Читать книгу The Reincarnation of Clara - Kevin J. Todeschi - Страница 10

“I hate you Emily Ann Stuart,” Clara (at seven) said to her ten-year-old sister. “Why can’t I hold Annabelle?”

“Because she’s my doll and not yours, that’s why! Besides you have your own dolls!” Emily was wearing her nightgown, pacing in front of the dresser mirror, and desperately trying to see some signs of budding womanhood. She moved her hands to pump her small breasts, as if the motion might encourage even the slightest growth. Clara was sitting on her own bed, wearing a matching nightgown that their mother had sewn. She was holding a kitten in her arms, feeding it from a baby bottle. In spite of the kitten, Clara stared toward the beautiful doll on Emily’s bed.

“I promise to be careful . . . ”

Emily swung around from the mirror, “I said NO!” Her quick motion caused the gas lantern on the dresser to flicker, just as one of the pages from her papers—“my stories,” as she was fond of calling them—fluttered to the floor.

Suddenly, Clara glanced toward the door and grimaced. “Mama’s coming!” She had just enough time to remove the kitten from her lap, pushing both kitten and bottle under the bed. Her twin bed was on the wall opposing Emily’s. A faint chalk line had been drawn on the floor down the center of the room. Emily lifted a brush from the dressing table and pretended to brush her hair, just as the girls’ mother opened the door. Mabel Stuart was wearing an apron and appeared nine months pregnant. She looked at each of her daughters with suspicion.

“What have you two been doing?”

“Nothing, Mama,” the reply came in unison.

“It’s time for lights out. It’s a school day tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Emily made a pretense of pulling the brush through her hair with one final stroke before walking toward her own bed. She pulled back the covers with one hand, while tightly holding Annabelle with the other. After making certain that Clara could see, she kissed the doll on each cheek and then laid it on the edge of her pillow before getting into bed next to it. When both girls were in bed, Mama reached for the lantern to turn off the gas. Suddenly, from under the bed the kitten cried, and Clara frowned.

“Oh, Clara! What have I told you about bringing that barn cat into this house?” With some measure of difficulty, Mabel Stuart got down on her knees and a moment later dragged both the kitten and the bottle out from under her youngest daughter’s bed.

“You’re not using a bottle to feed that cat!” Mabel Stuart managed to rise from the floor, still shaking her head in disgust.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I was just pretending she was my baby.”

“Clara, one day you’ll have children of your own, and it’s fine to pretend but I don’t want the cat in here again. Understand?” She held the bottle under one arm and the kitten by the scruff of its neck. Her free hand moved toward the lantern.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Now it’s time for bed. You both have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Yes, Mama.”

The lights were turned off and the door was closed, leaving the girls in the darkness of their room. After a moment, Emily whispered from her bed:

“How come you always know when Mama’s coming, or Papa, or Jason, or Benjamin? You’re always right.”

“I don’t know . . . I just know.”

“If she catches you with that cat again you’ll be switched.”

“She won’t catch me.”

“The next time you bring that cat inside, I’m gonna tell.”

With her voice trembling, Clara began to cry, “I hate you, Emily Ann Stuart . . . ”

Emily was unmoved. “I hate you too!”