by Cecelia Earl
Finally—miraculously—I’m driving over the College Avenue Bridge, east of where Mocha Monkey sits in the heart of downtown. The city consists mostly of one main street that houses a load of businesses catering to all age levels: a bank, a jewelry store, and restaurants for adults; a pottery-making store and museum for kids; bars for the Lawrence University students; and a performing arts center where May ushers for her after-school and summer job.
The river is rolling below the bridge. Why I put my hair up on this windy of a day is beyond me. Well, admittedly, I was trying to look sophisticated, but even while running down the driveway from inside my house it had already started tumbling down around my face.
I'd pull the clips out, but then my hair would be all crimpy and wrong. I'll have to add more clips before heading into De la Vache. Of the cow. What a ridiculous name for a fancy dinner place. So what if steak is the specialty? Why not Au Beau Gout? Bon Apetit? Delicieux? So many French words that could be used instead. Words that sound . . . appetizing.
Hostess, ha. At this point, though, a job is a job.
I'd spread my college acceptance letters on my bed again this morning, still missing The One. Decent choices, though. But I don't want to go to just any school. I want the best. Someday I plan to be one of the top surgeons in the country. And in order for that to happen, I have to go to the top university for surgeons. And that is Johns Hopkins University. My plan: get into the pre-med program. They accept only eight students per year into their surgical program. Eight. One of those spots is mine. It has to be. I need this.
But they mailed their acceptance letters out weeks ago, and mine hasn't arrived. I have about one, maybe two weeks to accept one of these other offers and make a payment for fall semester.
I can't think about this now.
I pull up to a parking spot on the street in front of the restaurant. It's early enough to get a spot, though it must've opened a little while ago. I need to work at a place that's hopping if I'm going to make any money at all. My hope is to move up quickly: hostess, bus tables, server with big tips, manager. Even being the overachiever I am, I know I'm being ridiculous. It's the month of May. I'll leave for college in August.
Like everything else in my life, I need to be more. In this case: More than ready. I need extra money in my bank account in case something goes wrong. Dad. Hospital bills. My brother messing up. In case there's nothing left for me. I need to be ready. I'll be in school a long, long time, and it's going to take bucks to keep me there.
The rearview mirror is not ideal for putting hair up, but I pull the clip out and let my blondes tumble down. I run my fingers through the mess, then put it all back up again. I reapply lipstick and check that my eyeliner hasn't smudged.
Here I go.
Chase. Even when he called to remind me about stopping at the restaurant, I could hear his mocking tone. Friendly, but mocking. I feel like he's always laughing at me. Maybe in a way that's like laughing with me, only I'm not laughing. There is very little time for laughing, and come to think of it, nothing funny has happened in a long, long time.
I put my hands up to block my hair from the wind and then straighten my black dress when I get under the cover of the awning. The entrance is windowless, thankfully, so I have a minute to compose myself. Maybe my dress rises too high on my thighs. Oh, well. At this point I have to own it. I throw up my chin, push back my shoulders, and pull open the heavy, brown door. It's all dim lighting, clanking dishes, and warmth once I step in. I kind of like it. It's the kind of place my parents used to take my brother and me on Friday nights. For whatever reason, it's a thing to eat fried fish on Fridays and this looks like exactly the kind of place that'd serve it.
There's nobody to approach, other than a guy who looks younger than me who's wiping down tables, a man behind the bar putting glasses away, and a couple with gray hair looking at menus in a booth by the windows to my right. Looks like they really do need to hire a hostess.
Hello? What if I was a customer? This is terrible for business. I wonder what happened to their previous hostess.
High-top tables in rows line the floor and are nearly filled with groups of four drinking cocktails with cherries and olives. There must be parking out back. Before me stands the empty hostess stand. Guess that's for me.
If I'm so lucky.
I turn to inspect the restaurant area to my left when a huge party whooshes in from outside as if the wind blew them in from off the street. My hair and skirt are blown out of order and I'm brushed aside by a man and woman twice my size. They are commanding and authoritarian, all sharp angles and bright colors. I've barely straightened and smoothed myself out when the crowd of twelve or so turn their heads to simultaneously raise eyebrows at me.
I begin to excuse myself for being in the way, when the tall redheaded woman says, "Menus, please?" She narrows her eyes. "And sooner rather than later."
Her husband, or the man who looks like her shadow, adds, "We have reservations."
"Oh," I say. "Okay." I motion for them to move in front of me and then it dawns on me. They think I work here.
I glance around and find nobody rushing toward us to help. A man in the middle of the group clears his throat.
"Okay, then." I nod at them and toss on a smile for good measure while scuttling behind the hostess station. I slip my purse onto one of its shelves and look at the book that's open on the top of the podium. There's only one reservation for 5:30, nothing beforehand. It's only five, and their name is impossible to pronounce, Sczymanski. "Sim-an-ski?" The book says the reservation is for six people. The redhead's even gaze is cool and intimidating. Her eyes are still narrowed and she’s tapping her foot. "For twelve?"
"Fourteen." She smiles coolly.
