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Chapter 1
I’m looking at my own reflection in the mirror, almost not recognizing myself. Are those my own blushing red cheeks? Are those my thighs peeking from the dress which is now just a little shorter than the dresses I usually wear? The lip balm is glistening on my full lips, like words of a long-forgotten song, whose melody keeps ringing in my mind.
I can feel myself shaking a little. But, it’s a good kind of shaking. It’s that excitement merged with a little bit of fear and anxiety, which keeps you on your feet when you need it the most. It keeps you alert. It keeps you guessing. I wonder if any of my clumsiness will show during the interview. Will I say something stupid and they’ll just take one long look at me and realize that it was a mistake to bring me over?
I look down at my bare feet, at the scratched red toenail polish that needs to be retouched. I figure, I’ll just leave it for when I get to my sister’s place. It’ll be a nice chance to catch up the first night of my stay there. We can do our nails, a little Mani Pedi session. I’ll probably be a nervous wreck by that point and I’ll need Vanessa to calm me down.
She always knew how to do that, ever since we were kids. Even though the difference between us is three years, it always felt like three months. I guess she's always been a little childish and I’ve always been a little mature for my age, so we just meet in the middle somewhere. At least, that’s what she always says. I just agree.
I glance to my left. My suitcase is on the bed, still open. It’s only half full. I’ve packed three blouses, a white one, a pale pink one with bows and a royal blue blouse with short sleeves. There’s also one dress and a pair of pants. Bras, panties and girl necessities are all on the bottom, hidden. I’ll never make the same mistake as that first time I traveled with a bus when I was sixteen. I packed my bras on top and just carelessly closed the suitcase. When the bus driver was taking all the suitcases out, something clicked with mine and it just opened by itself, my bras flying out onto the street, for all the world to see. I don’t think I’ve ever been more humiliated in my life. Vanessa thinks it’s hilarious, of course. Even my mom was chuckling a little when I was retelling the story. I’ve shared it five times so far and l still don’t think it’s funny. Maybe when I tell it more than ten times, I’ll see the humor in it.
Suddenly, I hear a gentle knock on the door. There is only one person it could be. I don’t know why she’s knocking. But I appreciate it. I always have and I know that Vanessa did, too. At a time when our girlfriends were telling us their horror stories about parents, moms especially, who would sneak into their rooms and secretly read their diaries and check stuff underneath their beds and pillows, Vanessa and I were grateful that our mother has always trusted us enough to make our own decisions. Of course, she’s always there when we need her, but she believes that we need to be allowed to make our own decisions and thus, learn from our own mistakes.
It is this kind of thinking that led to Vanessa growing up to be a self-confident woman with a brisk tongue. She always has a perfect comeback to whatever someone says to her. It’s amazing, because you’d never expect that from someone like her. She looks as dainty as a daisy and yet, she roars like a lion. As for me, I’m a daisy alright. Minus the lion. It’s like I know I can roar, but I can never find that earth-shattering voice that would make the whole jungle tremble. When I try it, all I hear is a cute meow, which makes people think I’m a little darling that needs to be protected, because I can’t take proper care of myself on my own. I hate that. And, I hate that I don’t know how to change it.
“Isabel, may I come in?” I hear my mother say.
Turning to the door, I just nod at her. She pushes the door open slowly, as if it takes a great effort. She is a small statured woman and the years of her life have written more than one story on her face. A woman who buried her husband, her soul mate, her best friend, usually has no more stories left in her. Her face is somehow stuck in a Mona Lisa smile and if she isn’t really saying something, you never know if she agrees with you or not. But, she listens and sometimes, that is more than enough.
She comes in and sits on the bed right next to the suitcase. She doesn’t even look at it. Instead, she is focused on the opposite side of the girly bedroom, where the other bed is situated. That bed looks like it’s waiting for someone to return, like a faithful dog who is waiting for its master to come back from the war, perpetually eyeing the door. The embroidered pillow sits in the same place and the blanket is rarely moved, even on a cold night.
“Why don’t you come with me?” I repeat the question I’ve been asking for the last two weeks.
I know she’s thinking of Vanessa often, wondering if her little girl is alright in the big city, if she is eating a home cooked meal every now and again. Now, she can’t control that anymore, but her mother’s heart will never stop worrying.
“I can’t get any days off work,” she gives me the same dry answer.
We both know those people she works for, sewing clothes for one of the most popular brands in the country, are paying her miserably. But she thinks it’s the best she can do. I want to tell her that she’s wrong, but the lines on her face tell me that she has lost the will to fight. She has taken her defeat with dignity and plans on leaving the stage in the same way. Vanessa and I just need to respect that, even though we don’t like it.
