her hips. “Oh, we’re not getting off that easy. We’ll make a waitress out of Penelope yet.”
Then Linda gets to work cleaning up my mess. I offer to help, but she practically shoves me toward the door.
“Take the VW,” she says. “Isaac, you’ll give me a ride home?”
“You bet,” Isaac says grimly. “If it’ll get her out of here.”
“Now, now. That’s my daughter you’re talking about,” Linda says, but she sounds grim herself.
As I flee, I hear Caitlin and Isaac laying odds on my failure. Caitlin gives me a week, tops. Isaac, three days. I’m nobody’s favorite except Linda’s, who says with hesitation that I’ll be fine. We’re cut of the same cloth.
I’m at the back door when I remember my bag. I go back inside to get it, skulking past Linda, Isaac, and Caitlin. I left it under the bar, I remember. I slink through the dining room and duck past Tom, who’s still busy eyeballing the TV. I grab my bag, then turn to leave again.
That’s when I see her, hanging where only Tom typically looks.
Justine.
In the photograph nailed there above the upside-down wineglasses, she stands at Red Earth’s bar beside a guy I think might be a much younger version of Tom. In his white T-shirt, he looks like a sweet greaser, giving my grandma a big, adoring grin. She is looking straight into the camera, forcing a tight, weary smile. Her hair has been whipped into a Jackie O. flip. Only Justine’s widow’s peak keeps it from being solid Jackie O. There are dark circles under Justine’s eyes. Her heart-shaped face is sunken now, and lines etch her mouth. She is Justine—I think I’d recognize her at any age, even eighty years old. But she is not Justine too. At least she is not the same Justine that sits at the dressing table in my photograph at home. This Justine is miserable.
From the hairdo, the sheath-like style of Justine’s dress, and the swelling in her belly, I’d say this picture was taken in 1969, just before Linda was born.
“Tom?”
He turns from the TV. He frowns, seeing me. “I thought you were gone.”
“Almost.” I point at the photograph.
Tom flicks his eyes where I’m pointing. Then he fixes his gaze on the TV again.
“A real lady,” he says gruffly.
I clench my hands and wait for more. But Tom won’t look at me. From the set to his shoulders, I know not to push it.
I stumble off to the VW. I back out of the parking lot. I drive toward home, speed through the dark, cooling night. I try to remember how easily David drove his scooter, how it felt to hold on to him so tightly while he did.
Home, I park the VW in the garage.
Inside the house, I realize I haven’t eaten since mid-afternoon. I’m bleary and numb. Except for my feet. They’re like burning-hot bricks. I drag off my Doc Martens, collapse into a kitchen chair, and prop my feet on the table. Now what? Is it exhaustion or adrenaline or anger that’s making me vibrate?
Somehow I’m on my feet again. I stuff my face with dry cereal. Drink a large glass of orange juice, then another. Eat a few tablespoons of peanut butter swiped on a bruised banana. I try drawing a portrait of Tom, but all that comes out are two eagles that look like buzzards on Popeye-like arms.
I stagger to my bedroom and drop down at my desk. Open my laptop.
I catch my breath.
There’s an email.
Hey there, Penna.
I don’t have much time. I just want to give you this little look into my life, since you want to know. Get this. My bunk is really uncomfortable, you know? If I weren’t so beat from the heat today, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Even beat, it’s hard. But at least lying there I can look at your pictures. I’ve got this wall beside me, and I’ve covered every square inch with you. You’re the last person I see falling asleep, the first person I see waking up. You get more beautiful very day. You’re beauty, Penna. Just like I always said. Remember that, no matter what happens. I still believe that.
And there’s
Then Linda gets to work cleaning up my mess. I offer to help, but she practically shoves me toward the door.
“Take the VW,” she says. “Isaac, you’ll give me a ride home?”
“You bet,” Isaac says grimly. “If it’ll get her out of here.”
“Now, now. That’s my daughter you’re talking about,” Linda says, but she sounds grim herself.
As I flee, I hear Caitlin and Isaac laying odds on my failure. Caitlin gives me a week, tops. Isaac, three days. I’m nobody’s favorite except Linda’s, who says with hesitation that I’ll be fine. We’re cut of the same cloth.
I’m at the back door when I remember my bag. I go back inside to get it, skulking past Linda, Isaac, and Caitlin. I left it under the bar, I remember. I slink through the dining room and duck past Tom, who’s still busy eyeballing the TV. I grab my bag, then turn to leave again.
That’s when I see her, hanging where only Tom typically looks.
Justine.
In the photograph nailed there above the upside-down wineglasses, she stands at Red Earth’s bar beside a guy I think might be a much younger version of Tom. In his white T-shirt, he looks like a sweet greaser, giving my grandma a big, adoring grin. She is looking straight into the camera, forcing a tight, weary smile. Her hair has been whipped into a Jackie O. flip. Only Justine’s widow’s peak keeps it from being solid Jackie O. There are dark circles under Justine’s eyes. Her heart-shaped face is sunken now, and lines etch her mouth. She is Justine—I think I’d recognize her at any age, even eighty years old. But she is not Justine too. At least she is not the same Justine that sits at the dressing table in my photograph at home. This Justine is miserable.
From the hairdo, the sheath-like style of Justine’s dress, and the swelling in her belly, I’d say this picture was taken in 1969, just before Linda was born.
“Tom?”
He turns from the TV. He frowns, seeing me. “I thought you were gone.”
“Almost.” I point at the photograph.
Tom flicks his eyes where I’m pointing. Then he fixes his gaze on the TV again.
“A real lady,” he says gruffly.
I clench my hands and wait for more. But Tom won’t look at me. From the set to his shoulders, I know not to push it.
I stumble off to the VW. I back out of the parking lot. I drive toward home, speed through the dark, cooling night. I try to remember how easily David drove his scooter, how it felt to hold on to him so tightly while he did.
Home, I park the VW in the garage.
Inside the house, I realize I haven’t eaten since mid-afternoon. I’m bleary and numb. Except for my feet. They’re like burning-hot bricks. I drag off my Doc Martens, collapse into a kitchen chair, and prop my feet on the table. Now what? Is it exhaustion or adrenaline or anger that’s making me vibrate?
Somehow I’m on my feet again. I stuff my face with dry cereal. Drink a large glass of orange juice, then another. Eat a few tablespoons of peanut butter swiped on a bruised banana. I try drawing a portrait of Tom, but all that comes out are two eagles that look like buzzards on Popeye-like arms.
I stagger to my bedroom and drop down at my desk. Open my laptop.
I catch my breath.
There’s an email.
Hey there, Penna.
I don’t have much time. I just want to give you this little look into my life, since you want to know. Get this. My bunk is really uncomfortable, you know? If I weren’t so beat from the heat today, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Even beat, it’s hard. But at least lying there I can look at your pictures. I’ve got this wall beside me, and I’ve covered every square inch with you. You’re the last person I see falling asleep, the first person I see waking up. You get more beautiful very day. You’re beauty, Penna. Just like I always said. Remember that, no matter what happens. I still believe that.
And there’s
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