At my sister’s engagement dinner, my father lifted his glass toward her fiancé’s family and said, “And Lakeisha here wipes asses for strangers. Somebody’s got to.” Her future father-in-law laughed so hard he had to put his wine down. I smiled and let him finish, and then my phone lit up on the tablecloth.
It was the ninth time I’d heard it from him with company present. I keep count, because nobody else does.
The first was the night I got my aide certificate, when he told the waitress I’d “majored in bedpans.”
The eighth was last Thanksgiving, in front of my cousin’s new boyfriend, between the turkey and the pie.
This one was in the back room of a steakhouse in Dayton.
Cloth napkins folded into little fans. Candles in glass cups.
Cara had already written “Cara Hamdan” twice in pen on the edge of her napkin, practicing.
She was twenty-nine and so happy she kept touching the ring to make sure it was still there.
I’d come straight from a client’s house in my blue scrubs, because the shift ran long.
My father noticed before I sat down.
“You couldn’t change?” he said.
“Mr. Tsai had a bad afternoon,” I said.
“Mr. Tsai always has a bad afternoon.”
Nick’s mother, Paulette, smiled at me across the bread basket. She was trying.
“Oh, so you’re a nurse?” she said.
“Home health aide.”
“Same job, cheaper badge,” my father said. “She drives around cleaning up after old folks. Butts, mostly.”
That’s when Mario laughed.
Nick’s father managed a bank branch out by the highway. He’d mentioned it three times before the salads came.
“Hey, hey,” he said, pointing his fork at me like a pen. “No shame in that. Somebody has to do the stuff nobody else will touch.”
Cara looked at her plate.
My mother, Kim, picked up her water and put it back down without drinking.
I could have let it go.
I’d let it go eight times.
But my day had started at a quarter to six.
I’d shaved Mr. Tsai, who is ninety-one and can’t lift his arms higher than his chest anymore.
I’d cut his toenails, which are so thick now they cracked my good clippers last month.
I’d washed his hair over the kitchen sink because he won’t get in the tub since the fall.
I’d fed him oatmeal, a spoonful and a wait and a spoonful, while he told me about his brother’s fishing boat for the hundredth time.
And yes, I’d cleaned him up after. Twice.
Because he’s a PERSON, and his body quit on him, and somebody has to show up.
So I put my fork down.
“I wiped a grown man this morning,” I said. “Then I shaved him, did his nails, washed his hair and fed him. He thanked me four times.”
“Okay,” my father said. “Nobody needs that at dinner.”
He glanced at Paulette like I’d embarrassed him in front of the good silverware.
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“It was a joke, Keisha. Lighten up.”
Mario was still chuckling into his napkin.
“Look,” he said. “All I’m saying, it’s not exactly a career. It’s a job. Jobs are fine.”
“Mario,” Paulette said.
“What? I’m being supportive.”
“See?” my father said. “He gets it.”
Nick rubbed the back of his neck.
I looked at Mario for a while. His tie had little anchors on it.
“I couldn’t do your job,” I said.
He grinned. “Numbers not your thing?”
“Lying isn’t,” I said. “I couldn’t sit across a desk from somebody’s grandma and sell her something I knew she didn’t need. I’d throw up.”
The room went quiet. Even the busboy stopped.
Somebody’s chair creaked.
Mario’s grin stayed on, but only on the bottom half of his face.
“Lakeisha,” Cara said. “Please. Not tonight.”
That one landed harder than anything our father ever said.
“Apologize to the man,” my father said.
“For what?”
“For running your mouth at your sister’s dinner. He’s family now.”
“He’s been family for an hour and a half.”
My mother put her hand on his sleeve. He moved his arm away.
Mario waved at all of us like he was being generous.
“She’s fine. She’s tired,” he said. “You’d be cranky too, all day in” — he wrinkled his nose — “whatever.”
Paulette closed her eyes.
Here’s what I’d never managed to say at any of those nine tables.
His job gets a plaque on the wall and a parking spot with his name on it.
Mine gets a punchline. From my own father. At a party.
And half the people I take care of used to have jobs exactly like Mario’s.
