by Sandra Cunha
“And I’ll be an auntie! All right, call me if anything starts to happen.”
“I will. Or I’ll try. I have no idea what it’ll actually be like. But Matt will call if I can’t.”
“It’s so exciting!”
Betty laughs. “Yeah, and a bit scary. Bye, Erin. Love you.”
“Love you . . . always!”
Almost as soon as I’ve ended the call with her, another one comes through. This time, it’s a blocked number.
“Hello,” I say with bated breath.
“Erin, it’s Frankie. How you doing, kid?”
I’ve made my way to the kitchen. I can’t have this conversation in front of Gloria.
“Frankie? How—how are you?” I ask in a whisper.
How did he get my number?
Mila. She must have given it to him.
Ah, jeez, why is he calling me after so long?
“I’m good,” he says. “Business is good.”
“Um, good. So . . . what can I do for you?”
Eek. I shouldn’t have offered to do anything for him. He may give me another “job,” and I’m no longer in the mysterious package delivery business.
“I think it’s more like what can I do for you.”
What’s he talking about?
Then, I remember Mila saying a few weeks ago that he could help us find a new workspace. “Oh, right, about that. I’m on top of it. I don’t need your help anymore.”
“So let me get this straight, you don’t want the Chanel bag?” he asks, sounding confused.
Wait. What?
I’m connecting the dots. (I’m a little slow at these things.) “You’re Alto? Frankie Alto?”
“The one and only. So do you want the bag or not?”
“You still have it?”
“It’s been sitting in my hall closet for years. I bought it for this woman I was seeing. She wore it, once or twice, then said it wasn’t her style. How did you know I had it? Mila tell you?”
How doesn’t he know? He knows everything.
“No, it wasn’t Mila. Um, that bag belonged to my mom. She sold it to you. Years ago. Do you remember?”
“That bag belonged to your mother? Not possible.”
“Why not?”
“I never forget a name. I would’ve remembered if she’d said ‘Bettencourt.’ I would’ve made the connection.”
“What was the name of the woman?”
“Elizabeth Condé.”
Condé. I search my mind. “That was my grandfather’s last name,” I say. “She gave you her birth name.”
“Well, that explains it. Erin, if I’d known, I’d of given you the bag. I’ve lost my mother, too. I know what it’s like.”
“Thanks, Frankie. And sorry about your mother.”
“Yeah, me, too. But I guess we can’t dwell on these things. We gotta keep going.”
“I guess so,” I say. “Please let me know what you want for the bag, and I’ll get you the money. I’m just so happy to have it back.”
“Money? Erin, I’m offended. I can’t take your money.”
“You can’t? But I have to give you something for it.”
Great. Maybe I am back in the package delivery business.
“I’ll tell you what you can do for me. You can name one of your dresses after my mother.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Of course, of course, I will! What was her name?” I pray it isn’t something horrible sounding.
“Francesca.”
Phew! I can work with that, except . . . “Do you want me to name the dress The Franny—or The Frankie?”
“Uh, let’s go with The Frankie,” he says sheepishly, then adds, “My mother was a princess. So it has to be a dress fit for a princess.”
“That I can manage. Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.”
“No problem. Come by the dry cleaners tomorrow morning. The bag will be waiting for you.”
“I’ll be there.” Now I’m wondering if the dry cleaning shop is a cover for his other “business” activities.
“You know what, Erin? I remember your mother. She was stylish. Very stylish.”
“She really was. Thanks for saying that.”
“No problem. One last thing—you ever wonder what was inside that box?”
I can’t help freezing. I always do at the mention of “that box.” I’m about to respond with my standard, “What box?” (Rule number one: be discreet.) But then, for the first time, I understand something. “I know what was inside that box.”
“You do?” he asks surprised. “What was it?”
“Hope. That’s what was inside that box.”
“Smart kid.” He pauses a moment. “It’s a small world, huh, Erin?”
“Very small. Tiny.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TODAY IS THE DAY.
Today is the day I’m getting my mom’s bag back!
I still can’t believe it. It seems so surreal. Although, a part of me is wondering about that other navy, medium, Chanel 2.55 bag. The one I lost on the subway all those moons ago. I’d felt such a connection to it. (For a delusional moment, I’d imagined the bag had wandered out of Frankie’s hall closet, made its way to the vintage shop where I’d bought it, and then went back to Frankie’s hall closet after I lost it. But that was just for a moment.)
Maybe the connection I’d felt wasn’t to the bag itself, but to what it represented. And maybe I wasn’t ready to get the bag back until I truly knew what that was. Anyway, I’m glad it’s finally coming back to where it belongs.
Rita is standing behind the counter as I enter the dry cleaning shop. I smile at her and get a nod in return. I thought we might be on a smiling basis this time around, but I guess not. She places a box on the counter. I definitely know what’s inside that box. Mission 2.55: accomplished.
“Mr. Alto said you’d be by to pick this up,” she says, gesturing to the box.
“Yes, thank you so much!”
“Have a nice day.”
