Читать книгу Cost - Roxana Robinson - Страница 9

During the spring, Julia had called Harriet one Sunday afternoon. Harriet was sitting at her kitchen table, wearing blue-and-white-striped flannel pajamas and a gray sweatshirt, extra large. Her bare feet were hooked over the chair rung, and she was frowning intently at her laptop. With one hand she was stroking a small seal-point Siamese that had draped his front end—he was paralyzed in his hind end—around her ankle.

Harriet's kitchen was small and full of too-bright light from the plate-glass windows. One side of her building faced the Schuylkill River, though not Harriet's side. Her apartment looked out over the low dark-red grid—brick and brownstone—of nineteenth-century Philadelphia. She was on the twelfth floor, high above the urban hum. The cars and people below her windows seemed small and remote, miniature copies of real life.

The kitchen was white and minimalist, but not stark: dirty dishes sat in the sink, and on the counter were pots, jars, an open jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and a sprawl of mail. White metal chairs stood haphazardly at the table, which was piled with green folders. Over the plate-glass windows was a thin coat of grime, like a scrim.

In front of Harriet was a mug of tepid coffee and a stack of folders. One, marked “Biscuit Patterson,” lay open. Harriet was scrolling through an article on canine lymphoma, and when the phone rang, she picked it up without looking at it, still scrolling, as though the aural and visual parts of her brain were unconnected.

“Hi,” Julia said cautiously, “it's Jules.”

They rarely called each other.

At the sound of her sister's voice, Harriet felt something tighten inside her. Impatience began its rapid drumbeat.

“Hi,” Harriet said crisply. “What's up?”

At the sound of her sister's voice, Julia felt something clench inside her. Tension began its ratcheting twist.

“Not much,” Julia said. “I just thought I'd see how you were doing.”

“I'm fine,” Harriet said without inflection. Her tone, the self she presented to her sister, was smooth and impenetrable. “Any news?”

“No news. All day, sick animals. All night, grumpy boyfriend.”

“What's wrong with Allan?” Julia asked, glad of the diversion.

“Permanent bad mood,” Harriet said. “Projects are being canceled, budgets are being cut. It's not a good time to be an architect. What's up?” she said again, still scrolling.

“I'm actually calling about Mother and Daddy,” Julia said.

“What about them?” Harriet's tone was slightly challenging.

“I think we should talk,” Julia said. “About what's happening.”

“‘What's happening’?” Harriet repeated, irritatingly She opened a new screen on blood chemistry.

“Just that they're having kind of a hard time,” Julia said. “They won't be able to go on indefinitely where they are. I think we need to start thinking ahead.”

“Why?” Harriet asked.

“They're getting older,” Julia said. “At some point they won't be able to manage.”

“I know they're getting older,” Harriet said, “we all are. But they can manage now.”

“Not very well,” Julia said.

“I think they do fine,” Harriet said, “and I see them all the time. They're perfectly chipper and happy. They go toodling around and see their friends—I think they're fine. They don't want to move out, you know.”

“I know that.” Julia disliked Harriet's proprietorial reminder that she lived so close—she didn't think, actually, that Harriet saw them much more than she did—and she disliked the patronizing “chipper” and “toodling.” “But I just had a talk with their doctor.”

“And?”

“He's doing some sort of neurological assessment. He thinks they should move into one of those places. A home.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Harriet said. She looked up from her screen, leaned down, and scooped the cat, Paley into her lap. He purred, closing his eyes and raising his head against her hand. “He has to say that so he won't get sued. They're just getting older. Of course they're forgetful. I'm forgetful. It doesn't mean we're all non compos mentis.”

There was a pause. Paley began kneading his paws against Harriet's thigh, piercing the thin flannel, reaching her skin. Carefully she shifted him onto the heavy sweatshirt.

“No,” Julia said reasonably, “but Mother keeps canceling her appointments, and saying she wants to change doctors.”

“Because their old doctor retired. People are always nervous about choosing new doctors. They're afraid they'll make a bad decision. They're always anxious about it.”

