Hope and Other Luxuries by Clare B. Dunkle

surprise, she whipped around and jerked out of reach. “What are you
doing
?” she snapped.
    â€œAll I was doing . . . ,” I faltered, cut to the quick by her reaction, “I was just trying to see if you had a fever . . .”
    â€œI’m
fine
, Mom!”
    She clattered up the stairs.
    I turned back to the door. Valerie was standing there, looking at me with something like sympathy.
    â€œShe’s kinda been like that to everybody.”
    â€œDo you think she’s sick?”
    â€œI don’t know. I thought maybe she’d had a fight with Mona. I don’t think their weekend together went very well.”
    Valerie stayed in the kitchen with me while I prepared dinner. Freed from her little sister’s glowering presence, she loosened up and shared her thoughts about the new school year.
    Valerie’s all right
, I thought to myself while we chatted.
It’s just Elena. Something’s wrong with her
.
    Elena’s mood didn’t improve all evening. Even her birthday presents failed to put a smile on her face. And as for the celebration dinner I’d prepared for her, Elena barely touched it. All she did was move things around on her plate.
    That night, I couldn’t fall asleep. I lay in bed and worried.
    This was a habit I’d taken away from my librarian years. Back then, every waking minute had been stuffed full of activity, but I had sworn to myself that I’d stay in touch with how my family was doing. So, after bedtime, I would lie awake and go back over the day. This was when I pinpointed problems and brainstormed solutions to try out the next morning. This was when I got all my best mothering done.
    A good day could roll by in five minutes. But a bad day took time. This day had been so unexpected and awful that I went over it again and again.
    Maybe it was housemother trouble. Elena often butted heads with certain housemothers. The mothering she did of the younger girls interfered with their own brand of mothering, and she was such a vigorous crusader against injustice that she often stirred up trouble for those authority figures who liked to play favorites. Elena despised bullying in any form. Under her care, the misfits and the weak girls had a chance.
    And then there was the simple matter of culture shock. Elena might be a veteran of the school now, but that didn’t mean she had let it change her character. I recalled a conversation with one of the housemothers during a visit to the school last year.
    â€œPlease talk to Elena about her negative behavior,” she had said to me in crisp
Hochdeutsch
. “When we tell her a rule, she wants to know the reason.”
    â€œOh,” I had answered. “I’m not quite sure I understood that. So, you tell her a rule and she asks why?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd . . .” I could feel myself floundering. “And you said something about negative behavior, too?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œPlease, exactly what is she doing wrong?”
    A dent had appeared between the housemother’s eyebrows. “What I just told you,” she had answered. “When we tell her a rule, she wants to know why!”
    I had gasped, “Oh, I see!” And I did. But there wasn’t very much I could do about it.
    Now, as I lay there in the dark, pondering this and other possible explanations for Elena’s unusual behavior, I heard small sounds coming from the other side of the living room. I pulled on my robe and went to investigate.
    It was Elena. She was pacing the room in the dark, scanning the bookshelves by the weak light from her cell phone.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I whispered. “It’s one in the morning!”
    â€œI can’t sleep,” she whispered back. “I was looking for something to read.”
    I felt her forehead again. At least this time she didn’t jerk away as if I’d tried to slap her. But it was