Sisters in the Wind(5)

Soup is not a meal; it’s a first course. Miss Lonnie’s words echo.

I strain the broth and heap ladles of beef, vegetables, and wide egg noodles into a pasta bowl rather than a soup bowl. In addition to two soup spoons, I bring extra bread rolls and butter.

“We lost out on another house,” Harley informs me. Her sad mood contrasts with the vibrant headscarf tied around her immaculate Afro puff.

“I’m sorry. That sucks. Maybe the next one will be even better?” I try to sound hopeful as I set the bread basket in front of them.

“Maybe.” She reaches for a hard roll as Max rises abruptly and excuses himself. Harley watches her short blond husband walk toward the restrooms. “I cried this time, Lucy. It had an old farmhouse sink with the drainboard, just like my grandma had.”

It hits me that I won’t be around when Harley and Max get their happy ending. I went to their New Year’s Eve party and would have been invited to their housewarming. I would’ve scoured the thrift store for oversized art books meant for a coffee table. Something about roses or amethysts for Harley and one capturing Max’s passion for art deco design.

It sucks to leave without saying goodbye.

Good people say goodbye.

“I’m really sorry,” I say.



* * *



Nancy mentions the cake for the tenth time. She’s right. It is special. Six months was a good run. She and I will celebrate the milestone.

Only I will know it’s actually a farewell treat.

I slam a check on the table. The two men, my last customers of the day, snap to attention. One scowls at me. He’s mirroring my expression, I realize.

“Oopsie-daisy,” I say, smoothing into a toothy smile.

Nancy locks the front door as soon as they leave. Tara’s out the back door by the time Nancy flips the sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED. Usually I do it, but Nancy stayed for anniversary cake.

“C’mon, Tim,” she yells through the pass-through window between the counter and the kitchen. “Bring that cake from the cooler. The one with two bites gone.”

He mumbles something like, “All right already, don’t get your support hose in a bunch.”

“What did you just say?” It’s her mock-outrage voice.

“Must be some holiday, having cake for lunch,” he covers.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what I thought.” Nancy winks at me.

It’s the world’s tiniest cake, but the three of us take more than an hour to eat it. Of course Tim the cook had to bring ice cream and the remaining half of a Dutch apple pie.

“That coming out of your paycheck?” I ask him.

“I guess so, since none of y’all clocked out.”

I used to be scared of Tim. I probably didn’t speak a full sentence to him for my first month working at the diner. Then he asked why I liked to wear so much eyeliner that I resembled a raccoon. I laughed. That broke the ice. Tim is “good peoples,” as he likes to say when he has a good feeling about someone.

After we finish all the treats, they tell me to go home.

“But I’ve got to wipe everything down and—”

“We got this.”

Nancy shoos me toward the back door. Tim props it open so he can haul bags of trash to the dumpster behind the diner after his hour-long smoke break.

I remember the rest of my meager possessions in the trash bag behind the dumpster. Tim had better not toss it in with the rest. I turn back to thank Nancy, for the cake, for everything. My eyes well up as the OG waitress wheels the mop bucket past me.

Isn’t this how it always goes? Just when I start to breathe again …

The universe finishes the thought with a blast, immediately swallowed by a whooshing that plugs my ears and rips the next breath from my lungs. My arms and legs flail long enough to register that I’ve cleared the opening where the door once was. I’m on fire, I think. A shooting star pinwheeling through space. My left leg snaps as I land. A scream reverberates in my skull. The pain is fiery and icy cold at the same time. The air tastes metallic and smells of burning flesh.

I remember the odor all too well.

Someone is next to me. A crumpled life-sized rag doll with a red polo shirt and an apron with a pocket of stain remover wipes spilling onto the asphalt. I close my eyes and grip the leathery hand that served me cake, pie, and ice cream.

The ringing in my ears quiets enough for me to hear her.

“I see it now, Lucy,” Nancy says, taking odd, shallow breaths between words. “You look just like your mother.”





POST-BLAST DAY ZERO


JANUARY 2009

I float in a warm pond on a starless night. I need to stay calm. I breathe through the hollow stem of a bulrush. A familiar voice calls my name, pleading for me to come back. I sink farther when the fury she’s fighting to suppress ignites and spreads like wildfire. My breaths lengthen as my heartbeat slows. I thank my dad for teaching me to swim, dive, and hold my breath. And my birth mother for showing me how to disappear without a trace.



* * *



When I surface, I’m in a hospital bed. The droning of machines, icy-cold air, an itchy gown, a sinus-clearing lemony antiseptic scent. My left leg hurts, a dull ache that sharpens the longer I consider it. One eye opens a minuscule amount, enough to sense daylight and trigger a headache. I close it quickly, hoping the throbbing pain will subside. I remain still. I’ve done this before. Pretend I’m not here. Listen for any sounds, decipher the clues. My ears are more reliable than my eyes anyway.