“Right. But Mother keeps changing her mind. She's mailed her medical records all over the Main Line. We don't even know where they are now.”

“She told me about that,” Harriet said. “I actually don't blame her. One doctor was only there on Tuesdays, so if she went in any other day she'd have to see a stranger. She tried another doctor, but he was away when she came for her first visit, so she saw someone else, and it kept happening, each time she went in he was away and she'd see someone else, and it finally turned out that his daughter in California was sick, and he left the practice completely and moved out there. So then she decided to go back to the person who'd bought her old doctor's practice, but once she saw him, she remembered why she didn't like him. I mean, she may be confused, but the situation wasn't exactly simple.”

Paley was still lightly stabbing her thigh. She shifted him again, holding her legs together to give him stability.

“Yes,” Julia said. “But it's other things, too.”

“Like what?”

“Mother puts in the frozen dinners and they go in to watch the news and she forgets the dinners and they burn up in the oven.”

“Big deal,” said Harriet. “She's been burning food all her life. I never had a piece of unburnt toast until I got to college.”

“Yes,” Julia said again. “This is different. Daddy complained about it. Apparently they actually catch on fire. She might set the apartment on fire. Do we want to wait for that?” “She might die in her bed before she does,” Harriet said. “I have to say all this sounds alarmist.” There was a pause. “What's your point, Julia? Are you saying we should move them out of where they live, quite happily, and into a ‘facility’”—she said this disdainfully—“which they have always said they did not want to do? For one thing, can you imagine moving Daddy somewhere he did not want to be moved? But even if we could, I think that would do them in. They're not animals, you know, or children, that we can just move around however we want.”

It was presumptuous of Julia, thought Harriet, to act as though her point of view was the only one. And why did she think she was in charge of their parents when she, Harriet, was right here and saw them all the time? And was a practicing physician.

Julia fell silent, partly because in some ways she agreed with Harriet. This felt deeply disloyal, talking about their parents behind their backs, listing their failings.

“Harriet,” she said finally, “I wish you'd stop treating me like an enemy. Please don't act as though everything I say is absurd. We're going to have to deal with this—whatever happens—together. I'd like to be able to talk to you about it. I'd like to be a team.”

“Well, we could be a team if we felt the same way about it,” Harriet said. “But honestly, Julia? I don't think you're considering their best interests. They've always said they didn't want to go into one of those places.” She rubbed her knuckles hard against Paley's head. He purred loudly.

Again Julia didn't answer, partly because Harriet might be right. She wasn't certain that she was considering her parents' best interests. How could you tell? If you were planning something covert and revolutionary, a coup that would depose them, strip them of their powers— how was that in their best interests? But what if they were already being quietly and invisibly stripped of their powers by something else?

Also, Julia didn't answer because something in her sister's voice was fixed and stony. There seemed hardly any point in answering.

They waited, electronic silence between them, each listening for the other.

When they were children, Julia and Harriet had been close.

In those years they'd shared a bedroom in the house in Villanova. When Julia woke up each morning, the first thing she did was look over at Harriet's bed, to see if she was awake. If she was asleep, Julia whispered Harriet's name in the stillness—“Hattie! Hattie!”—until her sister opened her eyes. Then Julia could start her day. She felt only half-present without Harriet; together they were a partnership. She gauged the world around her according to its effect on her sister— whether she would be frightened by a dog, whether she could reach a water fountain. Their mother had depended on Julia for that: Julia was in charge of her sister. She showed Harriet how to eat an ice-cream cone, licking the drips off the sides before they reached her fingers; she taught Harriet how to button her sweater, from the bottom, to make sure it was even.

For Harriet, her older sister defined the world. It was Julia who taught her the difference between her right hand and her left, how to remember them. She looked at Julia's face to see how she should feel when something happened that confused her. It was Julia who was in charge of everything: their games, their conversations, how they spoke, and what they believed. “Friend-cynthia,” Julia told Harriet, “that's the name of it.” She pointed to the big shrub, with its riotous tangle of yellow flowers. “Friendcynthia.” She said it fast and waited for Harriet to say it after her.