Nobody at that table had ever needed me.
I hoped they never would.
So I said that too.
“I hope none of you ever needs somebody like me,” I said. “I mean it. I hope you never wake up one day and can’t make it to the bathroom alone.”
Nobody laughed now.
“But if that day comes, a woman in scrubs is going to knock on your door. And she’s going to be gentle with you. She’s going to make a dumb joke so you don’t feel ashamed. She’s going to wash your hair like it’s the most normal thing in the world, because to her it is.”
My mother’s eyes were shining.
“SO MAYBE STOP SAYING IT LIKE IT’S DIRT.”
My father opened his mouth and shut it again.
Mario took a long drink of wine.
Nick finally looked at his father.
“With respect,” Mario said, setting the glass down slowly, “if we ever get there, we’ll hire people for that. Good people. Not some—”
He stopped.
“Not some what?” I said.
He reached for the bread.
Cara was crying a little, quietly, her ring hand pressed on the napkin over the two Hamdans she’d written.
I wanted to go to her. I didn’t know which side of the table I was supposed to be on.
That’s when my phone buzzed again on the tablecloth.
Ewa. My supervisor. She never calls after six unless somebody fell.
My father hates phones at dinner. I answered it anyway.
“Sorry, hon, I know it’s late,” she said. “New client, starting Monday. Eighty-four, hip replacement, coming home Sunday.”
“Okay.”
“Son called the office himself this afternoon. Very insistent. Said money’s no problem, he doesn’t want a rotating temp, he wants the BEST aide we’ve got.”
“Ewa, I’ve already got Mr. Tsai on Mondays.”
“I moved him. I’m giving this one to you.”
Across the table, Mario was telling Nick he’d take care of the check.
Paper rustled on Ewa’s end.
“Her name’s Beatrice,” she said. “Beatrice Hamdan. The son’s the contact. Mario.”
The phone beside my plate
“He’s sitting across from me,” I said.
Mario stopped reaching for the check.
“Who is?” Ewa said.
“The client’s son. His son is marrying my sister.”
I pushed my chair back and stood. Mario pointed at my phone.
“That’s the agency?”
I nodded, then walked into the hallway before he could join the call.
The woman he’d requested was me. Monday wasn’t some future day when a man like him might need help. It was four days away.
“I didn’t know about the family connection,” Ewa said. “Do you know his mother?”
“No.”
“Then don’t say yes at dinner. Call me tomorrow. We have coverage while we sort it out.”
Through the doorway, my father held both hands up toward Mario. Whatever explanation he was offering required a lot of elbow.
“The schedule includes more hours,” Ewa said. “An extra hundred and ninety-two a week before taxes. But we need a workable home.”
I could use a hundred and ninety-two dollars. My car had recently started making a sound that wasn’t included in the payments.
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
When I came back, Mario had his credit card between two fingers.
“Well,” he said. “Small world.”
Nobody reached for the bread now.
“Your mother deserves good care,” I said.
“Absolutely. That’s why I called.”
He waited. So did I.
I’d given him a whole sentence to step into. He could have said he’d been rude. He could have put down the card and looked at me.
Instead, he turned to my father.
“She is reliable, though?”
My father sat up straighter.
“Oh, she’s reliable. You don’t have to worry about that.”
He could recommend me to a stranger. Apparently he just couldn’t introduce me to one.
Then he offered Mario something that wasn’t his.
“Sunday’s her day off. She can come over and get your mother settled.”
Sunday on his phone
“Don’t put that in your phone,” I said.
Mario’s thumb kept moving.
My father gave me the look he used when I corrected him in front of somebody he wanted to impress. I knew that look better than my own driver’s license picture.
“Nobody’s asking you to work a whole shift.”
“You just offered my day.”
“We’re talking about helping family.”
Paulette put her hand over Mario’s phone.
“She hasn’t agreed.”
He pulled it toward himself.
“I’m just making a note.”
Across from him, my father smiled as though we’d reached the part where everybody thanked him.
On the night I got my certificate, years earlier, he’d held it by the corners so he wouldn’t bend it. Then the waitress came over and he made the bedpan joke. I laughed because he was paying for dinner, because he looked pleased, because I hadn’t yet worked out how often those things would be used together.