“Okay, yeah, have a nice day,” I say, taking the box and turning to leave.
“Mondays, all skirts and dresses are fifty-percent off,” she says, catching me off-guard. I thought I’d been dismissed.
I look back at her, and although she isn’t smiling, there’s warmth in her eyes. “I’ll remember that,” I say. “Thank you.”
When I’m outside, I see there’s a sticky note on top of the box. It reads: “If you ever need anything, you know who to call. Frankie.”
If I’d received that note a week ago, I would’ve been all in a panic by what it meant; what I’d have to do in return for his help. I’ve often wondered whether Frankie was a “good guy” or a “bad guy.” Maybe because I sometimes wonder the same thing about myself. But I’ve decided that, for me, Frankie’s a good guy, and I know now if I do need anything, I will ask him. He’s my kind of people, even though we’ve never actually met in person.
Hold on a second.
We have met in person!
Or, at least, I’ve seen Frankie.
I was there when he came to pick up the bag with the bleached-blonde bimbo. I was thirteen or so, and I’d stayed home from school because I was sick. (I can’t remember now if I was really sick or not.) Anyway, my mom thought I was sleeping in my room when they came by, but I was hiding behind our kitchen wall, witnessing the whole transaction. Now that I know that was him, he’s exactly what I’d imagined he’d look like. But I guess you can’t really call it imagination when you’ve actually seen the person in real life.
There’s something else that was burned into my memory from that day. It was the way my mom held onto the Chanel bag, almost as if she couldn’t physically let it go, as if it pained her to do so.
Mom, I got it back!
No, we got it back. I never would’ve found it without her diary entry. Okay, so it took seventeen years, but we did it.
We did it!
Not everything has been lost, after all.
B
efore I can return home and examine my new possession, I have another stop to make.
My mom’s painting is ready!
Of course, I have to deal with Funny Man Brian to get it, but that’s okay. This is turning into such an amazing day, I’m kind of in the mood for his cheesy jokes.
So as I enter the frame shop, I say, “Good morning! Find any more secret codes hidden in paintings?”
He makes a confused face. “Uh, no. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Maybe you can. You know how I said there were receipts in that package you found? I lied. It was a treasure map. A treasure map leading to all of the lost paintings of the world. All we have to do is find ‘X.’”
“I’m not . . . I’m not following . . .”
“Brian! C’mon! I’m joking.”
“I’m not Brian. I’m his twin brother Stephen.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry! I thought . . .” I feel my cheeks turning bright red. That was embarrassing. “Anyway, I’m here to pick up a painting. The name is Bettencourt, Erin Bettencourt.”
He disappears into a back room and returns with the painting wrapped in packing paper.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the painting from him. It’s going to be awkward juggling it and the box with the Chanel bag, but I’ll manage. “Um, have a nice day.” I turn and head for the door.
“Erin?”
I turn back. “Yeah?”
A big grin forms on his face. “Gotcha, again!” he says, chuckling to himself.
This man is impossible!
“That you did,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Have a nice day, Brian.”
And by day, I mean life, because I’m never coming back here again.
“Hello?” I say, answering my phone as I walk in the door of the condo, carefully putting down my two prized packages.
“Erin, it’s Art.”
My breathing quickens. “Hi, Art!”
“I’ll get right to the point. I don’t want to keep you in suspense any longer. I’ve spoken with my business advisers, and I’ve decided to go with your plan.”
“So it’s-it’s a yes? The shop is mine?” I ask. I need to be a hundred percent sure I’m understanding him correctly.
“It’s a yes. The shop is yours. Well, once you’ve signed the paperwork. It’ll be ready early next week.”
I let out a scream. “Sorry! I’m just really excited! Thank you! Thank you!”
“However, I’m adding a condition to your offer.”
Uh-oh. “What’s that?”
“I want to be your mentor for the first year. Give you a bit of training on how the world of retail works. It won’t be written into the contract, and I won’t charge a fee, but someone did that for me at the beginning of my career, and now I’d like to do that for you.”
“Wow, of course, I accept your condition.”
“This is your chance, Erin. I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I’ll figure it out,” I say, knowing that somehow, someway, I will.
When I get off the phone, I jump up-and-down, all around the condo. Coco comes over and barks at me. I take her front paws into my hands and start dancing with her, singing, “We got the shop! We got the shop! We got the shop!”
I wanted to tell Betty first, but Gloria’s probably already heard me screaming.
“Gloria?” I shout towards the sewing workroom. I don’t get a reply. “Gloria?” The workroom is empty when I enter it. And then, I remember Gloria said she’d be working from home today. I hear my phone ringing, so I run back to the kitchen to answer it before it stops.
“Hello,” I say, all out of breath.
“Erin, we’re at the hospital. It’s time,” Matt says in a rush from the other end.
“It’s time? It’s time! Okay, I’ll be right there!” I end the call, then scramble around, quickly packing a bag until I realize I’m not the one having a baby. I don’t need to pack a bag.
“Sorry, Coco. I have to go, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. But when I do, I’ll be an auntie! And you’ll have cousins! Sort of.”
