Chapter 8
Hellie
The Nite and Day twenty-four-hour diner where I work as a hostess a couple times a week is starting to get its first families
in the door. It’s just past noon, and the New Year’s Eve Brunch Family Special is definitely going to draw a crowd; unlimited
pancakes for five dollars a person, little packs of crayons for the kids to write their New Year’s wishes on the paper tablecloths
and buy-one-get-one mimosas cleverly called the Mom-mosa. The money isn’t as good as bartending, but the schedule is perfect
for me, starting at 6 a.m., just an hour after my bartending gig ends, so I can go straight from one to the other with a short
nap in my car until opening. I keep a pillow in the car for these in-between times.
A boisterous family of five comes in the door, laughing, bringing a wet slap of sleet onto the front mat. They’re wearing
matching Christmas pajamas under their coats. My hands count out the plastic menus without looking.
“Happy holidays! Table for five?”
“Yes, please,” says the dad with a friendly smile.
“Right this way. Let’s get you seated.” I lead them to my favorite booth, the bright corner one, freshly wiped down and ready.
They slide in with their chaos of jabbering and coats, and I distribute the menus and crayons, saving the last menu for the littlest kid, who I’m guessing is around eighteen months.
“Does he need a high chair?” I ask.
“I wish. It would make my life easier,” says the mom with a regretful smile. “But he hates high chairs. He’s convinced he’s a big kid.”
“Here you go, big guy,” I say, crouching down to hand him the menu and giving him a wink. He grins back as his fat hands fold
around the menu. I straighten up and smile. “Your server will be with you shortly. Enjoy your brunch.”
A chorus of thank-yous follows me as I force myself to walk straight to my hostess station without looking back at them. Their
youngest is about the age of my first Angel Baby. My second Angel Baby’s due date was a month ago. There’s a pang somewhere
between my ribs. I would’ve been on maternity leave now. Letting Doug wait on me hand and foot. Posting all those cute complain-y
posts on Facebook I’ve seen Olivia and Bunny share over the years. OMG why did no one tell me I will never sleep again. Or the sweet things Jenn always posts. The days are long but the years are short! Soaking up every #blessed moment!!!
Stop that. A quick mental slap and I’ve banished the what-ifs. They’ll be back, of course, they always come back, but I have a practiced
slapping hand.
I seat two more families and one couple. My shift is almost over. There’s a brief lull, so I pull my phone out of the wide
black pocket of my hostess apron. I check my phone a lot, which technically isn’t allowed, but I’m quick, and I’m discreet,
and anyway, I never get in trouble at my jobs. My supervisors always adore me. I get promoted practically without trying.
But I don’t want to get promoted. Or at least, it doesn’t thrill me like it used to.
What I want is to be lying on the couch with a newborn on my chest. I want it so bad sometimes it makes me think crazy.
One time, I actually pictured myself making a run for it with a customer’s baby.
Not good. I’m trying to find a therapist who takes Medicaid, but . . .
The FindMyMan app opens with a tap of my finger. There’s always a moment of panic as it loads. Let’s see. Let’s see if I get to keep on keeping on.
I gnaw on my lower lip. Wait. Wait some more. Oh . . .
The plummet of my heart is familiar, but it still feels horrible.
Okay, Hellie, don’t jump to conclusions too quickly . . .
I lift the phone closer to my face and expand the blue dot that is Doug, which is hovering over the Windsor Tavern on Franklin.
Which can’t possibly be right, because my husband is not only supposed to be at work, but he’s sober. Eighty-nine days. I’m
actually surprising him tomorrow with a ninety-day gift—a leather bracelet I ordered on Etsy with a hand-tooled charm of the
number ninety. Maybe the app isn’t loading . . . Maybe the Wi-Fi signal isn’t strong enough . . . I check the Wi-Fi. Five
bars.
“Hellie? Everything okay?” It’s my manager, Brie, but I don’t even attempt to hide my phone. Why hide anything now? My life
as I know it just ended in one silent, invisible explosion.
“Actually, something just came up,” I say. “Mind if I leave a few minutes early? My shift is almost over.”
“It’s no problem!” says Brie. That’s the other thing about being me. People love to accommodate me. I try not to take advantage
of this. Actually . . . I vaguely remember that Brie owes me anyway for covering a night shift last week and a morning shift
the week prior.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” I say. I can hear the strain in my own voice.
“It’s really no big deal,” says Brie. “Go take care of whatever it is. Hey—you got your big party tonight, right? Which dress
did you go with? The red one or the green one?”
“The green one.”
“Send pics, okay?”
“I will,” I promise before making my exit.
I whip off my apron as soon as I’m outside. The bells jingle behind me as I make for my car, hunching my shoulders against
the cold since I didn’t bring my coat. I had planned on going straight home after my shift and catching a few winks before
it was time to get dressed for the New Year’s party.
I’d planned on . . . If I ever wrote out the story of my life, that would be the opening of every chapter. The last seventeen years’ worth of chapters
have all been with Doug. It feels strange to know that I’m probably entering the last pages of our story.
There have been times I’ve imagined this, reaching the end of us, and sometimes it tasted like relief. Like a really deep
sigh. Not like happiness, not that, but maybe like . . . rest.
Instead, it tastes like something very different. Not dread, though there sure is some dread . . . not even disappointment,
though that’s there too . . .
I get into my car and grip the steering wheel, squeezing as tight as I can. I stare at my hands and the yellow-white knuckles
that look like they’re about to burst through the skin. Those pale, worn, bony hands . . . they can’t possibly be mine. I
have young hands, soft hands, inexperienced hands. Hands that have yet to hold a baby. Sure, they’re hands that have washed dishes and
poured drinks and served customers, they’re working hands, but they have yet to do the work that I want to do with them. They
can’t be wasted and old yet.
No, reaching the end doesn’t taste like relief, or rest. It tastes like anger. Deep acidic anger, burning away everything
I’ve worked for my entire life, everything I’ve invested in, and burning me away too—my entire identity, everything dissolving
into that blue dot on that stupid app that’s not moving when it’s supposed to be moving.
I briefly consider calling Doug . . . but what would I say? Why aren’t you at work? Would he lie, try to say he’s with a customer, or at the office? Do I want to explain that I’ve been tracking his location for the past year and a half?
I start the car, but I don’t put it in Drive yet. I pull the bracelet out of my purse and stroke its soft band, gently scraping
my nail against the little ridges of the ninety on the charm.
Maybe I should let it go. Go home, take a nap. Wait to see if Doug is honest about his day when he comes home. Wait to see
if there’s some mistake, some explanation that makes sense . . .
But I’ve been hunting for the truth for too long, and like a trained dog, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep with the scent
of deception in my nose.
I stuff the bracelet back into my purse. Put the car in Drive. Pull out of the parking lot. And instead of heading east toward
home, I head west.
Toward the truth.