A Song for Issy Bradley Read Online Free

there
are
things she would like to know, things she is beginning to feel curious about, small things such as the name of Mum’s first boyfriend. But Mum rarely begins sentences with “I,” and she frequently changes the subject when she is asked about herself.
    “No one’s perfect, Zipporah. People make mistakes.” Zippy stares at Mum’s hand, at her thumb as it sneaks around the back of her ring finger and flicks the diamond round and round and round. Mum’s got crocodile hands; they’re bumped by blue-green veins, and her skin is dry and scaly. Zippy wonders how long her hands have looked like that. Mr. McLean said in Biology that the cells of the human body are replaced every seven to ten years. That means all of Mum, except for her cerebral cortex, is literally a different person from the one who met and fell in love with Dad. Maybe that’s how repentance works—a sort of gradual baptism of skin and tissue, the shedding of the old self and the cultivation of the new.
    “Perhaps there
is
an ideal way to live,” Mum says. “I suppose Ican get behind that, but is it helpful to punish people who don’t live up to that ideal? We don’t live in an ideal world.”
    Zippy already knows the world is not ideal; Mum is just changing the subject, and two can play that game. “Well, our house is definitely not ideal. We’ve got that stuff on the wall—what’s it called?” she asks and waits for Mum to cheer up and sing the woodchip song.
    “It’s called paper.”
    “Aw, Mum.”
    “I’m not talking about houses. I’m talking about people’s lives.”
    “OK, OK.” She’ll ask again later, after Jacob’s party, when the day is winding down and things are more relaxed. “Was it Sister Anderson on the phone?”
    Mum nods.
    “What’s up with her now?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.”
    “I wish she’d go away.”
    “Zipporah.”
    “Well, I do. She’s always bothering us. I’ll be down in a bit.” Mum pulls the door closed behind her and Zippy listens to the steady rhythm of her feet as she heads down to the first-floor landing, past the other bedrooms and down the next flight of stairs, plod, plod, plod. She snuggles back under the covers, flicks
Persuasion
open, rereads Captain Wentworth’s letter, and thinks
Half agony, half hope;
that’s
exactly
what it’s like being in love. Every gesture, touch, and word has to be weighed and measured and placed on one side of the scale: He loves me, he loves me not; half agony, half hope. Poor Anne Elliot has to wait ages to get married; she’s entirely given up hope of finding happiness when Wentworth reappears. Perhaps Sister Valentine would like
Persuasion;
it might give her hope. She’s getting old, and when she talks about being unmarried she does this brave, windshield-wiper grin. She did it each time someone caught her eye last night, which was quite often as she was sitting at the front, facing everyone. It made Zippy feelhorribly sorry for her, so she lowered her gaze. But then she noticed the way Sister Valentine’s feet plumped out of her shoes like sugar puffs, and the sorry feeling got worse. She looked up at Sister Campbell instead. No one could ever feel sorry for Sister Campbell.
    “What’s the worst sin you can commit?” she asked as she opened her presentation. Parents waited for their children to answer, and the silence stretched uncomfortably until Zippy plunged into it.
    “Murder.”
    “No.” Sister Campbell pursed her lips and shook her head. It was clear she was pleased to hear the wrong answer. “Denying the Holy Ghost is the worst sin, followed by murder. What sin is next to murder in seriousness?” She rapped the book she was holding into the palm of one hand and it made a thwack like a fist. “Come on!”
    “Adultery?”
    “Assault?”
    “Stealing?”
    “No, no, no.” Sister Campbell was triumphant. She opened the book and began to read about the
diabolical
crimes of sexual impurity.
    Mum’s hand fluttered for a moment