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After that I had to get as far away from Luis as I could without leaving the market. I didn’t trust myself not to have some kind of breakdown. Just the effort of pretending nothing was wrong as I idly fingered a collection of old tobacco tins was making my chest hurt.
But he followed me, stood next to me and picked up a green tin, I think. I couldn’t see properly: my vision had become blurry.
“I didn’t know Isabelle had a boyfriend,” I said. The only mildly good news in this whole screwed-up scenario.
He made a sound like “Mmm?” and slipped his arm into mine. I pulled away. I had to. I reached for something else on the display table but I didn’t move away this time. I wanted to ask more, like, did they live together and were they engaged to be married, when he said, “Why did you do that?”
I waited a beat, confused. “You mean, invite her for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I don’t know. It just came out.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Why? Is there a problem?”
“No, there’s no problem. I would have preferred it if you checked with me first, that’s all.”
“Oh, I see.” Then for some unknown reason other than a deep-seated habitual response, I add, “Sorry.”
“That’s okay. It’s no problem. Just saying.”
I said I had a headache after that and lay on my bed all afternoon, one arm flung over my eyes. I couldn’t stop picturing that necklace around her thin white neck.
I got up eventually, and I was sitting at my dresser, my face buried in my hands, when Carla came into my room. I didn’t hear her until she put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I love you, Mommy.” I raised my head and ran both hands over my eyes before turning to face her.
“That’s so sweet, baby. Thank you. I love you too, baby girl.” I haven’t called her that in years. I snatched a tissue from the box and blew my nose. “Hay fever. In winter. I really need to get some antihistamines.” She put her arms around me and lay her head on my shoulder. “Hey, I’m okay, sweetie. Just trying to get rid of this runny nose! Whose turn is it to pick a movie tonight?” I hated myself for letting her see me like this. After she left, I washed my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I tried to see myself the way Isabelle might see me: Old. Boring. Ordinary. Unworthy. But I have children.Hischildren. And I will do anything to protect my family. I sat tall and pulled myself together; I thought of my mother, for some reason. Probably because she would find all this display of emotionweak. I gave myself a pep talk. I held my head high and pushed my shoulders back. I told myself to stop being so pathetic.
I’ll deal with Isabelle, I told myself in the mirror, close enough for my breath to leave a cloud of mist.I’ll deal with Isabelle. Then I wiped it with my hand and went downstairs to be with my family.
At work the next day, I’m walking down the corridor, coffee in a styrofoam cup in my hand. I have my sunglasses on because my eyes look red and tired.
“You look awful, you all right?” June asks. I give a quick shake of my head. I spot Melanie walking towards me with another girl I don’t recognize. When Melanie comes level with me she blows a small bubble of gum and pushes it out with her tongue. “You don’t look very happy, Mrs. S.”
“I’d be happier if you could submit your test on time, Melanie,” I say to her. “There won’t be another extension. You get that? I’ll fail you if you don’t deliver.” She scoffs as I walk right past and I stop her in her tracks with one hand on her shoulder.
She jerks back. “Jeez, Okay Mrs S! Keep your pants on!”
“Hey!” I snap, pointing an angry finger right into her face. “Don’t talk to me like that! Is that clear? I’m not one of your friends! I said, is that clear?”
The corners of her mouth drop. “Y-yes, I’m sorry.”
I turn back, walk around the corner and into my office. I drop my bag on my desk and set down my coffee next to it. Some of it has spilled on my fingers and I dig out a crumpled tissue from my pocket to wipe them. Then I drop it on the floor without looking where it lands.
I sit down heavily. My eyes are burning with the gallons of tears I’ve been holding back all the way here.
“What’s going on?” June asks. I didn’t hear her come in. I press my fingers into my eyes.
“I’m scared,” I wail.
“Why?”
“I think he’s going to leave me.”
“What?” She closes the door and sits opposite me. “What happened?”
I tell her about finding the receipt in Luis’s bag, about my visit to the jeweler. Then I tell her about running into Isabelle at the market. I tell her about Patrick. I describe the scene linearly, frame by frame, all the way to its shocking conclusion. It’s not that I want to relive it so much as I want June to know every little detail, so we can dissect and analyze and go over every moment with a fine-tooth comb until she points a way forward. A solution. A cupcake ending.
