Rainshadow Road(2)

The Marinns lived in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle, originally populated by Scandinavians who had worked in salmon fishing and canning industries. Although the proportion of Scandinavians had diminished as Ballard had grown and developed, abundant signs of the neighborhood’s heritage still lingered. Lucy’s mother cooked with recipes that had been passed down from her Scandinavian ancestors … gravlax, cold-cured salmon flavored with salt, sugar, and dill … pork roast rolled with gingered prunes in the center … or krumkake, cardamom cookies rolled into perfect cones on the handles of wooden spoons. Lucy loved to help her mother in the kitchen, especially because Alice wasn’t interested in cooking and never intruded.

As the summer thinned into a brisk autumn, and school started, the situation at home showed no signs of changing. Alice was well again, and yet the family still seemed to operate on the principles of Alice’s illness: Don’t upset her. Let her have whatever she wants. When Lucy complained, however, her mother snapped at her in a way she never had before.

“Shame on you for being jealous. Your sister almost died. She was in terrible pain. You are very, very lucky not to have gone through what she did.”

Guilt radiated through Lucy for days afterward, renewing itself in cycles like a persistent fever. Until her mother had spoken so sharply, Lucy had not been able to identify the nagging feeling that had drawn her insides as tight as violin strings. But it was jealousy. Although she didn’t know how to get rid of the feeling, she knew that she must never say a word about it.

In the meantime, all Lucy could do was wait for things to go back to the way they had been. But they never did. And even though her mother said she loved both her daughters equally but in different ways, Lucy thought the way she loved Alice seemed like more.

Lucy adored her mother, who always came up with interesting rainy-day activities, and never minded if Lucy wanted to play dress-up with the high-heeled shoes in her closet. Her mother’s playful affection, however, seemed folded around some mysterious sadness. Now and then Lucy would enter a room to find her staring vacantly at some fixed spot on the wall, a lost look on her face.

Early some mornings Lucy would tiptoe to her parents’ room and climb into her mother’s side of the bed, and they would snuggle until the chill of Lucy’s bare feet had dissolved beneath the warm covers. It annoyed her father when he realized that Lucy was in bed with them, and he would grumble that she should go back to her own room. “In a little while,” her mother would murmur, her arms wrapped securely around Lucy. “I like to start the day this way.” And Lucy would burrow against her more tightly.

There were repercussions, however, when Lucy failed to please her. If a note was sent home because Lucy had been caught talking in class, or gotten a low grade on a math test, or if she hadn’t practiced her piano lessons sufficiently, her mother would become cold and tight-lipped. Lucy never understood why it felt as if she had to earn something that was given freely to Alice. After the near-fatal illness, Alice was indulged and spoiled. She had terrible manners, interrupting conversations, playing with her food at dinner, grabbing things out of other people’s hands, and all of it was ignored.

One evening when the Marinns had planned to go out and leave their daughters with a babysitter, Alice cried and screamed until they canceled their dinner reservation and stayed home to appease her. They had pizza delivered, and they ate it at the kitchen table, both of them still dressed in their nice clothes. Her mother’s jewelry sparkled and scattered glints of reflected light across the ceiling.

Alice took a piece of pizza and wandered to the living room to watch cartoons on television. Lucy picked up her own plate and headed to the living room.

“Lucy,” her mother said, “don’t leave the table until you’re finished eating.”

“But Alice’s eating in the living room.”

“She’s too little to know better.”

Surprisingly, Lucy’s father joined the conversation. “She’s only two years younger than Lucy. And as I recall, Lucy was never allowed to wander around during dinner.”

“Alice still hasn’t gained back the weight she lost from the meningitis,” her mother said sharply. “Lucy, come back to the table.”

The unfairness of it clamped around Lucy’s throat like a vise. She carried her plate back to the table as slowly as possible, wondering if her father would intervene on her behalf. But he had given a shake of his head and had fallen silent again.

“Delicious,” Lucy’s mother said brightly, biting into her pizza as if were a rare delicacy. “I was actually in the mood for this. I didn’t feel like going out. So nice to be cozy at home.”