"Got it," I say, pulling out the entire stack of menus piled behind me. "We're finishing your tables now. Let me check to be sure everything is perfect for you." I step backward into the dining area and twirl around. I balance the menus against my body and grab a bus boy by the arm. "We need to push tables together for a group of fourteen."
"Who are you?"
"Now!"
He stares at me a second longer before hopping off to push tables together. I heave the menus on top on of the tables and help him arrange the chairs. Then, I grab a stack of cloth napkins and start folding them into the dove shapes I see in the booths that are prepped for customers. My brother and I used to play restaurant when we were little and became obsessed with origami napkin settings. Maybe later when I'm not in such a hurry, I'll snicker that the skill actually came in handy.
"Everything is set for you," I tell the group after having walked back to them. "Right this way, please." I glance around while the parade follows me, nervous I'll be confronted while playing hostess, but other than some bus boys filling water glasses and the sound of clanking dishes coming from the kitchen behind the wall to our right, there's nobody.
Once the group is seated and paging through the menu, I say, "Enjoy your evening. A server will be here momentarily to get your beverage requests and answer any questions you may have about our menu."
I get maybe one nod of recognition that I've spoken before I back away to retrieve my purse. Before I’m able, leaning gallantly at the hostess station, smirking at me, is none other than Chase.
"Hired already?" he says, elbow propped against the podium, one ankle crossed over the other.
"Did you see all that?" I put my hands on my hips. "Why didn't you rescue me?"
"You're a natural." He pats my head like I'm a puppy who's just rolled over on command. "I'll take over now, get their drink orders, and then I'll be back to bring you to Meg."
"Meg?"
"My mom."
Why would I want to meet his mom?
"Also known as," he whispers conspiratorially, "the owner of this restaurant."
I straighten in surprise. "Oh!"
He laughs. "Yeah, so you're guaranteed a spot."
"But I thought you said . . ."
"T
hat we're broke?"
I nod.
"Not always a lot of money in restauranting. This is a newer endeavor. It kind of fell in her lap." He moves toward the dining area. "Wait here."
A couple walks through the door.
He tilts his head in their direction. "Make yourself useful." He walks away, and I'm left to smile and welcome much kinder, softer customers.
6
spun me dizzy
Meg insists I call her by her first name, and not last, which feels so disrespectful I can hardly stand it. With bobbed, blonde hair that's curly and tucked behind her ears, she's young looking—for a mom. She's wearing a black suit with a baby blue tee shirt beneath. She's tall. Not as tall as her son, but tall.
We sit across from each other in a corner booth. Her hands are folded on the table. Mine are tucked away in my lap. I try to sit up straight, but the seat cushion is too soft. Instead, I lean in with my chest pressed against the table. Sinking down, I've lost my edge. Sitting, my heels have no effect. I'm small.
Her eyes are piercing. "Chase tells me you're a driven individual, that you'll be a perfect addition to our staff."
I clear my throat, ready to nail this interview. "Thanks, I—"
"I've only recently acquired the restaurant, and in the changeover, I had to let some people go to start fresh. We're short-staffed, and I'm looking for hard-working, good-listening workers."
I push up on my heels, taller. I will impress her. "I can—"
"So, I have several positions open. You can let me know which you feel most suited for."
She pauses. I bite my lips and nod, not sure if I’m supposed to speak this time or not.
"We are closed on Mondays. I need a hostess on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays from four o'clock until ten o'clock when we close. We tend to stay open the extra hour to allow customers to finish meals, cocktails, and conversation, but the doors are locked at ten. Wait staff rotates to stay for clean up until midnight. Hostesses punch in and make an hourly minimum wage, no tips."
She stops speaking again, so I nod, holding my breath that she's looking for a manager.
"I also need good, hard-working wait staff all days of the week and throughout the weekend. We open at 11:00 a.m. Staff arrives at ten. Servers make less than minimum wage but make up for that above and beyond with tips." She raises an eyebrow. "If they're good."
I wait, take a breath.
She leans back, flattening her hands on the tabletop, like she's flattening my dreams of holding a manager position this summer into thin, suffocated pancakes. "Do any of those positions interest you?"
I open my mouth, but she starts in again. My tongue may be bleeding from biting it.
"I will most likely need a bartender in a few weeks also. Bartenders make minimum wage and can take home tips."
"Well—"
"I suppose if you're hoping for something more, you could mix and match, depending on the schedule." She crosses her arms. "Hostess Wednesdays, Saturdays, Sundays. Bartend Fridays. Serve a couple of other days. Are you eighteen?"
I open my mouth, think better of speaking, and nod.
"Then you can bartend." She stands. "Tell you what. Let's start with having you come in at four on Wednesdays through Sundays. You can hostess two of the three days, bartend one, serve one, and then in a month you can tell me which you prefer."
She walks toward the bar, stops, turns back toward me. "Care to start now?" She motions toward the hostess stand. "I'll clock you in starting at four." She looks at her watch. "It's six now. Stay until ten?"
She's staring at me. Her eyes are a don't-mess-with-me blue, unlike the I'm-never-serious green of her son's.
"Yes, ma'am." I slide out from the booth and stand taller. "Meg."
She's still staring.