As I’m heading out the door, my eyes fall on the unopened packages containing the painting and the Chanel bag. I circle back and put them both into the hall closet. I can’t risk leaving them out in open, where Coco may enact her revenge for my abandoning her.
“Please, try not to make too much of a mess,” I say to her.
She tilts her head one way, then the other, as if to imply, “Who me?”
“Yeah, you. Be good!” I say, closing the door behind me.
But whatever mess she does get into, I’ll happily deal with. Nothing can bring me down.
This is turning out to be one of the best days of my life!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I HATE HOSPITALS. I haven’t had many experiences in them, but the main experience I had wasn’t a good one, so I try to avoid them. But as I’m walking through the institutional, cinderblock corridors, I remind myself that this time is different. This time something good will come of my visit. Two little something goods.
When I reach the maternity ward, I’m not sure where I’m supposed to go. Betty and I had decided I’d be in the delivery room, but if I couldn’t handle it, then she wouldn’t be upset if I left. She’d still have Matt with her.
Finally, I spot Matt standing behind the plastic window of one of the hospital doors.
“Matt!” I yell, pushing through the door and rushing towards him. I give him a hug. His body is tense. He must be getting nervous. I have to admit: I’m getting nervous, too. “Where’s Betty?”
I’m looking around, half-expecting to see her wandering the corridors, but she’s probably already in the delivery room.
“Erin, uh, there’s been—” Matt’s voice trails off.
“There’s been what? What?” I say, my own voice comes out higher than I anticipated.
“Hi, Erin, do you remember me?”
I turn my body. In my excitement at finding Matt, I hadn’t realized someone else had been standing there. “Um, yes. Hi, Dr. Yamin,” I say, a bit shamefaced for having called her office multiple times in the last few months, trying to find out the sex of the babies from her staff. “What’s going on?”
“Your sister’s blood pressure is quite elevated,” Dr. Yamin says calmly. “It’s higher than it should be at this stage. So we’re prepping her for surgery.”
“Surgery? Like, a C-section?”
“That’s right. And I need to go check on how it’s progressing. Matt, are you ready?”
“Yeah, I’m ready,” he says in a tone that implies he’s not ready at all.
“But Betty?” I ask. “My sister will be okay, right?” My breathing is quickening, and I feel lightheaded.
Dr. Yamin gives me a reassuring look and says, “We’ll come find you in the waiting room after the surgery, all right?”
“All right.”
“Don’t worry, Erin. Everything will be fine,” Matt says, but he doesn’t sound convincing, nor does he seem convinced himself. I’ve never seen him so frazzled like this. Never.
I watch them until they disappear behind two other doors. And then, I’m left standing on my own in the hospital corridor with the same question swimming over and over in my head.
Women don’t die in labour anymore, do they? Do they?
It’s completely dark in here. I find a spot on the cold floor and sit down with my back against the door, trying to get comfortable, even though I don’t deserve comfort.
This is all my fault.
Betty and the twins are going to die, and it’s all my fault.
So I’ve decided to stay in this janitor’s closet or whatever kind of closet it is, until I also die. That will be my penance. My punishment. I have to stay in here. If I come out, then I’ll be putting the lives of all the other people I love at risk, too. It’s safer for everyone.
I should’ve known. Things were going too well for me. I should’ve learned by now that when
the universe gives you something, it takes something else away. That’s how it works. It’s a rebalancing. And you don’t get to choose how it decides to rebalance things.
And I know I’m the one who started the process by not telling Betty about my mom’s diary, by keeping my mom all to myself.
I did this. I am a bad guy.
I can almost hear the universe laughing at me, saying, “You may have got your mom back for a bit, but now you need to give up Betty, and I’m throwing in the twins for good measure.”
And I want to scream: “Stop picking on me! Why are you always taking everyone I love away from me? Why?”
But I don’t scream. I’m afraid of what else it will do if I did.
So I just close my eyes and sit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I DON’T KNOW how long I’ve been sitting in here, but I think I’m going a bit crazy because it sounds like someone is whispering my name. Then, the closet becomes illuminated and I hear a ping from my phone. I’m being pulled back to reality, where I don’t want to be. But when I go to power-off my phone, my eye catches on the text message notification on the display.
It’s from Aaron and reads: “I know you’re in there. Please open the door.”
I jump a little.
Aaron? He’s back? Wait, is he outside the door?
How is that possible? Maybe I am going crazy.
Another ping and a text that reads: “I can hear your phone. Please let me in, Erin.”
I don’t know what to do. I’m happy he’s here, but I’m scared. What if I open the door, and the universe zaps him down on the spot? Maybe this closet is the only safety zone.
“I’m opening the door,” I say. “But you have to come in here, where it’s safe. Okay?”
“Okay,” he says from the other side.
I get up and open the door a crack. Then, I rush to the far end of the closet, turning around and closing my eyes so I don’t make eye contact with him, just in case that effects things.
He comes in.
“Close the door!” I yell.