Page 271 of Bridge of Clay

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We sat at the kitchen table.

We went to a hell of an effort; we made pierogi, and unspeakable barszcz.

She was finally ready, by then, to sing “Sto Lat” again, and we sang for the love of Penelope; and for Waldek, the statue, and no countries. We sang only for the woman in front of us. We sang only for all her stories.

* * *


But soon, it had to happen.

She was given a final choice.

She could die in the hospital, or die at home.

She looked at Rory in the hospital ward, then me, and all the rest of us, and wondered who should talk.

If it had been Rory, he’d have gone, “Hey, you there—nurse! Yeah, you, that’s it—unhook her from all that shit.” If it was me, less rude, but blunt. Henry would be too confident, and Tommy wouldn’t speak—too young.

On short deliberation, she’d settled for Clay, and she called him close and whispered it, and he turned to the nurse and doctor; both women, both kind beyond measure.

“She says she’ll miss her kitchen here, and she wants to be home for us.” She gave him a jaundiced wink then. “And she has to keep playing the piano…and keep an eye on him.”

But it wasn’t Rory whom he’d pointed to, but the man with a hand on Tommy.

From the bed she spoke up outwardly.

She said, “Thank you both for everything.”

* * *


Clay had hit thirteen back then, his second year of high school.

He was called into a counselor’s classroom, after Henry had just walked out; he was asked if he needed to talk. Dark days before Claudia Kirkby.

His name was Mr. Fuller.

Like her, he wasn’t a psychologist, but a teacher given the job, and a good guy, but why would Clay want to talk to him? He didn’t see the point.

“You know,” the teacher said. He was quite young, in a light blue shirt. A tie with a pattern of frogs, and Clay was thinking, Frogs? “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone other than your family.”

“I’m okay.”

“Okay, well, you know. I’m here.”

“Thanks. Do I just go back to math?”

* * *


There were hard times, of course, there were terrible times, like when we found her on the bathroom floor, like a tern who couldn’t make the trip.

There was Penny and our dad in the hallway, and the way he helped her along. He was an idiot like that, our father, for he’d look at us then and mouth it—he’d go Look at this gorgeous girl!—but so careful not to bruise her.

Bruises, scratches. Lesions.


Tags: Markus Zusak Young Adult