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I remembered when I was a little girl, my mother would wake me and put me through her morning rituals. I had to stretch and then brush down my body before taking a shower so I could get rid of the dead skin cells. After I dressed and she brushed out my hair, she told me to sit before my mirror and smile at myself for thirty seconds so I could immediately think well of myself. She was adamant that I didn’t put on a goofy grin.
“Because we’re so behind schedule, let’s go down first and have our breakfast, Sylvia. Then we’ll repair our rooms, shower, and get dressed to go out and shop. We’re buying your art supplies, remember?”
“Oh, yes, I need them.”
“I know. Mr. Price gave us a list, remember? That’s how we know what to buy.”
“Is he coming back?”
“Yes, Sylvia. He is coming tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to post the schedule on the wall here in your room. For now, we have to get everything ready. Let’s get a move on. It’s a sunny day and not as cold as yesterday,” I said. “There’s much to do first.”
“Much to do,” she said. “Repair, repair.” She repeated it as though she was making fun of me.
I looked at her with a half smile. “Yes, repair, Sylvia. We always repair.”
She nodded. Although Arden certainly would be the first one to ridicule the idea, I sometimes looked at Sylvia when she wasn’t aware that I was there and thought she looked brighter than she did when she was with Arden and me. She would study a painting or an object, look at pictures as if she remembered relatives she had never met, and then tilt her head as though she was hearing their voices. If I made a sound, she’d go right back to her cleaning or polishing like someone afraid she had been caught doing something wrong. I shook off the impression and told myself Sylvia was just not clever enough to put on an act and probably never would be. Of course, I told myself, she wasn’t being sarcastic when she repeated “repair.” It was only my imagination.
It was Aunt Ellsbeth who had first used that word to mean clean up our rooms, make our beds, and periodically change sheets and pillowcases as well as vacuum our rooms and wash our windows. The perfection in Whitefern had been broken merely by our living in it. According to her, especially after my mother had died, there was much about our home and our lives that needed mending. In the beginning, Papa had growled after every one of her critical remarks, but in time, he put up with it and made her the lady of the house. Every once in a while, I had to remind myself that I was the lady of the house now. The care and maintenance of Whitefern were my responsibility. Arden simply wasn’t as devoted to it as I was. That was understandable, I guess. It wasn’t his family heritage, and after all, his mother had died here tragically. Yet he knew I wouldn’t live anywhere else, and neither would Sylvia.
Sylvia had more of an appetite than ever this morning. She ate almost twice as much as I did. I rarely saw her exhibit as much energy, too. She went about our chores vigorously, cleaning up after breakfast. I imagined she wanted to get her art supplies as quickly as possible so she could do a better job on everything she drew now. I should have been happier about her enthusiasm, but I couldn’t help feeling there was something wrong about it.
I chastised myself for feeling this way. Why couldn’t I simply be happy for her? After all, this was what I had been hoping to see all these years and why I worked so hard to help and educate her. If I was hesitant and suspicious, what could I expect from Arden?
We went into town and bought the supplies Mr. Price had listed. I rarely took Sylvia anywhere but to the supermarket, clothing stores, and the dentist. Today I thought I would take her to a restaurant for lunch. I called Arden before we had left and asked him if he wanted to meet us at Danny’s, a simple hamburger restaurant in Whitefern with booths and a long counter. It was like an old-fashioned diner.
“Are you sure you want to do that? We’ve never taken her to a restaurant, Audrina.”
“She’s very excited about th
e idea, Arden.”
He was quiet so long that I thought he had hung up.
“Arden?”
“I can’t. I have to meet a client for lunch. Did you spend the morning reading the papers I brought home from Mr. Johnson?”
“I haven’t had a chance yet.”
“Well, get the chance,” he ordered. Then he hung up without saying good-bye.
At the restaurant, we took a booth. Sylvia looked at everything and everyone as though she had just landed from another planet. The conversations and the laughter, the work of the short-order chef, and the music piped in had her turning every which way and gaping.
“Don’t stare at people like that, Sylvia,” I instructed.
“Why not?”
“They’ll think you see something wrong with them, and it will make them self-conscious,” I said, which was exactly how I felt when people stared at me.
“What’s ‘self-conscious’?”
“Aware of something that you think might be wrong with you, like your hair is messy or you put too much makeup on or that you have food on your face like a baby. Understand?”
She shook her head.
“Just look at me and think about your food.” Sometimes it was easier to give up explaining something and leave it hanging in the air to be plucked again another time like an apple.
I ordered for both of us, knowing what she liked—cheeseburgers with tomatoes and lettuce and lots of ketchup, which she could have drooling down her chin.
