gazing out the window. He loved the spring, though he was convinced that this dark, bloomless season might be his last one. That was why he was so tearful. He turned to see a pretty young woman who was quite pregnant. The Reverend had no idea who Antonia was, only she wasn’t Franny, who was always quite sour and difficult, so it was a relief to have this fresh, young woman appear, though it was clear that the pale crumbly biscuits she offered were store-bought.

“I’m filling in,” Antonia informed him, fetching the old man some fresh water and placing the biscuits on his bedside table.

“These aren’t Jet’s biscuits,” the Reverend said. “Hers are homemade.”

“Yes, well, I can’t bake. I can’t cook at all. I’m a disaster at it. These will have to do.”

“You can’t cook because you don’t care,” the Reverend said. “It makes all the difference, you know. Jet cared.”

“Of course, I care,” Antonia hotly replied. “I’m just busy. Actually, I’m overwhelmed.”

The Reverend nodded knowingly. “You’re nervous about being a parent.”

“I didn’t say that!” The old man seemed to think he knew everything when he didn’t know the first thing about her.

“It will all change.” The Reverend gestured to her extended belly. “You’ll feel differently once he arrives.”

“She,” Antonia corrected him. “And cooking doesn’t make you a good parent.” She tried one of the store-bought biscuits and found that the Reverend was right; it was wretched. After the first bite she pitched it into the trash. “Anyway, how do you know if you’ll be any good at it or not?” She’d had pangs of worry about this very issue. She had the impression that she had closed off her heart long ago; from the time she and Kylie were children their mother warned them that love was trouble and trouble was love. Since then there had always been a fierce distance between Antonia and other people, excluding her old, beloved friends and her family. Why shouldn’t there be? She’d been avoiding matters of the heart at all costs.

“You don’t know,” the Reverend went on to explain. “That’s the point. You’ll love your child more deeply than you can imagine. It will happen to you and your husband.”

“Lesbian,” Antonia informed him.

“Wife?” the Reverend guessed. “Girlfriend?”

“This is not an interview. It’s a social call,” Antonia said briskly. Still, as long as she was there she took his pulse, which she found to be elevated.

“Well, who do you love?” he asked. “Who will love you in return?”

“You’re very personal, aren’t you?” Antonia said. “I’m fine on my own.”

“You’re afraid of the curse.” The old man sympathized. “I don’t blame you. It killed my boy Levi.”