Us After You

by Claudia Burgoa

  “Oh, right,” she says. “How’s Grandpa doing?”

  “Better. His speech is improving,” I answer, glad that she at least acknowledges that I’m here for a good reason and don’t have the time to be at her beck and call.

  “And Grandma?”

  “She’s worried about him and the business. I’m finding ways to do his job without leaving the country or the state. Actually, not even the city. They need me.”

  Grandpa used to travel a lot in search of the rarest editions of books. Now, he’s confined to his house, and I’m trying my best to help, but it’s taking me longer than I thought to get the hang of their business.

  On top of that, I have to keep up with my own business. Thankfully, creating websites and maintaining them is something I love to do, so it’s not a hardship.

  Who needs sleep, right?

  “Thank you for doing this for me,” she says. “Since I’ll be closer, I’ll try to visit you guys.”

  Please don’t, I think to myself. I love her dearly, but she’s a lot of work.

  Resigned that I have no choice but to help her, I say, “Okay, email me everything you have, and we’ll find a way to return the presents. Maybe I’ll just email the guests about the cancellation and hire a personal assistant to return the gifts.”

  “Mom’s not going to like it,” she states the obvious.

  I chuckle. “No matter how I do it, she’ll criticize it. At least let me be practical.”

  “Thank you for always being there for me,” she says, and I can’t help but think when will she be there for anyone?

  7

  Sage

  What’s the rush to become an adult?

  I remember back when I was a kid and my biggest worry was which one of my parents was in charge of breakfast. Dad would place a box of corn flakes, a pint of berries, and milk on the table.

  Mom was a different story. If she wasn’t in a hurry, she’d bake biscuits, scramble eggs, and fry some bacon.

  If she was in a hurry, she’d call the housekeeper and ask her to buy us a bagel on our way to school. Those were my favorite days because she’d stop at the donut shop and get us hot chocolate and whichever donut we wanted. Neither one of us kids liked bagels, and she also liked to contradict Mom.

  I always chose a chocolate frosted donut with sprinkles on top. My favorite. The best way to eat them is by licking all the icing and then munching the delicious fried dough.

  Our only job as children was to get good grades, keep our rooms clean, and make sure we didn’t disturb our parents. I tried my best to follow the few rules they had. Secretly, I couldn’t wait to grow up and become independent.

  Back then, it seemed like being an adult was not only easier but fulfilling. Adults made their own decisions. They could choose their meals, their outfits, and go to bed as late as three in the morning.

  Adulting isn’t anywhere near what I thought. As children, we believe that becoming an adult is going to be different from our childhoods.

  No one tells us that growing up is more than living on your own, buying expensive clothes that you can barely afford, or eating brownies with vanilla ice cream at midnight.

  Chocolate donuts are still my favorites, but if I eat more than one in a day, I have to spend some extra time on the elliptical.

  Yes, we get to make our own decisions, but there’s always a price tag behind each one of them. One wrong move and the consequences can be catastrophic. There’re taxes to file, bills to pay, and less free time to do what we like.

  As we grow, life gets harder and harder. We have less time to indulge on what we once thought would be freedom. You become the caregiver of those who cared for you while growing up, and you worry if what you’re doing is enough to help them.

  “How are things today, dear?” my grandmother asks as I’m going through our inventory.

  “Better than usual,” I answer. “I'm still tracking that J. K. Rowling first edition for one of our clients.”

  She smiles and nods. “I don't know what we would do without you.”

  Or what I’d do without them. When I moved to help my grandparents, I wasn’t sure how things would work out because I knew nothing about running a bookstore. Let alone one that also carries antiques and looks for special editions.

  Grandpa used to travel to the most obscure cities in the world in the search of unique editions of books. After his stroke, I digitalized those searches. Together, we've been creating a different kind of shop.

  Since our town is touristy, I added knick-knacks and souvenirs too. Anything in the name of bringing more customers and making more money to pay for Grandpa’s therapies.

  “That’s the store, but how about you? How are you doing? Sometimes, I wonder if you should go back to New York. It seems like you’re alone in this town.”

  “I have you,” I answer, because the question of my wellbeing is hard to answer.

  The truth is I’m not sure how I’m doing.

  I stopped asking myself that question a long time ago. I've learned for years that the best way to survive is living in denial. Some people choose to hide their feelings to make it through the day. I am some people. The beauty about it, those who don’t know me well, believe my lies.

  How am I?

  Lonely.

  Still hurting from my divorce.

  Not because I miss my ex-husband. But for everything I lost during our marriage. My worth, confidence, and … I work hard to keep my spirits high. I keep going to the self-help section of the bookstore and grab books that’ll help me heal.

  One day I’ll be better. I’ll believe in myself. For now, my grandparents have to think I’m fine.

  It’s human nature. We believe what we want to believe. And it works. We lie to ourselves. We lie to our loved ones. The lies are told so many times and so often that at some point the lies seem like the truth.