Now his hand rested beside another check.
Cara folded her napkin over the names she’d written.
“Can we please finish one nice evening?”
“I came here for that,” I said.
“Then sit down.”
I was still standing behind my chair. I sat because my feet hurt, which was a disappointing reason to lose a standoff.
Paulette turned toward me.
“We’re all going to Beatrice’s Sunday afternoon. Nick and Cara wanted to show her the ring. Your parents are coming.”
“Three o’clock,” my mother said. “I was going to tell you.”
“You can meet her then,” Mario said. “See the setup. We won’t make a production out of it.”
He could turn free work into a social invitation without even changing his face.
“Any work goes through my supervisor.”
“Of course,” he said. “I run a branch. I understand procedures.”
There was the branch again. If it came up once more, I was going to ask whether it needed watering.
My mother tried to catch my eye. I looked away. I loved her, but I couldn’t accept another face full of sympathy while Dad kept doing the talking.
Mario slid his card into the folder.
“Let’s put this behind us.”
“Which part?”
“The unpleasantness.”
He said it toward my end of the table.
Dad lifted his glass again, lower this time.
“Keisha will call you tomorrow. She’s better when she’s rested.”
I picked up my bag.
My father pointed toward the chair I’d just left.
“You don’t walk away while I’m speaking.”
The coat on my arm
I stayed beside the chair with my coat over one arm.
“I have an early start.”
“So do working people everywhere,” Dad said.
Mario gave a little laugh, then stopped when Paulette turned toward him.
I wanted to walk out. I also wanted Cara to get up and come with me, and wanting that made me feel about seven years old.
She stayed seated.
Nick stood instead.
“I’ll walk you out.”
“Sit down,” Mario said. “We’re trying to settle this.”
Nick remained halfway clear of his chair.
That was the family resemblance I hadn’t wanted to see. Two grown daughters, one grown son, and both fathers still taking attendance.
“I’ll call Ewa,” I said. “She handles assignments.”
Mario pressed the folder flat.
“That’s fine. But if you’re going to be in my mother’s house, I need to know we’re starting fresh.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means no attitude. No remarks about my work. My mother doesn’t need tension.”
“Neither did your future daughter-in-law’s sister.”
“Come on,” Dad said. “He laughed. You accused the man of cheating old ladies.”
That part was true. I’d wanted to hurt Mario, and I’d picked the thing he’d bragged about.
“I don’t know anything about your customers,” I said to him. “I shouldn’t have said I did.”
He sat back.
“Thank you.”
“I do know what you said about me.”
Dad spread his hands.
“You almost got there.”
My mother put her water down so hard it splashed her wrist.
“She apologized for what she said.”
“And now we’re moving on,” Dad said.
“Then you go,” she said.
For a second, he didn’t understand.
“Go where?”
“First. You apologize.”
Cara looked up. Nick stopped holding his chair.
Dad rubbed a finger around the base of his glass.
“I’m sorry she took it badly.”
“No,” I said.
His eyes came back to me.
I could have accepted it. That was the familiar exit. Let him give me something smaller than an apology and pretend it fit.
“I didn’t mishear you,” I said.
Mario pushed his chair away.
“This is getting ridiculous. I asked for an aide, not a family argument.”
“You got the argument free,” I said. “Dad likes to include extras.”
Cara made a sound that almost became a laugh. Then she covered her mouth and cried harder.
I hated that I could still make her laugh while she wouldn’t look at me.
Dad stood.
“We’ve all had enough.”
He reached for my coat as if helping me into it would put him back in charge. I moved it to my other arm.
Paulette came around the table and hugged me.
“I’m sorry,” she said against my shoulder.
Mario waited until she let go.
“Call your supervisor in the morning. Explain that we’ve sorted it out.”
“We haven’t.”
“Then explain that too.”
There was nothing loud about it. He even held the door.
In the parking lot, I sat in my car without starting it.
Cara’s message arrived before the restaurant door opened again.
“Please don’t call anybody until I’ve talked to you.”
