CHAPTER 4

Someone was rattling dishes. Mom, getting supper by lamplight. Then she must be in bed with another cold, lying on the old couch in the kitchen because it was chilly upstairs, a flannel cloth over her chest and a patchwork quilt pulled up around her shoulders. The teakettle would be steaming on the cook-stove and a red flicker dancing on the ceiling when Paul lifted off the lid and put in another chunk of wood. Soon the men would come in from the barn carrying lanterns and slopping pails of milk.

She lay still, knowing she would feel worse when moved. And knowing at the same time that she had better get up, because if Pa was in a bad humor he'd crack a sick child as soon as a well one, or a little sooner.

She forced her eyes open. Realization of where she was came slowly and painfully. The ceiling light was off, but the pale early-winter sunshine streamed in. The sound of dishes rattling came from behind the bamboo screen that made a room-and-a-half apartment of the place. There were quick steps, and then the sound of a spoon scraping a pan.

Memory returned, and with it the slow burn of shame. She tried to sit up.

Erika came to the bed, dishtowel in hand. Once more Kate noticed how quietly she moved, how disciplined she was. She said idiotically, "I thought you were my mother."

"How do you feel?”

Kate tried to smile. "I don't know."

They looked at each other, quiet strength against scared resistance. Kate's eyes fell.

"What time is it?"

"Three. Three on Saturday afternoon."

"I have to get up."

"I'm fixing you some hot milk. Later you can have coffee if you want it."

Kate shivered. "Ugh, coffee." She put her hand over her mouth and crawled out of bed, dismayed at the way the walls tipped. But the floor was solid under her feet and she made it to the communal bathroom. Going to have one of my own some day, she reminded herself.

She came back, her teeth chattering, feeling both afraid and resentful. It was the first time she'd let anyone into her room when she was sick—if you could call Erika's entry letting. Locked away from other people, she could still take pride in meeting despair alone. To see herself reflected in Erika's eyes which she now noticed were not blue as she had supposed, but a clear tender gray—was humiliating. "Why don't you go away?" she asked thickly, leaning against the door frame. "I know you're trying to be nice, but please go away. I need to be by myself."

Erika, pouring milk from a saucepan into a cup, looked at her but said nothing.

Kate sat down on the bed, her knees pulled up, her head bowed. Erika sat down beside her, holding the full cup carefully. "By tomorrow you’ll be all right," she said cheerfully.

Erika gathered her in with one free hand. Her body in the boy-like shirt was surprisingly soft for one so fine-boned and angular. They fitted together comfortably. After a moment Erika said, "We can talk later. Right now you need to sleep."