Brit Bennett - The Vanishing Half

“The girl said they’d be at the hospital all day,” the receptionist told her. “In case anyone called.”

“Which hospital?”

“Sorry, miss, she didn’t say.”

Of course, what did she expect from some country girl who’d found herself in New York City for the first time? Of course she’d never considered how many hospitals were in Manhattan alone. She was irritated but flipped through the phone book to find the closest hospital to the hotel. The receptionist told her that she couldn’t release the name of any patients, and Kennedy, hanging up, realized that she didn’t know Reese’s full name anyway. Still, she left work early and rode the bus to the hospital. At the nurse’s station, she asked a tiny redhead to page a Jude Winston. She waited five minutes, the phone book page crinkling in her pocket, wondering if she’d have to work her way uptown until she found them. Then the elevator doors opened. Jude stepped out, frazzled at first then relieved once she saw it was only Kennedy.

“You didn’t leave the hospital name,” Kennedy said. “I could’ve spent all damn day looking for you.”

“But you didn’t,” Jude said.

“Yeah, well, I could have.” Jesus, they were already bickering like siblings. “It’s a big city, you know.”

Jude paused. “Well,” she said, “my mind’s all over the place right now.”

It was exactly the type of thing her mother would have said—sly, meant to guilt her into submission.

“Sorry,” she said. “Is he all right?”

Jude chewed her lip. “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s still under. They won’t let me see him. Since we’re not family and all.”

It occurred to Kennedy then that if she suddenly had a heart attack, right here in the hospital lobby, Jude would be her nearest relative. Cousins. They were cousins. But if Jude told a nurse this, insisting on the right to visit, who would ever believe her?

“That’s absurd,” Kennedy said. “You’re the only one he has out here.”

“Well.” Jude shrugged.

“He should just marry you,” she said. “Get it over with. You’ve been together long enough and then you wouldn’t have to worry about bullshit like this.”

Jude stared at her for a second, and Kennedy thought she might tell her to go fuck herself. She deserved it, probably. But Jude just rolled her eyes.

“You sound like my mother,” she said.

—

THE PHOTOGRAPH WAS from a funeral, Jude told her. In the cafeteria, the girls sat across from each other at a long metal table, sipping lukewarm coffee, the photo lying between them. A funeral, she’d figured as much—the black dresses and all—but now she glanced back at the picture, those twin girls. Matching hair ribbons, matching tights. For the first time, she noticed one twin clutching the other’s dress, as if she were trying to keep her still. She touched the photo, reminding herself that it was real. Needing it, somehow, to tether her in place.

“Who died?” she said.

“Their daddy. He was killed.”

“By who?”

Jude shrugged. “Bunch of white men.”

She didn’t know what was more shocking, the revelation or how casually Jude offered it.

“What?” she said. “Why?”

“Does there have to be a reason why?”

“When someone gets killed? Usually.”

“Well, there isn’t. It just happened. Right in front of them.”

She tried to imagine her mother as a girl, witnessing something so horrible, but she could only picture her eight years ago, standing at the end of the darkened hallway with a baseball bat. Kennedy had been a little drunk, sneaking back home after a party; she’d expected her mother to yell at her for breaking curfew. Instead, she was standing at the end of the hall, a hand covering her mouth. The baseball bat clattered on the wood floor, rolling toward her bare feet.

“She never talks about him,” Kennedy said.

“Mine either,” Jude said.

At the end of the table, an old Jewish man hacked into his sweater sleeve. Jude glanced over, fiddling with a candy wrapper.

“What’s she like?” Kennedy asked. “Your mother.”

“Stubborn,” she said. “Like you.”

“I am not stubborn.”

“If you say so.”

“Well, what else is she like? She’s got to be more than stubborn.”

“I don’t know,” Jude said. “She works at a diner. She says she hates it but she’d never go anywhere different. She’d never leave Maman.”

“Is that what you call your grandmother?” Kennedy still couldn’t bring herself to say our .

Jude nodded. “I grew up in her house,” she said. “She’s getting old now. She forgets a lot. She still asks about your mom sometimes.”

An announcement crackled over the PA system. Kennedy added another packet of sugar to coffee she’d never finish.

“This is strange for me,” she said. “I don’t think you understand how strange it all is.”

“I know,” Jude said.

“No, you don’t. I don’t think anybody could possibly know.”

“Fine, I don’t know.” Jude stood, tossing her coffee in the trash can. Kennedy scrambled after, suddenly afraid that she’d leave her here. What if she’d pushed Jude away and now Jude decided not to tell her anything more? Knowing a little was worse than not knowing at all. So she followed Jude onto the elevator, riding in silence to the fifth floor, then she sat beside her in the waiting room next to a wilting plant.

“You don’t have to stay,” Jude said.

“I know that,” Kennedy said. But she did.

—

THE HOSPITAL RELEASED REESE that evening. When Jude wheeled him outside, Kennedy glanced up, startled to find the sky already cloaked in navy blue. For hours, she’d sat beside Jude in the waiting room, flipping idly through magazines, wandering down to the cafeteria for more coffee, or sometimes just sitting there, staring at that picture. She called in sick to her show. Admitted the flu had gotten to her after all. And in spite of every reason she had to leave, she stayed there in that quiet hospital room, until a brusque white nurse told them they could go. She thought about calling home. Frantz always tried to ring her before her shows, he’d worry if the understudy picked up. Still, she hailed a cab and helped Jude guide Reese inside. He was still a little loopy from the anesthesia, and the whole ride to the hotel, his head kept lolling onto her shoulder. Jude squeezed his thigh, and Kennedy glanced away. She couldn’t imagine needing anyone so openly.

She could have said good-bye outside the hotel, but she climbed out too. She and Jude didn’t speak. They each wrapped an arm around Reese’s waist, and together they lugged him inside. He was heavier than he looked, and by the time they reached the elevator, her shoulders burned. But she still held on until they made it inside the hotel room and gingerly lowered him onto the bed. Jude sat on the edge of the mattress, pushing the curls back from his forehead.

“Thanks,” she said softly, but she was still looking at Reese. That tenderness in her voice only meant for him.

“Well,” Kennedy said. She should’ve left but she lingered in the room. Jude would spend a few more days in the city while Reese recovered. Maybe Kennedy could stop by the hotel again tomorrow. Surely Jude couldn’t stay inside this dingy room all day, watching him sleep. Maybe they could go out for coffee or lunch. She could show her around the city so she’d be able to say that she did more in New York than see a mediocre musical and sit in a hospital waiting room. Jude walked her down to the lobby, and Kennedy slowly wrapped her scarf around her neck.

“What’s it like?” she said. “Mallard.”

She’d imagined a town like Mayberry, folksy and homey, women leaving pies to cool on their windowsills. A town so small that everybody knew your name. In a different life, she might have visited over the summer. She could have played with Jude in front of their grandmother’s house. But Jude just laughed.