Esther settled Oliver in the wicker bassinet next to her rocking chair, watching his mouth continue to suck off the breast: pucker and relax, pucker and relax. The little guy was mellow, nursing and napping with admirable regularity for six days old. Had Molly ever been so easy?
With a fluttery snore, Mama shifted her position on the cushioned bay window seat. Esther eased herself up from the rocking chair, grunting at the tug on her episiotomy stitches, and tucked the quilt back around Mama’s shoulders. Her finger stroked the starburst pattern, then jerked away from the peak of Mama’s collarbone, sharp through the thin cardigan.
“You’re still too skinny,” she whispered.
“I heard that.” Mama opened one eye. “Let me nap. I’m exhausted.”
“Fine.” Esther picked up the mug of cold tea and started toward the kitchen. “But you do need to gain weight.”
“Rosa’s even thinner,” Mama said, her voice slipping back into doze.
Esther turned back. “Have you seen her?”
“Of course. And it’s time for you girls to stop your nonsense. Talk to each other. If not for your sake, think about your children. Molly and Oliver should know their family.”
“I thought you refused to play mediator?”
“It’s crazy to get between you two.” Mama shook her head. “But enough already. It’s way past time you girls make things right.”
“Rosa will never forgive me.” Esther sat down, still holding the mug.
“It goes both ways,” Mama said. “Do you forgive her?”
“For what?”
“Well, for one thing, for daring you to jump off the fire escape, breaking your leg.”
“You knew about that?”
Mama made her How stupid do you think I am face and then closed her eyes.
Esther touched her shoulder. “Mama? You knew?”
Mama didn’t answer. And when she didn’t want to talk, nothing could make her. Her doctor said nothing was wrong, but Mama still wasn’t her old self. Jake said it was depression, the cumulative effect of two trials, Pop’s death, and Rosa going to prison. But after three years she should be back to normal. Mama had insisted on coming from Detroit to help with the new baby. That was a laugh—it was more like Esther having three children to take care of. Mama needed a cup of tea or half a banana more often than Oliver wanted to nurse.
Esther set the mug in the sink, then leaned against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the living room, looking out the oversized bay window. After an early April snowfall, the meadow was weeks behind the usual greening. A marsh hawk skimmed above the field, then swooped low, harassed by a pair of crows.
She had twenty minutes max before Jake would bring Molly home from art class. Esther knew she should nap. Jake reminded her every morning before heading to the hospital: Every time the baby sleeps, the mother should sleep too. Esther glanced at Mama and Oliver, both asleep, then shuffled to the upright desk in the alcove off the kitchen. She ripped a page from the notebook tucked into one of the desk slots, picked off each small ragged torn edge, and started to write.
I’m not sure why I’m writing you this letter, except that Mama let slip just now that she had seen you. Thinking about it logically, it makes perfect sense that she would visit you in prison. But I had never considered the possibility and it surprised me. Normally she refuses to talk about you at all, claiming she’d have to be crazy to get between the two of us. I guess she has a point there.
I wrote you a letter once before, right after you went underground. I never mailed it, but I still think about you every day. Now that I know where you are, I could probably actually send this one, if I thought you would read it, which I don’t. Maybe I’m writing this as much for me as for you, but believe it or not, I still miss you enormously.
Don’t get the wrong impression. I’m not pathetic without you. I’m building a good life here with Jake and Molly and Oliver, without anything or anyone left over from Michigan. Has Mama told you about Oliver? Molly has a brother. Your daughter—Emma is such a pretty name—has another cousin. That’s why Mama is here, helping me—can you see me roll my eyes on that last sentence? Molly is five, already reading by herself. She’s a solemn little girl, as if all the pain of our family settled in her chest like pleurisy—does anyone get that anymore? Oliver is only six days old, so maybe it’s hard to tell, but he was born smiling and hasn’t stopped. Jake says he’s too young to smile, and Mama insists it’s gas, but I’m his mother and I know. He’s too young to distinguish any family resemblance, but he does have the bushiest eyebrows I’ve ever seen on an infant. Like Uncle Max.