Once Julia told Harriet to stand with her before the long mirror in the front hall. They stood straight, their toes aligned. “That's me in the mirror,” Julia said, pointing to Harriet's small intent face. “That's me, and the person next to me is me.” She waved at their reflections. “They're both me.”

After a moment Harriet asked, “Where am I?”

“You don't show in the mirror yet,” Julia said. “You're too young.”

Harriet didn't exactly believe her sister, but she didn't exactly not believe her. She trusted Julia. Her sister had a large and powerful understanding of the world that Harriet respected. Harriet was her disciple, her dependent.

When Julia went away to boarding school, at fourteen, she moved into another bedroom, and things between the sisters changed. At first Harriet was eager for Julia's visits, but Julia was turning strange. She had entered a new world that she could not share with her younger sister. Julia had become anxious and uncertain of herself, and she turned distant to Harriet. Harriet resented this, and felt abandoned. When Julia came home for vacation, Harriet no longer followed Julia to her room. Harriet went to her own room and shut the door. Julia, when she wanted to see her, had to stand outside and knock. “What do you want?” Harriet answered, instead of “Come in.” Julia was hurt by Harriet's coolness. Distance settled between them, and they no longer depended on each other.

Julia went to Sarah Lawrence and studied art, and Harriet went on to Penn, where she took science and math. Everyone assumed she would go to medical school, but one Christmas Harriet announced her plan to go to veterinary school.

It was before dinner, and Katharine was out in the kitchen, the others in the living room. Julia was on the sofa, Harriet in an armchair. Edward, in his dark elegant suit, stood by the fireplace. It was empty, as usual: the fire was rarely lit, and the house was always cold. It was healthier, cold, Edward said. This embarrassed his children: their friends complained, and asked why their house wasn't heated.

Harriet sat very straight to tell him. “I don't want to be a doctor,” she told Edward.

It was a shock to Julia; she felt a sharp pang of betrayal. How could her sister not have told her something so important?

“I see,” Edward said. “What do you want to be?”

“A veterinarian,” Harriet said boldly.

This was treason. Julia looked at Edward.

“A veterinarian?” Edward repeated, frowning. There was a pause. “Why would you rather treat animals than humans?”

“Because I'm really interested in them,” Harriet said. “It's an interesting field.”

Edward shook his head. “Not as interesting as human medicine.”

“In your opinion,” Harriet said.

Edward tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“It's a very interesting field,” Harriet said, losing her nerve. “Animal medicine. There's a lot going on in it.”

“It's a lowering of standards,” Edward informed her. “It's a disgrace.”

“It's hardly a disgrace. It's actually extremely difficult to get into Penn Veterinary School,” Harriet said, her voice rising. “It's one of the best schools in the country.”

“Regardless,” Edward said dismissively. “It's a lesser endeavor.”

Katharine, sensing trouble, came in from the kitchen. She looked at their faces. “What is it?” she asked.

“Daddy thinks I'm a disgrace to the family,” Harriet said.

“What is it?” Katharine asked again. “What's the matter?”

“I'm going to veterinary school,” said Harriet. “I'm going to be removed from the family tree.”

“Edward,” Katharine said, distraught.

Edward shrugged his shoulders, as though he had nothing to do with this. “Anyone who can get into a good medical school should go,” he said. “You have a responsibility to the world. You should use the talents you were given.”

“Who are you to decide that?” Harriet asked.

Julia drew in her breath.

“Don't be rude,” Katharine begged.

“Who I am is head of neurosurgery at Jefferson Hospital,” Edward said coldly, “though I don't think I have to tell you that.”

“No, I mean who appointed you to decide the hierarchy of human endeavor?” Harriet leaned back in the big armchair as if flattened there by the wind.

“I don't need to justify myself to you,” Edward said. “Looking after animals is a lesser endeavor, just as animals are lesser creatures than human beings. I don't have to tell you that.”

