The Wonder by Emma Donoghue Page A

live.”
    That sounded like poetry, but knowing this child it was Scripture.
    The mother wasn’t praying, just nodding along, like an admirer in the balcony.
    â€œMrs. O’Donnell,” said Lib.
    Rosaleen O’Donnell put her finger to her dry lips.
    â€œYou mustn’t be here,” said Lib.
    Rosaleen O’Donnell’s head tilted to one side. “Sure can’t I say good morning to Anna?”
    Face closed like a bud, the child gave no sign of hearing anything.
    â€œNot like this.” Lib spelled it out: “Not without one of the nurses present. You mustn’t rush into her room ahead of us or have access to her furnishings.”
    The Irishwoman reared up. “Isn’t any mother eager for a little prayer with her own sweet child?”
    â€œYou may certainly greet her night and morning. This is for your own good, yours and Mr. O’Donnell’s,” Lib added, to soften it. “You wish to prove you’re innocent of any sleight of hand, don’t you?”
    For answer, Rosaleen O’Donnell sniffed. “Breakfast will be at nine,” she threw over her shoulder as she left.
    That was still almost four hours away. Lib felt quite hollow. Farms had their routines, she supposed. But she should have asked the Ryan girl for something at the spirit grocery this morning, a crust in her hand, even.
    At school Lib and her sister had always been hungry. (It was the time the two of them had got along best, she remembered; the fellow feeling of prisoners, she supposed now.) A sparing diet was considered beneficial for girls in particular because it kept the digestion in trim and built character. Lib didn’t believe she lacked self-control, but she found hunger pointlessly distracting; it made one think of nothing but food. So in adult life she never skipped a meal if she could help it.
    Anna made the sign of the cross and got up off her knees now. “Good morning, Mrs. Wright.”
    Lib considered the girl with grudging respect. “Good morning, Anna.” Even if the girl had somehow snatched a sip or a bite of something during the nun’s shift or just now with her mother, it couldn’t have been much; only a mouthful, at most, since yesterday morning. “How was your night?” Lib got out her memorandum book.
    â€œI have slept and have taken my rest,”
quoted Anna, crossing herself again before pulling off her nightcap,
“and I have risen up, because the Lord hath protected me.”
    â€œExcellent,” said Lib, because she didn’t know what else to say. Noticing that the inside of the cap was streaked with shed hair.
    The girl unbuttoned her nightdress, slipped it down, and tied the sleeves around her middle. A strange disproportion between her fleshless shoulders and thick wrists and hands, between her narrow chest and bloated belly. She sluiced herself with water from the basin.
“Make thy face to shine upon thy servant,”
she said under her breath, then dried herself with the cloth, shivering.
    From under the bed Lib pulled out the chamber pot, which was clean. “Did you use this at all, child?”
    Anna nodded. “Sister gave it to Kitty to empty.”
    What was in it?
Lib should have asked but found she couldn’t.
    Anna pulled her nightdress back up over her shoulders. She wet the small cloth, then reached down under the linen to wash one leg modestly as she balanced on the other, holding the dresser to steady herself. The shimmy, drawers, dress, and stockings she put on were all yesterday’s.
    Lib usually insisted on a daily change, but she felt she couldn’t in a family as poor as this one. She draped the sheets and blanket over the footboard to air before she began her examination of the girl.
    Tuesday, August 9, 5:23 a.m.
    Water taken: 1 tsp.
    Pulse: 95 beats per minute.
    Lungs: 16 respirations per minute.
    Temperature: cool.
    Although temperature was guesswork, really, depending on