  We lie so often that we don't recognize the truth when it’s right in front of our faces. Maybe Grandma is right about me needing someone to chat with. My loneliness is more than just having a friend to grab coffee with on a Saturday morning. I haven’t done a girls’ night out since … forever. I’m friendly with the people in town, but I haven’t made new friends.

  Perhaps she knows I'm not alright, but she prefers to choose my truth. I take hers every morning. She's fine. She's not worried, and she’s handling it.

  I know she's concerned about Grandpa. His speech is slowly coming back, the same goes for his mobility. But it's a slow road. I guess it's painful to see the love of her life suffering the way Grandpa is.

  “And we’re happy to have you, dear,” she answers, and we’re back to being content and not having a problem.

  I go back to work and begin by checking my email. The infamous T. Bradley.

  Well, he’s not famous, but he’s one of the most important clients we have. He’s always looking for something unique, old—and most importantly, expensive.

  To: A Likely Story Bookstore

  From: T. Bradley

  Subject: JK’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard rare edition?

  I wanted to check the status of my latest order. We’d like to have it for Christmas, but if it’s not possible, please let us know.

  Best Regards

  I grunt and check the rest of my emails, hoping for a miracle. Only seven copies were made. No one has found this precious book yet, and a month might not be enough. Who does he want this book for?

  To: T. Bradley

  From: A Likely Story Bookstore

  Subject: (re) JK’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard rare edition?

  As you know, the book you’re looking for is hard to locate. Unfortunately, I can’t guarantee to have it by December. However, I have a pristine first edition signed by JK Rowling of Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone.

  Please let us know how you want us to proceed.

  Regards,

  ALSB

  To: A Likely Story Bookstore

  From: T. Bradley

>   Subject: Proceed with caution

  Just keep searching. Christmas is ideal, but not the end of the world. If that’s not possible, maybe we can shoot for April. I’m sending a list of some other books I’d like to acquire.

  Best Regards

  My phone rings almost at the same time I close my email.

  “Hello, Sienna,” I greet her. “It’s been a long time.”

  “We talked around Labor Day weekend,” she reminds me. I don’t tell her it was Fourth of July.

  It’s been six months since she moved to California, and even though she promised to visit, she hasn’t done it yet.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “Great. Have I told you I met someone?”

  “Is this a new someone or the same guy you were hanging out with this past summer?”

  She giggles. “Yeah, that same guy.”

  “Will I ever get to meet him?”

  “Maybe soon, I’m not sure. We’re trying to keep this under wraps.”

  What I’d like to tell her, do not get involved with a married man. If he doesn’t do public, he has another life.

  What I actually tell her, “Let me know when I’ll get to meet this mystery guy.”

  “Soonish,” she answers, and I don’t understand what that means. Next week or maybe in a few years after he divorces his current wife.

  “How’s the new job?” I change the conversation because I don’t have a dating life, and this discussion would end up in something along the lines of, you’re a pathetic loser who should get out more.

  Followed by her best advice: Try to fuck a tourist. It’s almost ski season. Why not try a different skier a weekend?

  “It’s not new. I’ve been here for six months,” she clarifies. “They like me. It’s different from what I used to do in New York.”

  A socialite working at a practice who only accepted celebrities? Sienna is a good person. She means well, but she’s a celebrity junky.

  “You sound happy,” I add.

  “Over the moon. This second chance is so much more than I bargained for, Sage. I can see myself married and having children in a few years.”

  “Whoa. Is that because of the air in California or the man you met?”

  “Both,” she declares.

  “Well, then, make sure I meet him before you say ‘I do,’” I say casually, when, in fact, I want to ask for his driver’s license and social security number to run a background and criminal check.

  A half hour after I closed the bookstore, I arrive home. Pretty pathetic, huh? I don’t have much going on for me. Maybe I should take up yoga, calligraphy, or … what are those classes Mrs. Jones is giving at the ski resort?

  I think it was Reiki. I check on my phone since she placed an order of books with us. I confirm it is Reiki. She explained it as a form of alternative medicine. It’s a Japanese technique for stress reduction, relaxation, and healing. It treats the body, emotions, mind, and spirit.

  She mentioned I could use it to help my grandfather heal. There’s Zumba at the YMCA every morning. The cross-stitch club meets at church every Friday.

  Nothing stands out for me. Maybe I should just try them all. Since we own a bookstore, I should start a book club. Books, tea, and wine. No one says no to wine. Anything to stop these boring evenings. Going to bed at eight o’clock doesn’t sound spectacular.

  What am I supposed to tell my children when they ask, “Mom, how did you spend your twenties?”

  I check the time and realize it should be around noon in Singapore. It seems like the perfect time to call my brother, Dexter.

  “And people say miracles don’t exist,” he jokes when he answers.

  “Still trying for funniest man in the world, I see,” I joke.

  “Not funny. To what do I owe the privilege of your voice?” he asks.

  I sigh and tell him about Sienna’s new beau.

  “Wait. Sienna met a nice guy, and you don’t approve?” Dexter says after I tell him how they can’t be seen out in public, and she’s already talking about babies and marriage. “Shocking.”

  “They just met.”

