chairs whose red satin seats were covered in plastic slipcovers—to protect from the guests who never come, Daphne thought, sighing.
Behind the table, up against the wall, was a long glass cabinet covered in family photos. There was a black-and-white photo of Daphne’s parents on their wedding day; Mama’s hair teased, sprayed, and curled elaborately. There was a faded black-and-white photo of Papou from his days in the Greek navy, handsome in his pressed uniform and squat mustache. Next to Papou was a rare photo of Yia-yia as a young mother, standing at the port, holding Mama’s tiny hand, a stern expression on her face, as was the standard back then—no one of that generation ever smiled for photographs. The rest of the photos were all of Daphne—Daphne at her christening, Daphne taking her first steps out on the patio under the olive tree, Daphne looking awkward and buck-toothed in her third-grade school portrait, Daphne and Alex kissing on their wedding day, Daphne looking far more ethnic with her familial Greek nose still intact, Daphne and Evie blowing kisses to Yia-yia from their Manhattan apartment, and Daphne in her chef’s whites waving to Yia-yia from the kitchen at Koukla. It was Daphne’s entire life played out in cheaply framed, dusty photos.
She felt a bit steadier now, away from the burning afternoon sun and the burning vitriol of Yianni’s accusations. When she was certain she could stand on her own, without holding the wall for support, Daphne walked toward Yia-yia’s bedroom. She knew what she would find, but she had to see it for herself.
The bed creaked as she sat down, her hands beside her body fingering the crochet bedspread and dipping in and out of the weblike pattern. After a few moments, she leaned forward and reached down under the bed, her hands finding and grasping it almost instantly. Daphne lifted the box on to her lap. She placed her hands on top of the dusty shoe box, her chipped fingernails tapping the lid for a few seconds before she lifted the top off the box and looked inside.
There they were, just like Yianni said they would be. There in the box were stacks of dollars, piles of green bills, thousands of dollars—all of the money Daphne had been sending Yia-yia for the past several years.
Daphne stared into the box and looked down on the result of all those hours spent away from home, away from Evie, away from Yia-yia. She put her hands in the box and lifted out the result of all those hours spent on her feet, fighting with suppliers, arguing with her staff, and crying from bone-aching exhaustion. She fanned out the bills, the result of the awards, accolades, and full reservation book that she had fought so hard to earn.
There it all was, all stuffed in a shoe box shoved under Yia-yia’s bed. And it was all meaningless.
Eleven
M ANHATTAN
J ANUARY 1998
Daphne wrapped the crochet scarf once more around her neck as she exited the Eighth Street subway station near New York University. She burrowed her face deeper into the scratchy wool and braced herself against the biting wind that whipped up Broadway. Another icy gust slammed against her body as a wind-induced tear rolled down her face.
Damn it. She buried her face even deeper in the brown material. There was no escaping it. Even the brand-new scarf that Yia-yia had made, which had just arrived yesterday from Greece, was already infused with the scent of diner grease.
Damn damn damn.
Daphne shivered uncontrollably, even under the arsenal of layers that Mama made sure she put on before she walked out into the single-digit cold. As her muscles vibrated and twitched, Daphne felt as if she were lying on one of those ridiculous twenty-five-cent massage beds that Baba became obsessed with a few years back during their big family getaway to Niagara Falls.
It had always been a dream of Baba’s to see the legendary falls in person. After all, he had seen them on a Seven Wonders of the World list, right there alongside the
Behind the table, up against the wall, was a long glass cabinet covered in family photos. There was a black-and-white photo of Daphne’s parents on their wedding day; Mama’s hair teased, sprayed, and curled elaborately. There was a faded black-and-white photo of Papou from his days in the Greek navy, handsome in his pressed uniform and squat mustache. Next to Papou was a rare photo of Yia-yia as a young mother, standing at the port, holding Mama’s tiny hand, a stern expression on her face, as was the standard back then—no one of that generation ever smiled for photographs. The rest of the photos were all of Daphne—Daphne at her christening, Daphne taking her first steps out on the patio under the olive tree, Daphne looking awkward and buck-toothed in her third-grade school portrait, Daphne and Alex kissing on their wedding day, Daphne looking far more ethnic with her familial Greek nose still intact, Daphne and Evie blowing kisses to Yia-yia from their Manhattan apartment, and Daphne in her chef’s whites waving to Yia-yia from the kitchen at Koukla. It was Daphne’s entire life played out in cheaply framed, dusty photos.
She felt a bit steadier now, away from the burning afternoon sun and the burning vitriol of Yianni’s accusations. When she was certain she could stand on her own, without holding the wall for support, Daphne walked toward Yia-yia’s bedroom. She knew what she would find, but she had to see it for herself.
The bed creaked as she sat down, her hands beside her body fingering the crochet bedspread and dipping in and out of the weblike pattern. After a few moments, she leaned forward and reached down under the bed, her hands finding and grasping it almost instantly. Daphne lifted the box on to her lap. She placed her hands on top of the dusty shoe box, her chipped fingernails tapping the lid for a few seconds before she lifted the top off the box and looked inside.
There they were, just like Yianni said they would be. There in the box were stacks of dollars, piles of green bills, thousands of dollars—all of the money Daphne had been sending Yia-yia for the past several years.
Daphne stared into the box and looked down on the result of all those hours spent away from home, away from Evie, away from Yia-yia. She put her hands in the box and lifted out the result of all those hours spent on her feet, fighting with suppliers, arguing with her staff, and crying from bone-aching exhaustion. She fanned out the bills, the result of the awards, accolades, and full reservation book that she had fought so hard to earn.
There it all was, all stuffed in a shoe box shoved under Yia-yia’s bed. And it was all meaningless.
Eleven
M ANHATTAN
J ANUARY 1998
Daphne wrapped the crochet scarf once more around her neck as she exited the Eighth Street subway station near New York University. She burrowed her face deeper into the scratchy wool and braced herself against the biting wind that whipped up Broadway. Another icy gust slammed against her body as a wind-induced tear rolled down her face.
Damn it. She buried her face even deeper in the brown material. There was no escaping it. Even the brand-new scarf that Yia-yia had made, which had just arrived yesterday from Greece, was already infused with the scent of diner grease.
Damn damn damn.
Daphne shivered uncontrollably, even under the arsenal of layers that Mama made sure she put on before she walked out into the single-digit cold. As her muscles vibrated and twitched, Daphne felt as if she were lying on one of those ridiculous twenty-five-cent massage beds that Baba became obsessed with a few years back during their big family getaway to Niagara Falls.
It had always been a dream of Baba’s to see the legendary falls in person. After all, he had seen them on a Seven Wonders of the World list, right there alongside the
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