Interference by Michelle Berry Read Free Book Online Page A

shouts. “I’ve been nothing but angry since April.”
    â€œA world of good,” Mrs. Rathbin says to her knitting. “It’ll do you wonders.”
    â€œYou’re crazy,” Claire whispers.
    The two women sit in semi-silence. Claire glaring. Mrs. Rathbin knitting and humming.
    On the ride home Claire is uncomfortable. She is bone-tired. Mrs. Rathbin is singing along to music on the radio.
    When Claire was the sickest with the chemotherapy she could almost understand not being afraid of death. She was so ill she wanted to die. “Put me out of my misery,” she said to Ralph as he held her hair back while she vomited. But even then, when Jude or Caroline came home from their world, when they sat near her on the sofa, wrapped themselves in her afghan, pressed their large, warm bodies against her cold one, even then, no matter how bad she felt, Claire really didn’t want to die.
    â€œYou’ve got only two choices,” Mrs. Rathbin says. She flicks off the car radio. “You eat those Brussels sprouts or you throw them in the garbage. That’s all there is to it.”
    Don’t they screen these volunteers? Shouldn’t they have to take a competency test or something? A psychological examination?
    â€œOr,” Claire sighs, “you could not make them in the first place. In fact, you don’t even have to buy them. You could pass right by the Brussels sprouts container in the grocery store. Buy asparagus or broccoli.” Claire looks straight at Mrs. Rathbin. “So there.”
    â€œSo there.” Mrs. Rathbin smiles. “Right you are.”
    Claire is home. Jude is beside her on the sofa. They are watching
Ellen
on TV and trying to laugh at everything she says, even if it isn’t funny. Forced laughs. Jolly laughs. Claire tells Jude about Mrs. Rathbin. She hands him the knitted hat. She has picked an orange one for him. He takes it. He puts it on. It’s bulbous and horrible. They laugh some more.
    In bed that night Claire relives her final few minutes with Mrs. Rathbin. The woman had pulled up in front of Claire’s house, her hubcaps scraping on the curb. She had turned her large bulk slightly and looked Claire directly in the eyes. For all her craziness there was a kindly twinkle in those eyes. Claire had felt a tiny bit ashamed.
    â€œMr. Manuel will be back tomorrow,” Mrs. Rathbin had said.
    â€œGood. Thank you.” Claire had moved to get out of the car, but Mrs. Rathbin laid a hand on Claire’s leg.
    â€œLet me tell you something, Claire,” she had said.
    And here it was. Claire had been sure Mrs. Rathbin would say something that would sum it all up — cancer, love, family, death. She would answer the question she had posed earlier as to what Claire was born doing. Mrs. Rathbin, with her orange knitted shawl, her purple lips, would be one of those gurus, Buddha-like, who would put it all together. Like the moral at the end of a story. Mrs. Rathbin would be Claire’s Happily-Ever-After. This, she would say, is what you will learn from this horrific experience in your life. Claire couldn’t help herself. She was actually waiting for the lesson, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide.
    â€œBrussels sprouts aren’t that easy to ignore,” Mrs. Rathbin had said. And then she squeezed herself out of the car, she went around to Claire’s side and she helped Claire out. Mrs. Rathbin had walked Claire up to her front door, she had made sure Claire got in safely, and, finally, she had left. Claire had stood in the front doorway watching her drive off, haphazardly, down the street. Mrs. Rathbin had beeped once.
    â€œBrussels sprouts,” Claire says now, in bed, Ralph beside her listening. “Brussels sprouts. I don’t get it.”
    But that’s okay, Claire thinks, because when Claire told Jude what Mrs. Rathbin had said, Jude didn’t get it either. And neither did Ralph.

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