“You sound like someone from the Middle Ages,” Harriet told him. “And what I'm doing is not a disgrace.”

“Harriet—” said Katharine, anguished.

“Did your grades drop?” asked Edward. “Is that what happened?”

“My grades did not drop, Daddy,” Harriet said. “I have a 3.9 average. The last two years, a 4.0. I happen to want to treat animals. I think they're really interesting, and I think the science is interesting. I like animals, and I like being around them. I respect them, which is more than you can say about your patients.”

Edward drew breath, but Harriet went on.

“Why can't I decide what it is I want to do?” she asked. “And why are you such a snob?”

“Please,” Katharine said, desperate. She was shaking her head back and forth. “Please stop this. Just stop it, both of you.”

Edward shook his head, his face bleak. “I'm happy to stop. I have nothing more to say about this. Harriet, of course, may do as she wishes. It's her life.”

He walked across the room to the small armchair by the window, where he sat down in silence. He did not look at them.

“Harriet,” Katharine said, but Harriet shook her own head stubbornly and said nothing.

During dinner no one spoke. The air was frozen, they could hardly breathe. The only sound was knife, fork, plate. Julia heard everyone swallow. Katharine closed her eyes while she drank from her water glass, her face a mask of grief. Julia would not be drawn in. She would not come to Harriet's public defense, when she had been so carefully excluded from Harriet's private plans. Julia hardened herself against her mother and her sister.

That night, when Julia heard Harriet come upstairs, Julia didn't open her door. Why had Harriet not told her? She heard Harriet go into her own room. Julia lay on her bed, listening, as Harriet moved quietly about. It seemed as though Harriet had deliberately jumped overboard, off the family ship, and now was being carried far out to sea. She was too far away to be saved, and it had been her own choice to jump.

As she heard the small noises of her sister, Julia's heart felt tight, compressed. She was furious at her sister for being so stupid—she agreed with Edward, Julia told herself. It was stupid to go to veterinary school, it was lowering your sights. Harriet was flying in the face of everything, and why should Julia take her side?

She felt virtuous and sensible about what she was doing, keeping herself quiet, keeping this distance between herself and the miscreant. But really she was hurt: Julia felt utterly betrayed by Harriet. She did not let herself admit this, nor did she admit that there was something terrible about what she had done.

Edward paid for Harriet's tuition at veterinary school, but he disparaged it. He did this lightly, as though he were only teasing, and in a way he actually was only teasing, but in a way he was not, and Harriet grew increasingly acerbic in response. Disapproving, resentful, Julia watched her defiant younger sister and kept her distance from both her and Katharine. She had taken sides, it would be dishonorable to renege.

Edward had triumphed that night, standing by the cold fireplace, and Katharine had been reduced to misery and silence. In a way this was familiar: Katharine was always in pain, and this was not to be discussed or even acknowledged, since there was nothing to be done about it. They put it from them, they had always done this.

It seemed that Edward's rationality was the way of the world, the way life had to be lived. Allying herself with her mother, her mother's pain, her mother's feelings, had been a part of Julia's childhood, but now she was pushing herself into adulthood. She disclaimed her younger, weaker self. She was trying to become adult, not to allow herself to be held by these terrible, painful chains of emotion. She began to withhold herself from her family, to keep a cool distance from all of them.

Harriet began to use the same acerbic tone to her sister that she used to her father. Harriet seemed scornful of every aspect of Julia's life—marriage, children, New York, teaching, the art world. Harriet did not get married, though she had a series of long-term boyfriends. Julia did not understand Harriet, who was so brisk and dismissive, so ironic and cool, so disengaged.

Now the sisters seldom saw each other, and when they talked, animosity seeped into their conversation like moisture into felt. Julia had dreaded calling Harriet, and it had been just as bad as she'd feared. It was strange, now, to remember the time when they were children, when they'd trusted each other, when they'd hidden together under the covers from their parents, thick as thieves.