Saturday, June 17th, 1950
7:20 a.m.
Therese still hadn't got out of the bed yet. All the other older girls had already woken up, dressed, and headed downstairs for breakfast. Therese, on the other hand, was coughing, sneezing, persistently saying she had a sore throat, which irritated her because she had to keep saying it in the first place even though she could barely get the words out.
"How is it you have a cold? Or perhaps it's the flu?" Therese shrugged and stared back at the nurse from the infirmary. "Have you been drinking your orange juice?"
What an odd question, Therese thought, does she think I'm six and not sixteen?
No, she always gave her juice to classmate who sat next to her who traded the bottle of juice usually for his cookies or slice of cake. For whatever reason, he preferred the bottle of juice to a dessert every day. Therese always traded with him, regardless of what the sisters thought they should and shouldn't have to equate to a balanced meal.
"Yes, Sister."
"Taking your vitamins?"
No, she never took the vitamins either. They always tasted funny when they started to dissolve in her mouth. She even tried to put water in her mouth first, then take the pills, but they still dissolved too quickly and tasted too bitter or too metallic. Therese always hid those in the pocket of her skirt, wrapped in a handkerchief that she would shake out into a trash bin after the morning's first class.
"Yes, Sister."
The woman sweetly smiled at her, producing a thermometer from her pocket. "Open your mouth." Reluctantly, Therese opened her mouth as the nurse placed the thermometer under her tongue. "I'll be back in a moment, Therese." Therese simply looked up, following the nurse with her eyes without moving her head a muscle.
Why did everyone at St. Margaret's always insist on treating her like such a child?
There weren't many older children at the home, mostly younger children; the insinuation (or expectation?) that by the time a child reached about ten or twelve, the parent or parents would have gotten their act together economically and/or socially to be able to finally take their child home. That wasn't the case though when it came to Therese; her father passed away when she was little, her mother remarried and moved somewhere to the sticks of Connecticut. It wasn't exactly the sticks, it was by the water, but wasn't exactly easy to get there by train. Her mother's financial situation certainly wasn't the perilous state it had been when she was nearly three years old and there was no excuse for Therese to still have been at St. Margaret's at sixteen.
It used to hurt. The exclusion. The abandonment. The solitude. Therese got used to it. More than she ought to have at that age. She could take care of herself: she didn't need someone looking after like this, not when there were far younger children in the infirmary with her.
When the nurse returned, Therese sat up a little straighter in bed and faintly smile, dislodging the thermometer from the mouth.
"103.2°F."
1:20 p.m.
Carol looked into the bedroom, over at the nightstand, where she eyed the title of the book she had recently purchased while in Nice. She just wanted to sit somewhere quiet and read, not listen to someone ask her every couple of minutes how to say this or that, or tell someone something on their behalf. "Tell him I want ice in my water!" or "Whaddya mean I can't get a cappuccino at four in the afternoon?" Vacationing in Europe was tiring, not the relaxation she had hoped for. She wished Rindy had come with them, at least then she'd have an excuse to sit with her, take her on walks somewhere, or show her all the things she was actually excited about, even if she was too little to understand.
During their week along the Riviera, she had picked up a good stack of books at one of the bookshops near the hotel; eleven lovely books in French that she would have no fear of Harge pawing through or dog-earring the pages like he did with everything else of hers that he touched. Carol never thought she would ever be so happy that Harge had taken German in prep school and college. Then again she rationalized he mustn't have been very good with German considering he spent the war in the Pacific.
"What's that you're reading?" he asked as he pulled the book from Carol's hand earlier that day. Before Carol could even say anything or tilt her sunglasses lower to make eye contact with Harge, he was already quickly skimming through the pages and looking entirely confused with each page that blew past him. There were no pictures, artworks or anything within that could give him some clue as to the books content.
"Harge - " Carol reached forward in an attempt to get her book back from him; he was acting like such a willful child.
"How can you read this?" He continued flipping through the pages as the bare beige cover gave little indication as to what the book was about.
"The same way you read something in English," Carol dryly answered as she pried the book from his hands and held it tightly to her chest. "You wouldn't like it anyhow. It's philosophical. "
"It's probably a waste of time, more like."
Glaring back at her book from the distance of their hotel room balcony, Carol was too busy looking around for her handkerchief, hoping it was next to her book. The handkerchief wasn't anywhere to be found though.
"Who develops a cold in Rapallo in June?" Carol sneezed for the seventh time in a row and walked back into the hotel room, ignoring Harge going on and on about the likelihood of her actually not feeling well in the midst of summer. "In other words, you just don't want anyone to see you in your bathing suit because you're getting fat."