Cara on my couch
On Thursday evening, Cara came to my apartment without Nick.
She sat on the end of my couch where she’d sat while we looked at bridesmaid dresses on her phone. This time she kept the phone in her purse.
“Did you talk to Ewa?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I know the family and there’s a conflict. I asked her not to finalize anything yet.”
Cara pressed her palms against her knees.
“Mario thinks you’re going to make a complaint.”
“He can think.”
“Keisha.”
There it was. Dad’s shortened version of my name in her mouth.
I went into the kitchen for water because I didn’t want to answer that version of her.
When I came back, she was standing.
“Don’t make me chase you around your apartment.”
“Then talk to me like my sister.”
“I am your sister. That’s why I’m here instead of letting this get worse.”
She took the glass but didn’t drink.
“Mario said he can overlook Wednesday if you call him.”
“Overlook what?”
“The banking thing. The shouting.”
“I apologized for the banking thing.”
“He wants you to mean it.”
I sat in the chair opposite her. My scrubs were still on. I hadn’t expected to need a costume change before answering my own door.
“What does Nick say?”
“He wants everybody to get along.”
“That’s convenient. Does he have a version with verbs?”
“Please don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make a joke when I’m trying to tell you something serious.”
I put my hands between my knees.
“All right. Tell me.”
She looked toward the door, though nobody was there.
“Sunday can settle it. You come over. You apologize properly. They apologize. Then you can start Monday, and we don’t have to carry this into the wedding.”
“They’ve agreed to apologize?”
“Nick said he’d talk to his dad.”
“And ours?”
“Mom will handle him.”
Everybody had a handler except me. I just had my sister on my couch with instructions.
“What happens if I don’t?”
Cara stared at the glass.
“I can’t have another scene.”
“At the wedding?”
“At anything.”
“Then tell Dad.”
“I have.”
“What did he say?”
“He said you enjoy making him look bad.”
That hurt enough that I leaned forward. My sister leaned back.
I’d cleaned up after strangers all day, and somehow my own apartment contained the biggest mess.
“Do you believe him?”
“No.”
“Then why are you asking me to apologize again?”
“Because you might actually do it.”
She began crying before I could answer.
I wanted to go to her. I wanted to sit beside her and rub her back until she could speak. My body was ready before the rest of me agreed.
I stayed in the chair.
Cara wiped her face with the heel of her hand.
“If you can’t even come Sunday and help fix this, I don’t think you can stand beside me at the wedding.”
I looked at her left hand. The ring was there. No restaurant napkin under it now.
“You’re taking me out?”
“I’m saying I need somebody who can support me.”
“Say it without making it sound like my decision.”
She covered her face.
I let her cry. That was the part I felt worst about afterward, worse than anything sharp I’d said.
After a while, she put the glass down.
“I don’t want you to be my maid of honor if this is how it’s going to be.”
I nodded once. Anything more would have come apart.
At the door, she turned.
“Three on Sunday. Please.”
After she left, my phone lit up.
The wedding chat had a new name at the top. Mine was gone.
Beatrice’s living room
On Sunday, I arrived at Beatrice’s house at three.
I’d spoken with Ewa again Friday. She’d listened without interrupting, then gone through Monday’s coverage with me. We settled the work part before I ever stepped onto Beatrice’s porch.
I wore jeans and carried no work bag.
Dad opened the door.
He looked me up and down.
“You could’ve dressed like you were serious.”
“Wednesday you wanted different clothes too.”
“Don’t start.”
Inside, Beatrice sat in an armchair with her walker within reach. Nick was showing her Cara’s ring. Paulette stood beside them.
Beatrice held Cara’s hand up.
“Does it catch on sweaters?”
“I haven’t tried.”
“You will. Don’t pull.”
I liked her immediately. Everybody else saw a diamond. She saw something that could ruin a cardigan.
Mario stood by the window with his phone.
“Good. We’re all here.”
My mother moved her purse off the seat beside her. I sat there.
Beatrice looked toward me.
“You’re Lakeisha.”
“Yes.”
“I hear you do home care.”
“I do.”
“I’ll need help. I don’t need somebody shouting at me from the kitchen like I’ve gone deaf.”
