Ruthie pushed the end call button but couldn’t end the conversation she was having in her own head. What could they say to Louisa? How could they warn her and make her understand the danger she was in?
“Bonjour. Comment allez-vous?… Je m’appelle Ruthie. Comment vous appelez-vous?”
Ruthie repeated after hearing the woman’s voice through the earphones. She sat on her bed practicing French from a CD her mother had given her and looking at a picture book of Paris. For three nights she had practiced the language and absorbed the images, thinking it might be useful.
“
Où est le parc?… Il fait beau aujourd’hui.”
“Are you going to be doing that much longer?” Claire asked.
“Okay, okay. I’ll just listen,” Ruthie said as her sister climbed into bed and turned the lights out. Ruthie silently mouthed the words she heard through the earphones. They sounded beautiful. That surprised her; she was so used to French simply being what her mother taught, but she had never really listened to it. Ruthie fell asleep with the waterfall of words tumbling down into her ears.
She awoke to the sounds of general chaos in the Stewart household on Friday morning along with her cell phone ringing on her bedside table.
“Hey, Ruthie,” Jack’s voiced croaked at her.
“You sound awful!” Ruthie responded.
“Yeah, and I feel worse. I can’t go to the museum today.” He paused for a sneeze. “I have a fever, and my mom says no way. I think she wants to talk to your mom.”
“Bummer.” Ruthie’s spirits dropped. What about Louisa? Warning her couldn’t wait.
Her mom hustled into the room. “Come on, Ruthie. Time to get moving.”
“Mom, Jack’s sick. He has a fever and everything.”
“Oh, dear!” her mother said. She conferred with Lydia on the phone. Then she made a quick call to Mrs. McVittie, who was always offering to put either of the girls up in a pinch. So it was decided that Ruthie would spend the week with Mrs. McVittie instead of with a contagious Jack.
Ruthie threw her clothes on and brushed her teeth. She had already packed her duffel with everything she needed for the week. She loved Mrs. McVittie, but as long as Jack was sick, spring break was going to be slow.
An hour later Mrs. McVittie opened the door to her apartment. “Hello, dear.” A warm cinnamon aroma wafted into the hall. “Come in.”
Ruthie’s mom handed Mrs. McVittie their itinerary and a list of contact numbers. “Don’t worry about a thing, Helen,” Mrs. McVittie said. “Have a good trip.”
Her mom pulled Ruthie into a huge hug. “Be good. I love you, and we’ll call every night.”
“Now off you go,” Mrs. McVittie said, shooing her out the door.
Once Ruthie was in Mrs. McVittie’s apartment she felt better. The panicky sense that she would be going stir-crazy all day began to recede. The apartment was fairly large—especially for one person—and filled with interestingobjects. Mrs. McVittie had grown up in Boston but moved to Chicago as an adult. She’d lived in this apartment for over fifty years.
“Let’s get you settled.” Ruthie followed her down the hallway filled with old drawings in ornate frames. The guest bedroom was second on the right and had its own bathroom connected to it.
Heaven
, Ruthie thought.
“You can hang your clothes in the closet and use this chest of drawers,” Mrs. McVittie said. “Then come sit with me in the kitchen.”
Ruthie hadn’t planned on actually hanging up her clothes, but she didn’t want to insult Mrs. McVittie by leaving them in a heap in the duffel bag. She put them away in the drawers and closet. She had even packed the beaded handbag; she’d gotten into the habit of checking on it before bed, just to see if it was exhibiting a special glow. She placed it gently in the top drawer. Then Ruthie let herself fall onto the bed; of course Mrs. McVittie would have nothing but a real down comforter and pillows. She lay there and threw her arms out at her
“Bonjour. Comment allez-vous?… Je m’appelle Ruthie. Comment vous appelez-vous?”
Ruthie repeated after hearing the woman’s voice through the earphones. She sat on her bed practicing French from a CD her mother had given her and looking at a picture book of Paris. For three nights she had practiced the language and absorbed the images, thinking it might be useful.
“
Où est le parc?… Il fait beau aujourd’hui.”
“Are you going to be doing that much longer?” Claire asked.
“Okay, okay. I’ll just listen,” Ruthie said as her sister climbed into bed and turned the lights out. Ruthie silently mouthed the words she heard through the earphones. They sounded beautiful. That surprised her; she was so used to French simply being what her mother taught, but she had never really listened to it. Ruthie fell asleep with the waterfall of words tumbling down into her ears.
She awoke to the sounds of general chaos in the Stewart household on Friday morning along with her cell phone ringing on her bedside table.
“Hey, Ruthie,” Jack’s voiced croaked at her.
“You sound awful!” Ruthie responded.
“Yeah, and I feel worse. I can’t go to the museum today.” He paused for a sneeze. “I have a fever, and my mom says no way. I think she wants to talk to your mom.”
“Bummer.” Ruthie’s spirits dropped. What about Louisa? Warning her couldn’t wait.
Her mom hustled into the room. “Come on, Ruthie. Time to get moving.”
“Mom, Jack’s sick. He has a fever and everything.”
“Oh, dear!” her mother said. She conferred with Lydia on the phone. Then she made a quick call to Mrs. McVittie, who was always offering to put either of the girls up in a pinch. So it was decided that Ruthie would spend the week with Mrs. McVittie instead of with a contagious Jack.
Ruthie threw her clothes on and brushed her teeth. She had already packed her duffel with everything she needed for the week. She loved Mrs. McVittie, but as long as Jack was sick, spring break was going to be slow.
An hour later Mrs. McVittie opened the door to her apartment. “Hello, dear.” A warm cinnamon aroma wafted into the hall. “Come in.”
Ruthie’s mom handed Mrs. McVittie their itinerary and a list of contact numbers. “Don’t worry about a thing, Helen,” Mrs. McVittie said. “Have a good trip.”
Her mom pulled Ruthie into a huge hug. “Be good. I love you, and we’ll call every night.”
“Now off you go,” Mrs. McVittie said, shooing her out the door.
Once Ruthie was in Mrs. McVittie’s apartment she felt better. The panicky sense that she would be going stir-crazy all day began to recede. The apartment was fairly large—especially for one person—and filled with interestingobjects. Mrs. McVittie had grown up in Boston but moved to Chicago as an adult. She’d lived in this apartment for over fifty years.
“Let’s get you settled.” Ruthie followed her down the hallway filled with old drawings in ornate frames. The guest bedroom was second on the right and had its own bathroom connected to it.
Heaven
, Ruthie thought.
“You can hang your clothes in the closet and use this chest of drawers,” Mrs. McVittie said. “Then come sit with me in the kitchen.”
Ruthie hadn’t planned on actually hanging up her clothes, but she didn’t want to insult Mrs. McVittie by leaving them in a heap in the duffel bag. She put them away in the drawers and closet. She had even packed the beaded handbag; she’d gotten into the habit of checking on it before bed, just to see if it was exhibiting a special glow. She placed it gently in the top drawer. Then Ruthie let herself fall onto the bed; of course Mrs. McVittie would have nothing but a real down comforter and pillows. She lay there and threw her arms out at her
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