  “Last summer,” he interrupts. “And she won’t marry him for years. You’re right. It’s scandalous.”

  “Still, this doesn’t sound right,” I press.

  “Sometimes it doesn’t take long to realize the person you’re with is the love of your life.”

  “Lucky you. You met the love of your life in high school.”

  “Middle school, but who is really keeping track,” he reminds me.

  “You, obviously,” I sigh, wondering if I’ll ever find someone like Cam, his husband.

  Well, not like Cam, but the love of my life.

  Did I ever think Douglas was the love of my life?

  It’s hard to remember when all I carry from our relationship are the scars I got from it. Which is why I need to figure out who this guy is Sienna is falling madly in love with.

  “We have to find out who this Patrick guy is,” I tell him. “Where did she meet him?”

  “Must be some trust fund baby who surfs in Huntington Beach or Malibu,” he says. “Not that our parents will accept him. They’re still trying to find a Kennedy for you.”

  “Aren’t those already off the market?”

  “A cousin twice removed?” he asks. “I’m hoping you’ll have the 9-1-1 about this Patrick guy. Maybe it’s Patrick Schwarzenegger. He’s a Kennedy.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something,” I say and then try to remember his age. “Isn’t he like twenty? She’s ten years older than him.”

  “Ooh, our sister is a cougar,” he says mockingly. “The harlot.”

  “Stop mocking me,” I complain.

  “Sage, I have to go, but call me if you need me.”

  “Take care, and say hi to Cam for me.”

  “You got it.”

  Who are you dating, Sienna?

  8

  Sage

  Tension curls in my shoulders as I head back to my apartment. Every step it grows thicker. If I were in New York, I’d be pulling my pepper spray from my purse, but I got rid of that when I moved to Oregon.

  Here, we are on the lookout for opossums or raccoons rummaging through the garbage. Or bats, who scare the crap out of you because you never saw them coming—but they are harmless.

  When I reach the complex, I spot him. It’s not hard since Douglas Earnest Rosedale Ritzy III is the only smug-looking guy in all Baker’s Creek. Or at least around this area.

  It’s the whole three-piece suit. His sleek dark blond hair is perfectly combed, and those dark beady eyes stare at me like a hawk waiting for his prey.

  “Have you forgotten about the restraining order?”

  He smirks. “You did, because I wasn’t served with a new one.”

  Warily, I pull my phone and check the date on the last restraining order. Fuck, it expired more than three months ago.

  God, how can I be so forgetful. Because who’d think that this man would come back into my life?

  Isn’t it time to let me go?

  He broke me, and there’s not much left of the woman he married.

  What else does he want?

  I breathe deeply. There’s so much more than the old Sage. I’m a different woman. He didn’t kill me.

  I’m stronger.

  This time I won’t let him intimidate me. This time panic won’t send me spiraling down into an anxiety attack. Strength. I touch my wrist where the word is tattooed, along with the words determination and love.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Come back to New York,” he says, his voice neutral, giving nothing away.

  I eye him suspiciously because this guy always has an ulterior motive.

  “This is where I live,” I state. “I don’t have anything in New York.”

  “Look, I can see why you thought our marriage wasn’t working,” he says. I don’t laugh even when I want to.

  The last thing I want is to push his buttons. On
e wrong move, one wrong word, or one glance and his mood could change. He’s volatile. A ticking bomb, and I got away from him because the last time he exploded I barely made it out alive.

  Maybe I should just call the police and … but I can’t have him arrested because, so far, he hasn’t done anything.

  This is the thing about men like him. They know the tricks, the loopholes, the fine print.

  It’s not abuse if they can’t see a mark on your skin. If they didn’t kill you while drowning you. If you seem fine after being locked in your room for a week—for greeting the doorman.

  As long as you don’t have proof, they can continue their abuse, and you don’t have anyone on your side.

  Not even your parents.

  Thinking about my life with him sends a tremor through my body that threatens to paralyze me. Then I remind myself that I’m stronger. He didn’t win, and he will never have the power he had over me.

  To think that I loved him once, that I trusted him to love me. I take a good look at him, and I don’t feel anything for him. The old me is still terrified of what he is capable of doing.

  This new version of myself doesn’t care. His words won’t destroy me, and I can outrun him if he tries to touch me.

  Okay, maybe I regret not carrying my pocketknife. Not to kill him. Yes, I confess there was a time I didn’t care if I ended up in jail for giving this man a piece of what he deserves.

  “Leave, Douglas. I’ll make sure to file a new restraining order tonight,” I tell him, since the man only obeys the law.

  God fucking knows it’d be social suicide if he ends up in jail. The only reason I kept part of his assets was to shut me up about the real reason we divorced.

  “Not sure if I should be thankful for the last time you attacked me or not. The bruises were bad enough to convince a judge I was in danger. I’m not going to—”

  “I’m a changed man, Sage,” he interrupts me. “You have to give me another chance. I love you.”

  There’s an edge on those last words that accelerate my pulse. He’s starting to lose his composure. What if I try to run to the police station? It’s just a couple of blocks from here. No. I’ll be firm.