Jessica Martinez - The Vow

Finally she says, “Yeah.”

I don’t need to say anything else.

That’s the moment when everyone remembers the thing that slipped their minds when I was playing basketball, or doing their homework for a small but reasonable fee. In that silence, I can hear their thoughts. Mohammed Ibrahim Hussein? Oh, yeah. That’s Mo’s real name.

Annie

What’s your real name?”

I don’t look up from my stack of dollar bills. I’m counting.

“Your name,” Flora demands.

Flora and I have been working side by side for over a week—she knows my name. And she’s old-ish, but too young to be losing her mind, so it’s probably the start of a joke. Based on the last few she’s told me, probably a dirty one. I don’t know if I want my name involved.

“Um, Annabelle,” I say, still thumbing. Am I at twenty-nine or thirty-nine?

“Your last name,” she says, and I now hear the crackle in her voice. It’s not humor.

I put the bills back in the open cash register, uncounted, and look up. She’s holding a butter-yellow envelope with a duck sticker on it. Annie Bernier is hand-written carefully in the center. No address. No stamp.

Today is not the day to talk to Flora about Lena. I’ve been holding back tears since I clocked in, gritting my teeth every time I think about Mo.

“Oh, nobody says it right,” I say, pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about. “It’s Burn-yay. Most people just say Burn-year, but I don’t really care. It’s not like I speak French or anything. My grandpa thinks he’s the accent police, practically yells at people who say it wrong, but his father was born in France, which he thinks entitles him to act like he’s French and treat people like crap.”

I glance at her, hoping she lost interest midramble. She did not.

I point to the envelope. “What’s that?”

She doesn’t answer or give it to me. She just stares, and now I can feel her trying to pull Lena’s features out of mine. I should tell her not to bother. Lena’s face was fuller, prettier, and she had a beauty mark sitting on her cheekbone, just beneath the left eye. In all her pictures, she’s smiling with her mouth closed, like one of those classic beauties from old movies, but I don’t remember her being polished like that. I remember a huge laugh and a tiny gap between her lower front teeth. She could whistle through it.

I hold my hand out for the envelope. Flora doesn’t give it to me, so I let my hand drop to my side.

My cheeks are burning, even though I haven’t done anything wrong. This feels like the time I got busted for cheating off Libby McGregor’s math quiz in eighth grade when she was the one copying off of me. Libby was an idiot, the only person in the whole class stupid enough to think I’d be writing down correct answers.

“You’re Lena’s sister,” Flora finally says. Her lips are flat, the skin around them a sagging web of wrinkles.

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew,” I lie. “Rachel and Clara know.”

“You’ve got her eyes,” she says matter-of-factly. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. It sounds like she thinks I stole them.

I don’t say anything. It’s awkward, but I’ve learned that people need a moment. I look around to the front, where Reed is helping a rain-soaked old man fix his umbrella. Otherwise the shop is empty. It’s only five, but thankfully the rain is keeping the swim-camp kids from wandering our way.

Flora takes a ragged breath, her shoulders rising under her curly maroon hair, her eyes never leaving me. She’s inches from my face. When she lets the breath out, I can almost taste the tar from her last cigarette. “How long has it been now?” she asks.

“Eight years.”

“Eight.” She blinks, and I see grimy eyelid creases where makeup has settled. “Why are you working here? Must be killing your parents. You hate them or something?”

“No.” I don’t tell her I had to threaten to stop seeing the shrink if they didn’t let me work here. “I just thought it’d be a fun place to work.” It’s about the stupidest thing in the world to say, but she doesn’t call me on it.

Her face softens. “Your sister was a good kid, sweetie.”

I nod. Pity always comes after the shock. People swell up with it like bloated, belly-up frogs in rain gutters. They don’t know what else to do. Still, it never gets any less uncomfortable.

She takes another phlegm-filled breath, then blinks and blinks and blinks until the misty eyes are nearly gone. Good. If she cries for Lena today, I’ll start crying for Mo and I might not be able to stop.

I want her to tell me what she remembers, but today isn’t the right day for either of us. I won’t even try until she’s used to me. I mean used to me as who I really am.