"Thank you." It comes out more like a question than a sincere statement, but the woman has spun me dizzy. I shake my head while I make my way to the podium where I pull out a hostess smile from my bag of smiles and wait for the door to open and send customers—and a stormy, spring wind—into De la Vache.
7
push me forward
By the time I get home, my feet are killing me. I've worked eight hour days at Mocha Monkey, which reminds me, I'm still employed there through the month, so I'll be juggling finals and two work schedules, but never have I worked there in four-inch heels. Two-inch, yes. But never four. It's only a matter of time before my feet grow the hideous bunions I've had the unfortunate luck to see on my mom's, aunt's, and grandma's feet. Thankfully, I resemble my dad's side of the family, though his mom and sister passed away before I ever had the opportunity to examine their feet.
It's after ten, yet lights are blazing throughout my house. I push through the back door and drop my purse.
Something is wrong.
My heart drops in my chest and spikes my blood pressure toward the moon.
I want to yell, but only a whisper comes out. "Mom? Dad?"
I slip throbbing feet out of heels and pad further into the house, past the stove, almost to the living room.
Mom rushes into the kitchen. "I didn't want to call." She grabs me by my arms, shakes her head, and drops her hands to her side. She takes a breath. "I don't know what to do."
I nudge her toward the kitchen table and pull out a chair for her. I want to blast down the hall to Dad's room where he's been sleeping pretty much constantly for the past two weeks.
I hardly remember the time only four months ago when we were a normal family, parents working full-time, decorating our Christmas tree, sledding, laughing. Then one day, Mom was sitting on the couch when I got home, staring at nothing. Apparently I hadn't noticed Dad's puffy face, arms, and legs. Most dads got a little fatter as they aged. I figured his work schedule didn't allow for his daily walks. I'd started taking our dog, Muffy, every morning before school in his place. Apparently, Dad had also been nauseous and had grown anemic and tired.
I had realized our neighbors had been asking him how he'd been feeling. I had noticed that along with the chubbiness he looked thinner somehow. Like his skin was thinner and hanging off him. I don't know what prompted him to go to the doctor that day, when he'd been ignoring his symptoms for so long, but there Mom sat, staring. I perched on the couch next to her and reached for her hand.
She looked at me for a long time.
"Dad's starting dialysis," she'd told me. But that was pretty much the extent of the information. Not long after she'd said Dad's doctors thought he'd be a better candidate for a kidney transplant, rather than long-term dialysis.
Tonight, with me standing next to her, she doesn't look at me, and I don't take her hand.
"We waited too long," she whispers. "I ignored everything. I let him put it off and off and off." She drops her head in her hands. I've never seen Mom shut down. Ever.
"What's going on, Mom?" My voice is flat, hard. This isn't supposed to be happening. This isn't my life. She's scaring me.
"Dad's not making sense."
I leave her then and walk down the hallway against my will. Fear, not knowing, and obligation push me forward one step at a time. What I want to do is run from the house, run fast and far. Dad's sitting up in bed. His eyes are half closed and he's mumbling. He swivels, drops his feet to the floor. He gets up then but falls.
I grab him and yell for Mom to help.
"Bathroom," he says, slurring.
We hoist him up and barely get him to the toilet before he's trying to throw up. I leave while he tries to pee. Mom comes out white-faced. "Blood," she says. Her eyes are wide and frantic. She looks like she's going to puke next.
Seconds later she's on the phone and I'm standing outside the bathroom, not wanting to look in, not knowing where the blood is. But I can't leave him alone. I go in and find him trying to pull his pants up while still seated. With my hand under his armpit and his other arm leaning for support on the bathroom counter, he and I manage to raise him to a standing position. I pull up his sweatpants and move him toward
the door, all the while knowing how necessary and yet surreal this is. I’m mortified. I’m sad. I’m shaking with fear.
Mom finds us, and we maneuver him, disoriented and heavy, into the car. I don't realize his foot is still hanging outside the car until I start to shut the passenger side door and he cries out.
"Sorry, Dad!" I lift the leg he can't seem to and look at him. "Sorry." He barely nods. His eyes open a sliver. I place my hands on either side of his face. "I love you, Dad. We're going to make you better."
He moves his head slightly left, then right in slow motion. "No. Don't want to go."
"It'll be better, Dad. I promise." I hesitate. "Okay?"
He doesn't respond, and I shut the door, hopping into the back seat.
Mom tosses an overnight bag next to me, sits behind the steering wheel, and takes a deep breath. I get my bag full of smiles and facial expressions from her. Right now she's put on her stone-faced and determined expression. Gone is the frazzled woman who was on the phone. She reverses, and we're on our way to the ER.
8
filled the room
Mom pulls up by the entrance, and without anyone saying a word, I get out and walk through the sliding doors where there are wheelchairs waiting, like they knew we'd be coming. As if they knew my dad's life would fall apart at the ripe old age of fifty. With heightened senses, I push one of the chairs out into the black, windy air, next to my dad's door. I open it, and Mom comes around to help me hoist Dad up and scoot him the two feet needed to seat him. For a moment Mom's eyes meet mine, and then she's inside the car, driving it toward the parking lot.
