Bertrand Court Read Online Free

blanketing her belly, and the other slides a forkful of perfect meringue icebox cake into her mouth.

    You feel the warmth of Michael’s angel breath in your ear, whispering something about stubborn morsels of knowledge. Call them intuition, sixth sense, or gut feelings. He speaks in an unfamiliar voice, tender and barely audible, when he tells you that your parents’ instincts are right. You’re not going to make it. You’ll never see that fluorescent hospital light. No nurse will slap your behind or swaddle you in a striped hospital blanket or cover your head with a beige cap tied with a baby blue ribbon.
    Your mother will start bleeding eight days from now. Thirteen weeks. She’ll get pregnant again next January, but she won’t bond with your sister Goldie for a few months; she’ll be too afraid that it’s not for keeps. Slowly she’ll return to normal. She’ll welcome Jane into the world with less trepidation.
    Time will pass, and they’ll forget what a wreck Hannah was when she was carrying you. They’ll forget about the deals she made with God and the tarot cards she hid in a Quaker Oats tin and the “I’m sorry”s and “I love you”s she muttered to dead relatives. You’ll become a war story they’ll swap with other couples who had trouble conceiving, but only the ones who finally give birth to healthy children.
    Every few years, on your due date, your parents will wake up at dawn and curl themselves around each other and for a fast second let themselves imagine that dinner will end with cupcakes and candles. Throughout the day, you’ll tickle their memories as your father mows the lawn or your mother reads Harold and the Purple Crayon to Goldie and Jane. Sometimes, your absence will crash into their consciousness like a wreck on I-95. They’ll attend a party for a child who shares your birthday, and they’ll think that if you’d made it, it would be you tearing the wrapping paper from that Luke Skywalker action figure or giggling in the moon bounce or begging for a second piece of cake. To quiet these thoughts, they’ll tell themselves, “But then, if that baby had made it, we wouldn’t have had Goldie or Jane,” and that strange logic will enable them to escort you back to your hiding place, in the crevices of their souls.

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE
    Amy Solonsky, June 2001
    A my Solonsky didn’t mind being the family fuckup. It took the pressure off. Nobody expected her to turn up on time for family events, and if she drank too much wine or showed too much thigh or lit up a cigar with Uncle Herman while the other women cleared the dishes, well, she gave her relations a reason to revel in their own good manners.
    Amy arrived at her sister Hannah’s birthday potluck empty-handed and two hours late. Hannah’s college friend, Becca Coopersmith, was hosting the party at her home on Bertrand Court, or “White Picket Fenceville,” as Amy had nicknamed the suburban cul-de-sac located six or so miles north of her D.C. apartment. She let herself in the back door. The house was quiet, and the buffet of leafy green salads and quinoa dishes had been picked over. A half-eaten chocolate birthday cake sat on the counter.
    Hannah was standing alone in Becca’s kitchen opening a bottle of Chardonnay. Amy couldn’t get used to her sister’s gauntness. A few months ago, without warning, they’d lost their father, and Hannah had dropped ten pounds she couldn’t afford to lose.
    â€œThe ladies are out back.” Hannah motioned with the corkscrew.
    â€œWhere are the kids?” Amy had been looking forward to seeing Goldie and Jane.
    Hannah tapped her watch. “It’s slate , Amy. Danny took them home.”
    â€œHannah, are you slurring ?” Amy said, popping an artisanal olive into her mouth.
    â€œYou calling me a shicker?” Hannah punched the first syllable of their