“Neither do I,” I said.
She smiled. Mario didn’t.
“Before we get into all that,” he said, “we need to clear something up.”
Paulette turned from the armchair.
“Your mother just got home.”
“And she deserves to know the person working here is comfortable with us.”
Dad sat forward.
“That’s all this is. A clean start.”
Cara stood beside Nick. Neither looked at me.
Mario held out his phone.
“I wrote something down. So nobody gets carried away.”
On the screen was a paragraph he wanted me to send to him and Ewa.
I read it twice.
It said I’d made personal accusations at a family dinner. It said I’d allowed a family disagreement to affect my professional judgment. It said I was grateful for the opportunity to care for his mother.
There wasn’t one word about what either man had said.
“You want me to put that in writing?”
“It’s an apology,” Mario said. “You work with vulnerable people. Surely you understand why trust matters.”
My mother reached for the phone. He drew it back.
“This is between me and Lakeisha.”
“You brought us here for it,” she said.
Dad turned toward me.
“Read it. Send it. Nobody has to lose anything.”
Cara’s hands were clasped in front of her. I knew what he meant by anything.
The extra money. My place beside my sister. Sunday afternoons when I could walk into my parents’ house without everybody bracing themselves.
Mario lowered the phone.
“I’m trying to offer you a way through this.”
“And if I don’t send it?”
“Then I’ll have to tell your supervisor I have concerns.”
Beatrice put her hand on the arm of her chair.
“What concerns?”
Mario faced her.
“Nothing you need to worry about, Mom.”
“You brought it into my living room.”
Dad gave her his company smile.
“Families get their wires crossed. My daughter can be a little proud.”
I pressed my thumbnail into the seam of my jeans.
Cara looked at me at last.
“Please,” she said.
I took Mario’s phone. For one stupid second, my thumb hovered over the words.
I could buy my way back in with a message I knew was false.
I handed it back.
Dad stood over me.
“Then don’t expect your sister to keep a place for you.”
Monday at eight
I stayed seated.
“Mario, who is coming here tomorrow morning?”
He frowned.
“You, if we can finish this like adults.”
“Check your message from Ewa.”
“I know what I arranged.”
“Check it.”
He opened the message. His thumb stopped.
Paulette came closer.
“What does it say?”
“Ewa’s coming herself,” he said.
“At eight,” I said. “She’ll cover while she matches your mother with a permanent aide. There won’t be a missed visit.”
He looked up.
“You refused the assignment?”
“On Friday.”
“And you let us sit here?”
“I came because Cara asked me to.”
Dad put his hands on his hips.
“You’d throw away work over a joke?”
“I’m keeping my regular clients.”
“And the extra hours?”
“I gave them up.”
A hundred and ninety-two dollars a week. I hadn’t rounded it down in my head. My car hadn’t stopped making its noise because I’d developed principles.
Mario’s phone was still in his hand.
“So what’s the point of this?”
I looked at my sister.
“I’d like you to hear what happened without my job attached to the answer.”
Nick moved away from the window.
Mario tried again.
“You could’ve told me. You made me look like I was threatening your employment.”
“You were,” Paulette said.
“I needed to know she could be professional with my mother.”
“She arranged for your mother to have care before she came here,” my mother said.
I hadn’t told her. Her hand closed over mine.
Beatrice shifted in her chair.
“Will somebody tell me what happened at this dinner?”
Mario started.
“We were joking about different kinds of work, and Lakeisha took offense—”
“No,” I said.
He looked at me.
I turned toward Dad.
“Tell her the joke.”
Nine times
Dad gave a little laugh.
“Oh, come on.”
Beatrice waited.
“It’s gotten blown out of proportion,” he said. “I made a remark about what she does, and she decided I was putting her down.”
“What remark?” Beatrice said.
“Mom,” Mario said. “You don’t need the whole thing.”
“I seem to need it more than anybody.”
Dad looked toward my mother. She didn’t help him.
Then he looked at Cara.
“Your sister knows I love her.”
“Tell it,” I said.
He pulled at the cuff of his shirt.
“I said she wipes asses for strangers.”
