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She didn't say a word. She hadn't precisely meant to capture him this way. But obviously he was afraid she would say something. He got out of his bed and stumbled out of the cabin. He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him to a remote spot under a huddle of date palms.
“Bridget, what are you thinking?” He was groggy, disoriented. “You can't come here,” he whispered.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to wake you up.”
He blinked, trying to focus his eyes properly. “What did you mean?”
The wind blew her hair forward. The ends grazed his chest. She wished there were nerve endings in hair. She was wearing only a white T-shirt skimming the bottom of her underwear. It was awfully hard not to touch him. “I was thinking about you. I just wanted to see if you were asleep.”
He didn't say anything and he didn't move. She put her two hands on his chest. In slow fascination she watched as he lifted his hand and put it to her hair, pushing it back from her face.
He was still sleepy. It was like this was the continuation of a dream. He wanted to fall back into this dream; she knew he did. She reached her arms around him and pressed her torso against his. “Mmmm,” he rumbled.
She wanted to know the contours of his body. Hungrily she reached up to his shoulders, down over the heavy muscles of his upper arms. She reached up again to his neck, into his hair, down his chest, his hard stomach. That was when he seemed to wake up. He seemed to shake himself, seizing her upper arms and wrenching himself apart from her. “Jesus, Bridget.” He groaned in loud, angry frustration. She took a step back. “What am I doing? You've got to get out of here.”
He still held her arms, but more gently now. He wasn't letting her have him, but he wasn't letting her go either. “Please don't do this. Please tell me you won't come back here.” He searched her face. His eyes were begging her for different things at the same time.
“I think about you,” she told him solemnly. “I think about being with you.”
He closed his eyes and freed her arms. When he opened his eyes they were more resolute. “Bridget, go away now and promise me you won't do this again. I don't know if I'll be able to handle it.”
She did go away, but she didn't promise anything.
Maybe he hadn't meant his words as an invitation. But that's how she took them.
“I want to sit here,” Bailey declared, pulling a chair close to Mimi's box.
Seeing Mimi reminded her. “Oh, shit,” Tibby mumbled.
“What?”
“I completely forgot to feed her yesterday,” Tibby said, grabbing the canister of assorted seeds. She hadn't forgotten in months and months.
“Can I do it?” Bailey asked.
“Sure,” Tibby said, not actually feeling sure. Nobody ever fed Mimi except for her. She had to walk herself across the room so she wouldn't micromanage.
Bailey finished feeding Mimi and sat down again.
“Ready?” Tibby asked, arranging the mike.
“I think so.”
“Okay.”
“Wait,” Bailey said, standing up.
“Now what?” Tibby asked irritably. Bailey wanted to be interviewed for their movie. But now she was being weirdly uncertain about how she wanted it to go.
She was fidgety. Obviously she had an idea. “Can I wear the Pants?”
“The pants . . . the Pants?”
“Yeah. Can I borrow them?”
Tibby was doubtful. “First of all, I really don't think they'll fit you.”
“I don't care,” Bailey responded. “Can I try them? You don't have them for too much longer, do you?”
“Rrrrr.” Impatiently Tibby retrieved them from her hiding place in her closet. She was terrified Loretta would throw them in the wash with a few cups of bleach, like she'd done with Tibby's wool sweaters. “Here.” She handed them to Bailey.
Bailey slipped off her olive-green cargos. Tibby was struck by the whiteness of her skinny legs and the big, dark bruise that spread from her hip to her thigh.
“Ow, whadja do?” Tibby asked.
Bailey flashed her the “Don't ask, don't tell” look and pulled on the Pants. Magic though they were, they were too big for Bailey. She was tiny. Nonetheless she looked happy, and she hitched the wrinkly legs up over her feet.
“All good?” Tibby asked.
“All good,” Bailey said, settling back into her chair.
Tibby held up the camera and pushed the On button. Through the lens, she could see Bailey a little differently. Her thin, almost transparent skin looked bruised and blue around her eyes. “So tell me things,” Tibby said, not sure what Bailey wanted to cover, instinctively afraid of asking her direct questions.
Bailey pulled her bare feet up onto the chair, resting her arms on her bony knees and her chin on her forearm. Light slanted through the window and set her hair aglow.
“Ask me anything,” Bailey challenged.
“What are you scared of?” The question got out of Tibby's mouth before she meant to ask it.
Bailey thought. “I'm afraid of time,” she answered. She was brave, unflinching in the big Cyclops eye of the camera. There was nothing prissy or self-conscious about Bailey. “I mean, I'm afraid of not having enough time,” she clarified. “Not enough time to understand people, how they really are, or to be understood myself. I'm afraid of the quick judgments and mistakes that everybody makes. You can't fix them without time. I'm afraid of seeing snapshots instead of movies.”
Tibby looked at her in disbelief. She was struck by this new side of Bailey, this philosophical-beyond-her-years Bailey. Did cancer make you wise? Did those chemicals and X rays supercharge her twelve-year-old brain?
Tibby was shaking her head.
“What?” Bailey asked.
“Nothing. Just that you surprise me every day,” Tibby said.
Bailey smiled at her. “I like that you let yourself be surprised.”
Carma,
I'm writing from the post office, and this express mail costs more than what I make in two hours at Wallman's, so it better get to you tomorrow.
I can't figure out what the Pants meant to me yet. It was either profound or not. I'll tell you when I know.
You'll do better because you are the one and only Carma Carmeena.
I better sign off, ‘cause the lady in the window is about to go postal (heh heh).
Love,
Tibby
Grandma looked stricken over lunch. She didn't want to talk about anything, she told them. Which turned out to mean that she didn't want to talk about anything Lena or Effie had to say. She was happy to listen to herself.
“I passed Rena this morning, and she didn't speak to me. Can you imagine? Who does that voman tink she is?”
Lena moved the tzadziki around on her plate. One thing about Grandma: She was never too distressed to cook.
Bapi was attending to some business in Fira, and Effie was sending a million assorted looks to Lena across the table.
“Kostos has alvays been such a good boy, such a nice boy, but how do you ever know?” she mused.
Lena felt heartsick. Grandma loved Kostos. He was a bit of a creep, but he was obviously a huge source of pleasure in Grandma's life.
“Grandma,” Lena broke in. “Maybe Kostos, maybe he—”
“Vhen you tink about the tings he's been trough, you vould tink he'd have troubles,” Grandma went on, undeterred. “But I never saw them before.”
“What kind of troubles?” Effie wanted to know.
“Grandma, maybe it didn't happen exactly like you thought it did,” Lena tried out timidly, talking at the same time as Effie.
Grandma looked at the two of them wearily. “I don't vant to talk about it,” she said.