At the door, Reed finally wrestles the old man’s umbrella into submission and opens the door for him. When he starts making his way toward us, his pants are half-soaked from rain, and he’s drying his glasses on his T-shirt. This conversation needs to be over.

“You miss her?” Flora asks.

That question is so insulting and stupid, I don’t usually answer it at all, but it’s Flora. I give her a polite “Yes.”

She puts the envelope down on the counter, clearly having forgotten about my name on the front, then gives my arm a squeeze. “I need a cigarette break,” she calls over her shoulder to Reed.

“Sure,” he says. He waits for the door to slam shut before asking, “Didn’t she just take one?”

“Yeah.” I point to the envelope, grateful for the distraction. “Do you know what that is?”

Reed walks over to me and looks at the envelope. He smells like orange peels from prepping the fruit for smoothies. “Yeah, a baby shower invitation for next Sunday.”

He must see confusion on my face, because he adds, “For Vicky.”

“Oh.” Soup’s wife. Did I know she’s pregnant? I don’t think so, but everything’s murky today. I don’t think I slept at all last night. “I’m invited? But I haven’t even met her. What’s she like?”

He leans his hip into counter, and I stay facing him, doing the same. This is new for us. Head-on conversation. “Um . . .” He pushes his glasses up the slope of his nose. “She’s sort of intense.”

“As in crazy or high-maintenance?”

Reed takes a few seconds to consider. He does that a lot, and it makes me nervous. I’m used to Mo firing off the first thing that comes to his mind. “Maybe both,” he says finally. “She’s sort of critical.”

“But Soup’s so nice.”

He shrugs. “It always happens to the nice guys.”

“Does it?”

“You’ve never made some poor guy’s life hell?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

I’d be insulted if he weren’t grinning ever so slightly. It’s distracting. “Soup is so chill, though.”

“Yeah, but he’s sloppy and kind of loud and smokes weed from time to time.”

“Still. The thought of a guy like him being henpecked for a lifetime is depressing. Maybe she’s just pregnant-mean,” I suggest. “My aunt Shayna was psycho when she was pregnant but totally sane before and after.”

“No,” he says. “Vicky was born crazy. Pregnancy has only enhanced it.”

“Ouch. You’re not a fan, I take it.”

“I’m allowed to say that about my own sister.”

“What? Soup’s your brother-in-law? Why didn’t anyone tell me that?”

Reed shrugged. “I thought you knew.”

“What next—is Flora your mother or something?”

“Ha. That woman grabs my butt at least once a day. Definitely not my mom.”

I smile. “Yeah, that would be weirder than it already is.”

He narrows his eyes, and I feel him staring through all my layers. “That’s the first time you’ve smiled today.”

And like that, the distraction is over. I remember. Mo is leaving me. “I’m just tired,” I say.

Reed doesn’t look away, so I don’t either. He noticed I wasn’t smiling. I wonder if he’s sensed how close to the edge I am, if he’s seen that this entire shift has been a string of microdistractions, every customer and conversation good for just a few seconds of relief. If he’s really been watching he has to think I’m crazy, because I’ve remembered at least a dozen times and felt the panic exploding inside of me all over again.

He’s looking at me now. From this close I can see his Adam’s apple and the stubble on his jawline. His eyes too.

“Actually, it’s this thing with a friend,” I hear myself say.

Apparently his eyes are making me stupid. Reed isn’t my boyfriend, and if I cry on his shoulder right now, he never will be.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks, looking vaguely nervous.

“No, I’m good.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem good.”

“What do I seem?”

His pause is uncomfortably long again. I push away from the counter, ready to go find some menial task to do, but then he says, “I don’t know. Scared.”

I squint. He’s hard to read, not like Mo whose emotions float around him like fumes. “My best friend’s moving,” I say.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“His dad lost his job, and now they have to go back to Jordan.”

“Back to Jordan?”

“Yeah. He’s from there.”

Reed nods and holds my gaze, so I keep talking.

“He moved here when he was ten. It’s weird. He’s so American that I forget he used to be something else, or that he still is something else, I guess. I don’t know. Technically he’s not American at all, which is the problem. Sorry, I’m not making a lot of sense.”

Reed folds his arms, and I have to notice how solid they are, muscle and power and confidence crossed over his chest. “No, I got it. This guy’s your boyfriend?”