Chapter 12 Lee
Lee
Regan had told Lee they called her new neighborhood, Plaka, “The Neighborhood of the Gods,” but Lee was skeptical.
From the window of her taxi, Lee observed the crowded avenues surrounding the Acropolis.
Horns blared and motorbikes scarcely missed knocking down throngs of tourists and street performers like one hapless fellow juggling flaming torches (why?).
Actual antiquities were surrounded by modern buildings with bougainvillea-draped terraces, an appealing café here and there among the tables of crap for sale.
(Though Lee noted that one guy was hawking some cute leather sandals.) Lee’s driver stopped at the end of a precariously narrow cobblestone street.
“Can’t go farther,” he said, followed by the “yess-us” word that must mean “get out of my taxi.”
“Why not?” said Lee.
“Pedestrian only,” said the driver, pointing to a blue sign that read, incomprehensibly to Lee: Μ?νο Πεζο?.
The driver added, “Mono-pe-zee,” and lit a cigarette.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Lee. She hauled her bags out of the car with no help from the driver, who watched her struggle as he smoked, his elbow on his open windowsill.
Two wheelie bags behind her and a purse hanging across her chest, Lee hobbled down Regan’s street, Dionysiou Aeropagitou.
She located her sister’s address, a weathered but charming building.
In the front garden, a sleek cat lounged in a patch of sunlight between terra-cotta planters overflowing with jasmine. On a second-story balcony, two teenagers stared at their phones. Lee swallowed as it dawned on her that the teenagers were her nieces. “Isabelle? Flora?” called Lee.
They looked up from their glowing devices.
Isabelle wore a crop top that was way too cropped, bare feet, and loose pajama pants that belonged to her mother—Lee recognized them from a Christmas long ago when Charlotte had given her adult children matching pajamas.
Her hair was parted in the middle like Marcia in that old TV show The Brady Bunch.
Lee saw herself in Isabelle’s calculated dishevelment—the way she held her shoulders back a bit, the tilt of her chin that said, I know I’m beautiful and I know you’re looking.
Sixteen-year-old Flora was pudgy, as her mom had been.
Her too-small shorts cut into her thighs, and she wore Doc Martens boots.
Both girls gazed at Lee vacantly, and Lee felt the familiar sting of the girls’ careful remove, the way her younger niece, especially, always seemed to be bracing herself whenever Lee appeared.
What was it about Lee that made Flora reticent?
Lee flushed with middle school vulnerability: Why don’t they like me?
“Girls,” said Lee. Their wary expressions cracked, and they rushed down the stairs to Lee, claiming her with powerful hugs.
“Mom’s still not home,” whispered Isabelle. “Flora’s really scared.”
These poor pandemic children, thought Lee. Thank God I’m here to rescue them.