Dr. Nye, in his office with poor Abby sitting shirtless on the white
table, confirmed that it was chicken pox. He was a white-haired man in a
clean white coat, who reminded Yvette of a parish priest back in Canada
when she was a child. He wanted to know when Abby had been exposed.
"At least ten days ago," she said. "The only child she's seen here is
Cara Ferris."
"Can I play with her yet?" Abby asked. Cara lived next door, and had
blond ringlets, and had marched at the head of the Fourth of July
parade, twirling a baton, as Miss Hermosa Beach Recreation. Abby
worshiped her.
"Not until you're better, sweetheart," Yvette said.
"But Cara's had chicken pox," the doctor said.
"Her mother said it was such a slight case she could get it again."
Dr. Nye made a little scoffing noise. "Just keep Abby home," he said,
"and use calamine. I'll pronounce her not contagious as soon as I can,
and she can play with Miss Recreation."
The next day a heat wave started that broke Los Angeles temperature
records, even in the beach towns. The air was stifling, the sky was pale
with smog, and poor Teddy left for work, miserable in his dress shirt
and tie. The best refuge was the pool, surrounded by cool sycamores,
where the children played Jump or Dive, shouting at the last second what
the child launched from the diving board should do and squealing with
laughter at the midair scramble to obey. Abby lay on the living room
couch, banned from the pool, staring miserably out the window as Cara
pranced to the car in her blue swimsuit and her yellow curls, a
rolled-up towel under her tanned little arm.
They still didn't know where Clarissa was. Yvette talked to Teddy
about it in bed, but he was too tired to be worried. He had too much
work, and was ready to retire. She stayed home with Abby on Sunday, and
Teddy went to Mass alone. She knew it was dangerous to compare sisters,
but Margot wouldn't have sent a sick child without warning. She had
devoted her life to raising her two boys, and she would never be
unreachable about them.
On the fourth day, Clarissa finally called. Polka-dotted with dried
calamine lotion, Abby told her mother she couldn't go to the pool and
then went back to doing puzzles in a book. Yvette took the phone.
"I think one of the neighbor kids might've had it," Clarissa said. "I
forgot."
"She's your child. She's your first obligation."
"Don't start," Clarissa said. "I've been so unhappy."
"Everyone is unhappy sometimes."
"I didn't know -- " Clarissa began and trailed off.
"What?" Yvette snapped. "That there were responsibilities?"
"That my marriage would fall apart. That there would be such killing
boredom. That I wouldn't get to do anything I wanted to do. I didn't
know!"
Yvette stood at the kitchen counter wondering what part of her
daughter's selfishness was her fault. Had she not given Clarissa enough
attention when she was Abby's age? Had her other children distracted her
-- Margot, who was older and perfect, and Jamie, who was younger and
troubled? Yvette took a deep breath. She would love her daughter as God
loved them both, with all of their flaws. "Are you finding what you
want, there?" she asked.
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