minutes later, I was in another stuffy, airless cab, speeding toward Chicago General.
Kit had changed clothes from the day before, but she was standing in the same place, her hand on the glass window.
I stood next to her and looked inside. Her mom was being tended to by a thermometer-wielding nurse in pink scrubs.
“How’s she doing?” I said.
“Same.” Kit’s voice was devoid of emotion.
“Are you working this week?”
“Goodman gave me the week off.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.” Neither of us moved. “Were you able to get the money?”
“Of course.” I handed her a white envelope with the money order inside. I felt like I was doing something illicit.
Kit took it and put it in her purse. “It’s unfair, isn’t it?” she said, still looking at her mom. The nurse had finished up, and signaled Kit that she could come in. Kit barely nodded in return.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s entirely unfair.”
“Some people get nothing in life. They never get a goddamned thing. And then other people get it all, no matter what they do.”
“Yeah,” I said, not exactly sure what she meant.
She turned to me. Her eyes were clear again, not red like last night. “Like you, Golden Child. Everything is perfect for you.”
I opened my mouth. I was about to remind her of Nick’s affair, of my own, of my parents’ divorce and my sliding status at work, of how I’d thought I’d be a mother by this time in my life but how my marital problems had derailed that plan. But the fact was, despite it all, I knew those were not the world’s worst problems. I knew how fortunate I was. So I just nodded.
“Yep,” Kit said, with bitterness in her tone. She turned back to the window. “Everything works out for you.”
I felt stung by her words, but I knew she was hurting and scared, so I said nothing. I went inside the glass door and said hello to her mother. And then I left. In the cab, heading toward the Loop, I realized that Kit hadn’t thanked me.
7
Oftentimes, when I think back about Kit, I try to put my finger on the exact minute it all began to crumble and slide. When an earthquake happens, there’s always a quiet rumble that starts the disastrous movement. Sometimes I think that rumble might have gone as far back as our childhood together. Other times I think maybe it was the moment at the hospital, outside her mother’s room. But no matter where it started or why, I can always pinpoint the moment I knew with certainty the slide had begun—the night of the Weatherbys’ dinner party.
We’d been told it was “a get-together with just a few board members,” and being a Monday night I’d envisioned pizza and beer. I should have known better. The members of the board always lived large.
“A toast to one more month of summer,” said Joanne Weatherby that night. “And to Nick and Rachel.” She raised a glittering champagne glass.
The dinner crowd of twelve responded with clinking glasses and inquiring smiles sent our way.
“Eat, eat,” Joanne said, taking her seat. She was a tiny, blond woman and had been the executive director of the board for twenty-five years. This impressed me as much as her gargantuan, two-story, candlelit Michigan Avenue apartment, her designer clothes and the fact that, from what I’d heard, neither Joanne nor her husband had ever held a job.
“If I could just say a word,” Nick said, standing and holding up his glass. “Rachel and I are very glad to have met you all. We feel fortunate to call you friends.” He paused to take in the nods from the group, then raised his glass a little higher. “To the success of the board.”
The group raised their glasses once again. “To the board!”
When Nick had taken his seat once more—on one of the white, silk-covered chairs I was terrified of spilling on—and appetizer dishes of caviar had been served, all eyes fell on us. Again.
“So, Rachel, where do you two live in the city?” asked Valerie Renworth, a thin, raven-haired woman with round green eyes.
I should have anticipated such a question. After all, this was what it had been like since Nick made the board—dinners and charity balls and lots and lots of questions for the new couple. It was as if Nick and I were getting our fifteen minutes of fame in a certain, tony Chicago crowd. But we both knew this was a trial. We hadn’t been truly accepted yet.
Unfortunately, I was in mid-bite when Valerie asked her question, and the saltiness of the caviar caught in my throat. I coughed it down, tried for a discreet sip from my water glass and answered as fast as I could. “Bloomingdale Avenue. Do you know it?”
Valerie shook her head.
“Well, not many people do know it,” I said, warming to my topic. “It’s this tiny street south of Armitage. It runs only for a few blocks alongside an old train line. We’ve got a little bungalow there.”
“It sounds charming.” Coming from someone else, this could have been a backhanded slight, but Valerie had an easy, open way about her, and I smiled in return. I suppose she was used to people liking her. She was married to Charles Renworth, a man I had yet to meet since he was often out of town on business, but whom everyone knew owned half the commercial real estate in the Midwest.
“It is charming,” I said, glancing at Nick. “My lovely husband built me an artist’s studio in our basement. It’s the perfect house now.”
“Except for the cab situation,” Nick said. “In terms of taxi availability, we might as well live in Gurnee.”
Everyone laughed. I shot a confused look at Nick. Like me, he rarely said anything bad about our adopted street. Bloomingdale was like a member of the family, whose faults would never be discussed in public.
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