“I wish I could go with you,” she tells me, as she gets up and walks over to me.
She caresses my cheek with her hand and I can feel how dry it is. It takes all my willpower not to burst into tears, knowing that those sweet dry hands would absorb them all into herself and make it all better. For a moment or two, I even consider not going. I’m almost ready to shout it out and just unpack my suitcase. No one would hold it against me. I could just forget about this whole silly thing. But I don’t say anything. I just stand there, biting my lower lip.
My mother takes a step back and I know she can read me like an open book. Her fingertips have trailed the worry that is written in Braille all over my face. I don’t need to say anything. She just knows. A mother always knows.
“You know, you don’t have to go, if you don’t want to,” she tells me.
So far, she has only been thinking it, never saying it out loud. But I remember all those poorly paid waitressing jobs and I know that I’ll never get enough to go to college, which has been my dream. My goal. I’ve always wanted to be a vet. Coming from a small town, with zero opportunities, it was close to impossible to get a scholarship. Paying for the whole thing? Forget about it. We can barely make ends meet. Now that it’s only mother and me, I know it’ll be hard on her, but I need to go. I need to follow my own dreams, even though my love for her is gripping at me, clutching hard, digging its fingernails deep into my flesh. Anything to make me stay. But I must go. I keep reminding myself that if I finish school and get a good job, I would be able to help her financially. Maybe even get her to move in with me in the city, so all three of us could be together in one place. That thought soothes me. It calms down my beating heart and I can think straight again. I know why I’m doing this.
“I need to take the first step, mom,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her neck.
She smells like washing soap and apples, those red ones that still grow in the back of our yard, hanging heavily on old, worn out trees that are barely able to hold themselves up. The orchard used to be filled with all kinds of fruit, now, all we have left are a few diseased trees.
“Call me when you get there, alright?” she whispers back and I can hear her voice trembling.
I’m afraid to close my eyes, because the flood of tears I’ve been keeping inside will burst out of me and I won’t leave. I know I won’t. So, I give her a quick peck on the cheek, turn around quickly, grab my suitcase and rush out of the house, even though I still had more than an hour to kill before the bus arrives.
Chapter 2
It’s exactly four in the afternoon, as I find myself sitting in a small, but cozy apartment. A big sofa is taking up most of the middle section and I rest my feet politely on the yellow and green checkered carpet underneath. To my right, there is a little side table, with a classic lamp. A dried-out ringlet of a coffee cup is resting on the laminated surface. I smile. My sister is never that bothered by such things.
Opposite me is a TV set, mounted onto the wall. In the far end of the room, my sister is hovering over the kitchen counter, making us some coffee. The sandwiches are all nicely placed on a long plate, with red napkins next to it. I see her from behind and her pony tail is swaying left and right. She is wearing a simple t-shirt and a pair of cutoff shorts. It looks like she’s lost some weight and I know mother wouldn’t approve of it. But I don’t say anything. It’s not my place.
“I put some sugar and cream, just as you like it,” Vanessa turns around and walks over to me, with two cups in her hand, offering me one.
She is smiling. I try to remember when the last time I saw her smile like this was, but I can’t. She looks happier. She looks like the life she has created for herself here is better than her old one. It hurts me a little. I feel like this new life has no room for me in it, but then, I remind myself that I’m being silly. She’s my sister. Nothing can change that. Nothing.
“Thanks,” I tell her, taking a sip of my coffee.
The warm, milky sensation washes over my throat and I remember the old days, when all three of us would drink our morning coffees on the veranda. Mother in her squeaky rocking chair and the two of us on the chairs to her side, gazing into the distance, at nothing in particular. But I was happy. I was happy in a way only a child could be, needing only the love of her family and nothing else. Then, I was a year older. And, another year. And, another. Soon, that love was welcome and needed, but it wasn’t the only thing that was essential for real happiness. The child in me grew up into an adult who now knows there are different aspects of happiness and one should strive for them all. It’s all or nothing.
“You excited?” Vanessa asks me, sitting on the armchair and crossing her long legs.
I wonder why she never wanted to be a model. She certainly has the looks for it. Dark hair, olive complexion, green eyes. That flicker of mischievousness in the corner of her lips when she smiles. I could almost see her. But it never even crossed her mind. She was lucky enough to find a job as a secretary in some small law firm. They also offered her to finish some online courses, attend some seminars and learn more about her job, which she a
ccepted with gratitude. She is happy. I can see it even without asking her.
“Nervous,” I admit, putting the cup down exactly on the circle of that previously dried coffee.
“Why?” she wonders and there is a tone of worry in her voice. “You asked around about the agency, didn't you?”