I’m sorry about your baby boy, the one you lost. When I read about your arrest in the newspaper, I felt so sad for you, and for Allen and Emma. I felt sad for me, too, that I couldn’t tell you that in person, with a sister hug.
Which reminds me, who does Emma look like? I wish I had a picture.
Esther put down her pen and rummaged in the top drawer for the photograph she had found buried in a box of Molly’s outgrown baby clothes. It was from camp. She and Rosa stood in front of the Peace Monument, backlit, with their faces in shadow and the sunlight igniting their hair. Their wild curls morphed into the cloud of metal cranes winging into the sky.
Jake is happy here. He finished his residency and joined a group practice with a patient mix of middle-class kids and Medicaid. His special interest is children with cerebral palsy, and he’s been working with a neurosurgeon on a new treatment. He loves the work. And you’d never believe it, but he has become a fanatic bird-watcher. Jake, who used to say that except for all that nature, camp was perfect. Now he gets orgasmic finding a nuthatch at the suet log. He put a picture window in the living room, one in the kitchen, even one in front of the tub in the upstairs bathroom. All three have southern exposures with views across the field to the mountain. The kitchen table looks out at the bird feeders and we eat side by side, with Jake’s running commentary: Here come the grackles. Now, why did the female cardinal fly off? Gee, haven’t seen the bluebirds today.
I’m content too. Mostly. I’ve been taking classes at the state college for my art teaching certification. Those studio classes in Ann Arbor didn’t count for much toward this degree and it’s taking me a long time. It’s not the kind of dream I once had for myself, but I guess I’m not going to be an avant-garde political artist. You’re probably not going to be an intrepid Amazon Basin explorer or save the world from American corporate greed either. Don’t bother commenting; I can well imagine what you think of my career choice. But I like it, even though life will be even busier trying to juggle classes with a baby.
I’ve started making art again too. Just for myself, not because I think I’m an artist anymore, or ever could be one again.
So, Rosa, is it rude to complain to you about being too busy, with you being in prison? If so, I’m not sorry. Do you remember what you said to me at the march, before it all happened? I was agonizing about leaving Molly at home and you said it was all about priorities. Your priority was ending the war, and mine was my baby. We both made our choices, sister, and I guess we’re both stuck with the consequences.
Mama said that you’ve lost weight. Are you okay?
I’m finally getting used to Massachusetts, to New England. I know we promised each other, you and I, that we’d move to Greenwich Village when we grew up. But let’s face it, that’s not the only broken promise between us.
Somewhere in the back of her brain, Esther heard the car door slam, but it didn’t register, not really, and she kept writing until she looked up to see Jake standing next to the desk. With a quick intake of breath, she spread her left hand over the notebook page, covering her words. He picked up the photograph leaning against the base of the lamp.
“You’re writing to her?” Jake’s voice got quiet and precise when he was upset. “And mooning over her picture? I can’t believe it.”
Esther tried to explain. “With the sun behind us, our faces are in shadow and you can’t tell our hair color is different. We look like twins.”
“Why on Earth would you want to look like her?”
Esther closed the notebook and pressed it against her chest. “She’s my sister.”
“Yeah, and she tried to ruin your life.”
“That’s not true. She just tried to live hers. And anyway, I want Molly and Oliver to know they have an aunt and a cousin.”
“That’s self-destructive, sweetheart. That chapter of our lives is over. Besides,” Jake said as he turned away, “you promised.” He put his arms around Molly, who stood alone in the middle of the kitchen. “Let’s check out Mr. Rogers.”
Did she ever actually promise? And even if she had, how could Jake be right about this, about never telling their kids about Rosa, when it felt so wrong?
She stashed the notebook in the back of the bottom desk drawer and stared out at the meadow. The old glass was wavy, distorting the view, making the marsh hawk waver in flight. She had caught something, a mouse or a vole, most likely. The crows, three of them now, were dive-bombing her luncheon.
“Esther?” Mama called from the living room, her voice faltering. “Would you make me a cup of tea?”