She turned red and bit her lower lip, masking her face from her husband who seemed to have lost all sense of tact and decorum while hopping from island to island in the Pacific within the past decade. "I'm just a little bloated right now."
Harge shook his head and smirked. "That's not bloating," he said as he pointed his finger toward her stomach, "you're just getting fat." Instead of keeping up yelling to her from the balcony of the hotel where everyone most likely knew what they were arguing about, Harge rushed into the room and smiled. "Unless… ?"
Slumping her shoulders and tilting her head to the left, Carol looked at him with an expressionless look and let out a very audible sigh.
"No," Carol adamantly insisted and turned away from her husband, muttering under her breath, "and I'm not fat."
For a moment, she thought Harge had heard her, however he remained quiet, only momentarily disappointed, and looked around the room for his button-down shirt to throw on, finding something draped over the desk chair. "I told Cy we'd meet them at one-thirty."
Shifting back toward the bed and the nightstand, Carol thought about socializing with Harge's boss and Jeanette, hesitant to having to put on a smile and otherwise cheerful disposition for a full afternoon, followed by a never-ending dinner and drinks. What sort of vacation was it in the first place when one's boss was there floating around and still commanding the daily activities? Carol just wanted to be by herself, make her own itinerary, be herself. The book sitting on the bedside table reminded her of that, finally opening her mouth to speak and avoiding any expression Harge might have been making. "I think I'm going to rest a bit. Have some vitamins and some of that blood orange juice."
"How can you drink that stuff? It's all pulpy and nasty."
Carol turned away from him with her eyes shut, doing her best to keep her composure. "I don't feel well. I have a cold. I'm bloated. Stop picking on every decision I make."
"I'm not picking on you, Carol. You want me to have Cy's wife come up?"
Surely he knew her name by now. They were always playing this game. How long had he known Jeanette? Twelve years? Since he graduated from college? Shutting her eyes, there was no use trying to correct (or rather educate) Harge for the fiftieth time. There was no use because he was never going to learn and was never going to change.
And certainly Harge wasn't about to offer to stay in the hotel with his wife.
"No, I don't need anyone to look in on me."
"Suit yourself."
"What time will you be back?"
"I dunno. Before seven?"
The moment Harge left the room, Carol smiled to herself and walked into the bathroom to pack up her vanity case. She only packed what was necessary, some lipstick, mascara, eyeshadow, and a bottle of her red nailpolish that was starting to run low. She'd have to get another bottle or two when they passed through Paris on their way home. Back in the bedroom, she crouched down to feel underneath the bed for the handle of her leather overnight bag. That would be all she'd need for a few days.
Hunting through the folio on the desk for some hotel stationery, Carol quickly jotted down a note, focusing more on the gold nib of her pen and the way the ink flowed onto the paper more than the actual words she wrote. She reminded herself that she needed to do things like this every once in a while. Besides, she had already spent practically every waking (and sleeping) moment of their trip to Europe in each other's company. There was no guilt in her wanting some time of her own.
Don't be worrying about me - heading to the doctor in Florence. See you Thursday. Ciao.
Sunday, June 18th, 1950
1:20 p.m.
Carol turned off the Vespa and pulled the key from the ignition, placing it directly into her handbag. She looked around, seeing nothing but olive trees and benches every twenty feet or so lining the unpaved road that ran behind the gardens. She was amazed that only steps away from the throngs of tourists on the other side of the river there were these pockets of tranquility throughout the city. With a flick of her wrist, Carol untied the scarf she'd put on before leaving her hotel, pleased to find her hair still neat and orderly when she knotted it to the handle of her purse.
Toying with the top two buttons of her dress, Carol debated undoing them then shook her head when she remembered she was somewhere secluded. Nothing but glass, benches no one sat on, and remnants of a crumbling medieval wall. It wasn't as though anyone would spot her there, Abby was certainly right about that. She then took the thin blanket from her bag, spreading it out on the grass.
If she learned anything from her time in Europe, it was that she needed to carry a corkscrew on her at all times so whenever the mood struck her for a glass of red, she didn't need to worry about being somewhere like where she was then without a way to open a bottle. Carol took a swig of wine and cracked open her book, flopping down onto the blanket and stretching out her legs. Instead of two buttons, she undid three.
A perfect tranquility.
A perfect summer afternoon.
"With psychosomatic symptoms, difficult to endure.… " she teasingly sang to herself as she took a deep breath and continued reading chapter four of the second volume of Le deuxième sexe.