* * *

MOM HIBERNATED THE winter away. After school, I lay down beside her and told her about my day. She nodded but didn’t open her eyes. Dad stayed close, ready with chamomile in her favorite china cup. Dr. Stanchfield prescribed more pills, but Mom didn’t feel better.

“Why can’t she get up?” Dad asked him. We three lingered at the front door. “Even the smallest effort tires her.”

“There’s been too much damage to the heart,” Stanch said. “She doesn’t have much time left.”

“Months?” Dad asked.

“Weeks,” Stanch replied.

Dad put his arms around me as the truth closed in.

* * *

MY PARENTS INSISTED that school was too important to miss, but Dad took a leave of absence from work and watched over Mom, never leaving her side.

“You’re suffocating me!” I heard her tell him. They’d never fought, but now he couldn’t seem to do anything right. When she got riled, she had trouble catching her breath. Scared to make things worse, he went back to work, slipping out at sunrise and returning after dark. Not wanting to disturb her, he slept on the couch. At night, when the house was quiet, I heard Mom moan. Every scrape of her breath, every cough, every sigh scared me. Huddled in bed, I was afraid to go see if she was okay.

After I told Odile about Mom’s raspy breathing, I felt better. Odile knew what to do. She even moved a cot next to Mom’s bed so she could spend the night. When Mom protested, Odile assured her that it was no trouble. “I slept with dozens of soldiers.”

“Odile!” Mom exclaimed, her gaze twitching toward me.

“Next to them in the hospital ward, during the war.”

At 9:00 p.m., the back door creaked. Dad coming home. Odile crept from the cot to the kitchen. Tiptoeing behind her, I plastered myself to the paneling in the hall.

“Your wife needs you; so does your daughter,” Odile said.

“Brenda says seeing me so miserable makes her feel like she’s already dead.”

“That’s why she won’t let friends visit?”

“She can’t stand the tears, even if they’re for her. She doesn’t want pity. I wanted to be there for her, but now I figure it’s best to give her the distance she wants.”

“You don’t want to have any regrets.” Mrs. Gustafson’s tone had turned from tart to tender. Like a mom’s.

“If only it were up to me.”

Down the hall, Mom coughed. Was she awake? Did she need me? I rushed to her room. Suddenly scared, I stopped at the foot of the bed. Behind me, Dad said, “Brenda, honey?”

Odile nudged me toward Mom, but I resisted, my shoulder blades pushing against her palms. Mom reached out. I was scared to take her hand, I was scared not to. She hugged me, but I stayed stiff in her arms.

“There’s so little time,” she said, her words whispery, “too little time. Be brave…”

I tried to say I would, but fear stole my voice. After a long moment, she pushed my body from hers and looked at me. Trapped in Mom’s mournful stare, I remembered things she’d said: Babies sleep through the love. A gaggle of geese, a murder of crows. People are awkward, they don’t know what to do or say. Don’t hold it against them; we never know what’s in their hearts. I wanted you to be Robin but you’re Lily. Oh, Lily.

CHAPTER 5

Odile

PARIS, MARCH 1939

MADEMOISELLE REEDER RANG,” Maman told me as Rémy and I walked in the door. “She wants to see you.”

Turning to Rémy, I saw my whirl of hope and relief reflected in his eyes.

“Are you certain taking a job is a good idea?” Maman asked me.

“Certain.” I hugged her.

Rémy gave me his green satchel. “For luck. And for the books you’ll be bringing home.”

Rushing to the Library before Miss Reeder could change her mind, I sprinted through the courtyard and up the spiral stairs, then slid to a stop at the threshold of her office, where she sat reviewing documents, silver pen in hand. Eyes tired, lipstick long gone, she looked peaked. It was after 7:00 p.m. She gestured for me to be seated.

“I’m finalizing the budget.” As a private institution, she explained the Library did not receive government funds—it relied on trustees and donors for everything, from buying books to paying for heat.

“But you won’t need to worry about that.” She closed the folder. “Professor Cohen speaks highly of you, and I’m impressed with you. Let’s talk about the job. The fact is, we’ve hired candidates who haven’t been able to continue for one reason or another, so we ask employees to sign a two-year contract.”

“Why didn’t they stay?”

“Some were foreign, France simply too far from home. Others found dealing with the public difficult. As you wrote in your letter, the Library’s a haven; staff works hard to make sure it remains so.”

“I believe I can handle it.”

“The salary’s modest. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.”

“One last thing. Staff takes turns working weekends.”

No more Mass or suitors? “I want to work Sundays!”