Beatrice’s hand stayed on the arm of her chair.
“That’s your joke?”
“Well, it sounds different now.”
“Same words,” I said.
Mario set his phone down.
“Nobody was making fun of my mother. She wasn’t even there.”
Paulette stepped away from him.
“You laughed until you put your glass down.”
“I laughed at the way he said it.”
“And then?” I said.
He pointed toward me.
“Then you called me a liar in front of my son.”
“I apologized.”
“You accused me of taking advantage of old people. You don’t know the first thing about my work.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
He waited for more. I gave him none.
Beatrice turned toward him.
“What did you say about hers?”
Mario rubbed his forehead.
“I said it was a job. Which it is.”
“You said it wasn’t a career,” Nick said.
Mario dropped his hand.
“Thank you, Nick. Very helpful.”
“You said we could hire good people if we needed them. Then you stopped.”
“I was trying to end the conversation.”
“And you called the agency before dinner,” Nick said.
“To get the best care for my mother. Yes. I’m not apologizing for that.”
“Nobody asked you to,” Paulette said.
Dad sat down again.
“This is enough. Keisha’s made her point.”
I looked at him.
“Nine times.”
He shook his head.
“You don’t keep a tally on your own father.”
“I do.”
“Name them, then.”
My mother turned toward him.
“Don’t.”
He mistook that for help.
“Exactly. We don’t need—”
“I remember the certificate dinner,” she said. “And Thanksgiving. I remember telling her in the car that you didn’t mean it.”
Her hand was still over mine. It shook.
“Kim.”
“I should’ve told you to stop.”
Dad’s mouth opened, but she stood before he could get the next word out.
“And I’m not doing that ride home again. Where you drive and I explain you to our daughter.”
Cara began crying.
Dad reached toward her.
“See what this is doing?”
She stepped out of reach.
“You told her she couldn’t stand beside me.”
“That was between you girls.”
“You just said it.”
“I was trying to get this settled.”
“With my wedding.”
He looked toward Nick, as though a man might be more reasonable about ownership.
Nick stayed beside Cara.
Mario picked up his phone.
“Fine. We’re sorry. Can everybody be satisfied now?”
Beatrice reached toward the walker, then left it where it was.
“Mario.”
“What, Mom?”
“Look at her.”
He did, briefly.
“All this fuss is unnecessary,” he said. “She won’t be working here. There’s no reason we can’t be civil at family occasions.”
Cara wiped her cheeks.
“Will you be civil at the wedding?”
“Of course.”
“No jokes about my sister?”
“Nobody’s planning—”
“No jokes about her work. No little remarks when she leaves the room. No telling me she’s difficult.”
Mario looked toward Dad.
Dad said, “Your father ought to be allowed to speak at your wedding.”
Cara shook her head.
“You won’t have a microphone.”
He stood.
“Excuse me?”
“Neither of you,” she said.
Mario’s face changed before Dad’s did.
Nick took Cara’s hand.
“We’ll tell people ourselves when we have something to announce. We’re not doing another dinner like Wednesday.”
“I hosted that dinner,” Mario said.
“I know,” Nick said.
“And this is what I get?”
“You got my sister sitting here with a written apology you wanted sent to her boss,” Cara said.
She came across the room to me.
“I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t make myself get up yet.
She crouched beside my chair.
“I took you out of the wedding because you were easier to push than Dad.”
Dad started to speak.
Cara put up a hand without looking at him.
“I need to say it.”
I wanted to say something that would hurt her the exact amount she’d hurt me. I had several choices ready.
Instead, I said, “You did.”
She nodded and cried.
My mother put a hand on her shoulder.
Mario was still standing, still holding the phone with that paragraph on it.
“I can’t undo a laugh,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Apologize without asking me for anything.”
He stared at me. Then at his son, who didn’t rescue him.
“I’m sorry I laughed at your work,” he said. “And I’m sorry I tried to make you send that message.”
He held the phone out, but I didn’t take it.
“Delete it.”
His thumb moved. He turned the screen toward me.
Gone.
Dad stood near the doorway.
“I never thought you were ashamed of your work, Keisha.”
