Then came four blows in a row.
The first was that Rav Harriett went away. It was only temporary, but still. She was going to a place called Antwerp for two months to stay with her daughter, who had married some Belgian guy and now was about to have a baby. (Upon hearing this, Danny had turned to Annamae and remarked cheerily, “Ann twerp.”) Annamae hadn’t even known Rav Harriett had a daughter, which was somehow the worst part.
Actually, no. The worst part was that Rav Harriett came for dinner before she left and Annamae had to hear her mother say not once but twice how grateful she was for “all the work you’ve done with Annamae.”
The second time she said it, Rav Harriett was quick to respond, “I’d hardly call it work, Jo,” and she shot Annamae a look tinged with knowing, like a wordless phrase from their lexicon built for two. Which helped, but only a little. Because who knew if she said it because she really meant it, or only to spare Annamae’s feelings? Their last session had been the one that ended with Annamae picking at a hole in her jeans.
Next their mother announced she was spending the whole weekend of Nobomi’s wedding in Maryland.
“Why do you have to go for the whole weekend?” complained Annamae.
“I don’t have to. I want to,” said her mother.
Annamae and Danny would have to stay at Nana’s.
“I can’t,” said Danny. “That’s the tournament.”
One phone call later, a new plan was in place: He would spend the weekend at Dante’s.
“What about me?” asked Annamae. She had that sensation she got at the beach when she stood at the edge of the water and each time the waves rushed out, a little more of the sand beneath her feet got dragged away.
“You’ll go to Nana’s.”
“By myself?”
“Annamae.”
“Can’t I go to Maryland with you? I can stay in the hotel while you’re at the wedding.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll stay with Felice.”
Her mother squinted at her, stroking her invisible mustache. “You want to give her a call?” she finally said.
Felice asked her mother. Her mother agreed. It was all settled, and then the Thursday before the Friday Annamae was to have brought her weekend bag with her to school, Felice was absent.
“They think it’s mono,” Felice reported over the phone that afternoon. She added importantly, “I’m exhausted.”
“Oh,” said Annamae. “That’s too bad.”
“The doctor said I might miss a week or more of school.”
“Wow. Well, don’t worry about this weekend. We can just stay in and do quiet things. I can read while you nap.”
Felice gave a modified, feeble-sounding version of her pealing laughter. “Annamae, you can’t come! I’m extremely contagious. And he said I majorly need rest. It affects your spleen and stuff.”
Annamae’s mother called Nana. “Mom? You’re back on duty.”
That was the third blow.
The next morning, her necklace went missing.
“Annamae Galinsky!” her mother yelled from the vestibule at the bottom of the stairs. “We have to go. Now.” Her mother was frazzled because her whole timetable had been thrown off by the change in plans. Now instead of heading directly to Baltimore, she had to drive Annamae to Nana’s house first. At least it was sort of on the way, but it meant she wasn’t going to get there as early as she’d hoped. (“What difference does it make? The wedding’s tomorrow,” Annamae had said. But it turned out there was something called a rehearsal dinner tonight, and then her mother revealed that she was also planning to meet up with Bev and Ines, friends from the language lab, “to get our nails done,” a phrase Annamae had never before heard come out of her mother’s mouth.)
“Annamae! What is the problem?”
The question reached her faintly, where she was rummaging through her bedroom two floors up. Like a cobweb or a grave rubbing. Something abstracted from its source.
It was very mysterious. To lose her message-in-a-bottle necklace when she’d been wearing it, when she’d been out and about and the chain might have broken, would have been one thing. But she was absolutely certain she’d taken it off before her bath last night and put it as she always did in the little drawer built into the base of the mirror that sat on her dresser.
She’d already checked the drawer multiple times, as well as her dresser top, her underwear and sock drawers, and the floor below her dresser. Now she used all her might to inch the dresser away from the wall in case it had fallen behind. She found a barrette, a sock, a very large dust bunny, and a single Smarties candy.
Here came her mother up two flights of stairs. Each tread eloquent with impatience.
Annamae shook out the contents of her weekend bag, just in case.
“What’s going on?” Her mother stood panting in the doorway. “I thought you were all packed.”
“I can’t find the necklace Nobomi gave me.”
How large, how large that her mother was not dismissive. She remained a moment in the doorway, saying nothing, then began to help Annamae look. They looked everywhere together—in the old toy chest at the foot of the bed, underneath the clothes in the laundry basket, in her bedclothes, and under her mattress.
“I wanted to wear it especially. If I can’t be at her wedding. To at least be wearing it on her wedding day.”
“I’m sorry,” said her mother, “but we do have to leave now.”
Annamae went back to her dresser and rummaged again in her underwear drawer.
“Annamae, stop. I need you to listen to me.”
“I can’t find it! I can’t find anything!”
“I’m sorry.” Her mother put her arm around her, but it wasn’t a real embrace. It was an embrace with a purpose: to steer her toward the door. “Poor Anomenon,” her mother added. Annamae could hear the real love her mother poured into the old pet name.
Coldly, Annamae said, “Please don’t call me that anymore.”
That was the fourth blow. The worse for being self-inflicted.