Chapter 3 #2
The waitress understands. She scribbles the order down quickly, then moves away.
I let the menu rest in my hands, my eyes drifting over the words without taking any of them in.
Dasha leans back and turns slightly, asking the man behind us for today’s newspaper, like this is just another morning.
She licks the tips of her fingers before opening the paper. Then she lifts the reading glasses hanging from her neck and settles them on her nose, scanning each page thoroughly.
I set the menu aside.
“You have to wake up, malyshka,“ she murmurs without looking at me, eyes still moving across the print. “It’s a harsh world, and you have no time to be miserable.”
“I thought I had everything figured out,” I say, watching her. “And now I realize all that everything is nothing at all. Or… not important.”
I blink, pressing my hands together in my lap.
“You need a job.” Dasha lowers the newspaper onto the table and finally looks at me. “Occupy your pretty little head with something else.”
“I don’t know anything else.” My shoulders lift in a small shrug.
She clicks her tongue and slides her glasses down her nose, peering at me over the frames. “Yes. Yes, you do.”
Her gaze drops back to the paper. She pushes it toward me, the edge brushes against the tip of my fingers.
“There are ads here. Read while I go use the restroom.” She stands, smoothing her clothes. “Being old comes with a bladder like a goldfish.”
A quiet chuckle follows her as she walks away.
I look down and spread the paper open. The pages feel thin, and I twist it and look at the back section. The date is stamped across the top.
April 10th, 1993.
Below it, rows of job listings blur together. People searching for secretaries, shop assistants, waitresses. I’m staring at the same words, and lines repeat over and over; experience required, references required.
My eyes start to drift, ready to give up, when something catches at the bottom of the page. In bold letters, it’s written: House sitter wanted for a cliffside mansion in Mendocino, California. Please call the number to schedule an interview.
My fingers pause on the paper.
Maybe this is what I need.
To be alone. To sit with whatever is left inside me and let it settle. To step away from a town that keeps pressing its memories against me.
There are more lines written below, but I ignore them.
I fold the newspaper in half and push myself up from the booth. My eyes move across the diner, searching for a phone I could use. It doesn’t take long to find one, mounted on the far wall near the end of the room.
I step away from the table and walk toward it.
The yellowish plastic of the receiver feels rough in my hand.
I press the numbers, matching them to the ad.
Each beep sounds agonizing as I keep my gaze fixed ahead on the faded yellow wallpaper, as the jukebox plays “Tears in Heaven” behind me.
My breath catches.
The ringing starts. I stand frozen. My gaze shifts to the framed pictures on the wall. There are small towns, lined up side by side. Some of them I recognize. On the left there is Eureka Springs, Boston is in the middle, and on the right, Salem.
Others feel unfamiliar. One frame pulls me in. A small plaque beneath it reads: La Maddalena, Italy.
The song fades somewhere in the background. Or maybe it’s still playing. I can’t tell. The ringing takes over.
In the glass of the frame, I catch reflections. People moving behind me, waitresses passing, and a man lifting his cup. But I stay still.
Then a voice cuts through.
“Rosewood Residence, how may I help you?”
“Hi,” I say, my voice growing quiet. “My name is Aurelia Vale, and I’m calling to check if the housesitting position is open.”
“Yes, it is,” she says.
Relief flickers.
“Okay,” I clear my throat, adjusting my grip on the receiver. “How do I apply?”
“You would need to come to the location for an interview,” she says.
My fingers shift against the cord, twisting it slightly.
“And when do I need to be there?”
“We are conducting interviews tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” My hand tightens around the phone. “That’s a little short notice.”
“The owner is…” she hesitates, just for a second, “away.”
Something in her voice makes my stomach dip.
“What time?”
“Seven in the morning?” she says, though it sounds more like she’s asking me.
I glance toward the clock on the wall. It’s already past ten.
If I want to make it on time, I would have to take a bus to California this afternoon.
“That’s… early,” I say.
Silence settles on the other end of the line. “It is the only time available.”
“Okay… I’ll be there,” I say softly.
“The address is listed in the ad,” she says. A pause. “And Miss Vale?”
“Yes?”
“…Do try not to be late.”
My throat tightens. “I will be on time.”
The line goes dead before I can say anything else.
I stay there for a second, the silence pressing into my ear, then slowly place the receiver back in its cradle.
When I turn around, Dasha is already watching me.
She leans back in the booth with a cigarette resting between her fingers, a thin trail of smoke curling up toward the ceiling. Her other hand wraps around a chipped coffee cup. She looks like she’s been here forever.
I walk back slowly and slide into the seat across from her, setting the newspaper down in front of me. My eyes scan around the diner. No one is paying attention.
Still, I check again.
Then I tear the last page from the newspaper, and fold it into a smaller piece before slipping it into my pocket. I smooth the rest of the paper out and push it aside.
Dasha raises a brow, taking a slow sip of her coffee. “I guess you found a job.”
Of course she figured it out.
“Yes.” I let out a smile. “But it’s in California.” I clear my throat. “Tomorrow. Seven in the morning.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly. “Did you ask for details?”
“No,” I admit. “But… I know it’s the best I can do.”
“1Davai.“ She sets her cup down and holds her hand out toward me. “Paper,2 malyshka.“ A quiet sigh leaves her. “I need to read that before I send you somewhere no one knows you exist.”
I pull the folded page from my pocket and hand it to her.
She scans it, then reads out loud. Her accent gets thick, words rounding at the edges.
“Large coastal residence seeking responsible individual to oversee private property. Duties include general upkeep, mail collection, and maintaining a presence on-site. Prior experience preferred. Call this number between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m. Interviews held at 917 Cypress Drive, Mendocino, California.”
She lowers the paper and looks at me, one brow lifting again.
“If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is.”
“The woman sounded serious on the phone.”
“They all do.” She hands the paper back and picks up her coffee again.
“Dasha, I’ll need your help finding a bus to California.” I tuck the paper into my pocket and reach for the small plastic bag instead. “And I need to sell the ring…”
I open it and place the contents on the table between us. The necklace first, then the ring.
I pick up the necklace and lift it toward my neck. A sharp breath slips out of me and pain shoots through my arms. I freeze halfway through the motion.
Dasha stands and steps in front of me, her fingers brushing lightly against my neck as she fastens the necklace.
“Let’s eat first,” she says, settling back into her seat. “Then we’ll find a pawn shop and a bus station.” Her eyes move to the clock before she nudges the plate of pancakes closer to me.
My stomach twists, unsure, but my eyes linger on the plate.
I pick up the fork.
The first bite is soft. The dough gives way easily, soaked in honey that sticks to my tongue. I close my eyes for a second. It’s the first proper meal since I woke up, and I’m glad it’s pancakes. The hospital food had been bland, all vegetables and thin soups that never tasted this good.
Dasha watches me with a smile. “Good, right?”
I take another bite.
“Yes.”
The waitress stops by a few times to refill her coffee. The cup never stays empty for long. Time stretches between sips and bites. And somewhere in it, the thought comes in. This might be my last meal with her for a while.
I glance at Dasha, at the way she leans back, cigarette forgotten between her fingers now, her attention half on me, half somewhere else.
It makes the thought in my chest tighter.
I guess, sometimes, the choices we make for ourselves look like this. Quiet. A little painful.
I won’t lose her.
I know that. And I know some goodbyes hurt. Even when they aren’t forever.
So, I just say to myself that I won’t see her for a while. But I will.
1. Give me
2. Little one