“I’m not.”
“I was trying to be funny.”
“Try something else.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I won’t say it again.”
Mario reached for his jacket.
“I hope this was worth the trouble.”
I stood.
“Ask your mother.”
The door stayed open
Before anybody left that Sunday, Beatrice asked me to stay a minute.
Mario stopped by the door.
“You can wait outside,” she said.
He went. Dad followed him, without the usual conversation about whose car was parked where.
Beatrice held out her hand.
I took it and sat on the edge of the chair beside hers.
“I don’t want you thinking I’d be hard to work for,” she said.
“I don’t.”
“I do have opinions.”
“I charge the same for those.”
She laughed. Paulette covered her mouth, then laughed too.
“Will Ewa know what I need?” Beatrice said.
“She’ll go over it with you. You get to tell her what matters.”
“Good. I want to wash my own face while I can.”
“Tell her that first.”
Beatrice squeezed my hand.
“All right.”
No plea for me to change my mind. No claim that her son was good underneath. I appreciated both more than she could know.
In the hallway, Cara caught my sleeve.
“Will you stand beside me?”
I looked at Nick. He stayed where he was, close enough to hear.
“I don’t want to come back and spend the wedding waiting for a joke.”
“You won’t,” he said. “And I should’ve stood up Wednesday.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Cara held my sleeve with two fingers.
“You can think about it.”
“I will.”
It hurt her. She let me have it anyway.
Outside, Dad waited by his car. My mother walked past the passenger door and came to mine.
“I’ll ride with you,” she said.
Dad held out a hand toward her.
She kept walking.
I unlocked the car, and Mom got in beside me.
My blue scrubs
The following Wednesday, Dad came to my apartment just after I got home from work.
I answered in my blue scrubs.
He kept his eyes on my face.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
He stood beside the couch until I told him to sit. He’d never waited for that before. Usually he occupied my furniture like he’d cosigned it.
“I called Mario,” he said.
I stayed by the door.
“To say what?”
“That I started it. That there wasn’t anything wrong with your work or your conduct at work. I don’t know what he planned to tell anybody, but I told him that.”
“Good.”
“I said it with your mother there.”
That mattered. He knew it mattered.
He rubbed his palms on his trousers.
“Cara says I’m still not making a speech.”
“That’s between you and Cara.”
“I know.”
He waited, perhaps for me to say I’d talk to her. I put my keys down instead.
“And Mario?”
“Nick told him the same. No speeches.”
Two men who could turn a bread basket into a podium. Zero microphones. The wedding would survive.
Dad looked toward my work shoes by the door.
“Your mother told me about the extra hours.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I wasn’t offering money.”
“Good.”
He nodded, then looked at me again.
“Did Mr. Tsai have a better day?”
I nearly said it was none of his business. The sentence got as far as my teeth.
“He did.”
“I’m glad.”
We sat there for a while. He didn’t ask me to forgive him. He didn’t explain what men his age were like.
When he left, he carried my trash downstairs because I asked him to. No joke about what was in it.
By Friday, Cara and I were looking at dresses again. She’d come to my apartment with Nick, who went to pick up the alterations after she chose. My place beside her was mine because she’d asked and I’d said yes, after she left the choice alone.
I made her add me back to the wedding chat herself.
She did it while I sat beside her.
A week later, my parents came over before we all went to look at the ceremony room. I was running late from work, still in the same blue scrubs Dad had objected to at the steakhouse.
Cara stood in my hallway, fastening an earring.
Dad held the door while I searched my bag for my keys.
“They’re in your hand,” he said.
I looked down. They were.
“Don’t start.”
He smiled.
“I was going to say you look nice.”
“Then say that.”
“You look nice, Keisha.”
Cara reached for my arm.
I locked the door, tucked my keys into my pocket, and let my sister pull me close.
Send this to someone whose work deserves a thank-you instead of a joke.
Family disrespect and painful surprises seem to run deep in these stories – read about a son demanding rent after taking his parent’s $168,480 in mortgage money, or a husband who exposed his wife in the guys’ chat. There’s also a tense family story about a boy who wasn’t allowed near his sister.
