Bitter Rose

by Melody Carlson

  He looks down at his coffee and seems truly sad. “I suppose it’s worth considering.”

  “Claire said that Donna Fierro is a really good counselor,” I say quickly. “She helped Claire’s mom and stepdad work some things out a few years ago. Maybe you and Mom should make an appointment with her.”

  “Maybe.”

  And then Dad changes the subject and asks about me, like how I’m doing, how school is going. So I tell him about the SATs yesterday and my date with Brandon. And finally, we both get pretty quiet, and I’m afraid that this time is about to end.

  “I’m really sorry this whole thing is happening,” he tells me. “I know it’s hard on you, and Elisa and Marc too. But I guess it could’ve been worse. Your mom and I could’ve split up when you kids were still little.”

  I want to tell him that it doesn’t matter how old we are, it still hurts just the same. I’m not sure how I even know this, but I do. “You guys haven’t totally given up, have you?” I ask in a meek voice.

  “I think your mom has given up,” he says sadly.

  “But it’s not just her choice, is it? I mean, don’t you have a say here? What if you want to make things work? Doesn’t she have to at least try?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “And what about being a Christian?” I challenge. “And all that ‘until death we do part’ stuff? Doesn’t it matter anymore?”

  “It matters, Maggie.”

  “So why does it have to be over, Dad? Why can’t you guys work this out? Why are you just giving up so easily?”

  “I’m not completely giving up.”

  “Meaning you’ll talk to Mom about counseling?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I tell myself that it’s better than nothing, but I do find Dad’s lack of enthusiasm discouraging. Still, I try to consider how he must feel right now—how this must be really hurting him.

  “I know this must be hard for you too, Dad,” I say, “and I want you to understand that I’m not blaming you. I saw on a regular basis how Mom treated you, how she was always mad at you, and for nothing. I guess I can’t blame you for leaving.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “In fact, I’ve suspected all along that she’s the one who told you to leave.” I wait for him to respond.

  “It was something like that, Maggie. But she was pretty upset.”

  “She’s always upset,” I tell him. “Claire says that it could be hormones. Mom might be going through menopause.”

  He kind of smiles. “I don’t know about that, Maggie, but I do know that she’s very angry at me.”

  “But that’s so unfair.”

  He shakes his head. “Not necessarily. She has reasons to be upset with me.”

  “Stupid reasons.”

  He glances at his watch now. “Sorry to cut this off, Magpie, but I need to meet someone at four … to look at an apartment, and it’s on the other side of town.”

  “Need any company?” I offer, thinking this could be the perfect time to mention my interest in living with him instead of Mom.

  “That’s tempting,” he says, smiling as he stands. “But I have some errands to run as well, so I probably should just get going.”

  I nod. “Well, stay in touch.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do better,” he promises. “It’s just hard getting all these things figured out—everyday stuff like doing my own laundry and grocery shopping.” He laughs. “Well, I guess I’ve been pretty spoiled by your mom.”

  I want to tell him that he should let me come live with him and that I could take care of all those domestic chores for him. But he’s already waving good-bye and heading to the door. So I take the last swig of my second mocha as I watch him get in his Explorer and drive away. Maybe I can present that idea to him later, after he has a place of his own. I just hope he gets into an apartment that has room for two.

  Naturally, I don’t tell my mom about meeting with Dad. Like, what good would that do? Besides, when I get home, she seems consumed with her computer. She barely looks up to say hello, so I simply go upstairs and barricade myself in my room, pretending to do homework. Interesting that she doesn’t even ask me about that. But maybe she got that I lied to the family today, just like she did, and now she’s too embarrassed to ask me about it. I decide to e-mail Elisa and Marc with the latest on the parents—not that I have much to tell them. But I do mention my counseling idea and how Dad said he’d consider it. I also mention that Dad is planning to get an apartment. While that’s not too encouraging, I figure they might as well know how things are looking.

  I let a few days pass before I call my dad again. It’s not like I want him thinking I’m this big pest. Once again, he doesn’t answer. But I leave a message asking him if he found a place yet, and if I can come visit him sometime. “Maybe I could make you dinner or something,” I say hopefully.

  “You might have to let him go, you know,” says Claire as I hang up. She’s giving me a ride home from school today. In my efforts to economize, I’ve been leaving my car at home and bumming rides with her this week.

  I instantly wish I hadn’t left that message while she was listening. But I’d been waiting all day to make this call, and unfortunately, I just couldn’t wait until I got home.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if he’s not calling you, maybe it’s a hint, you know?”

  “He’s just going through a really tough time right now,” I say in his defense. “He said that it’s been hard just getting through the everyday stuff like doing laundry and grocery shopping, you know. I’m sure he’s just busy.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably the case.” But even as she says this, I can hear the skepticism in her voice.

  I remind myself that Claire’s dad totally walked out on her. It’s natural for her to assume that mine will do the exact same thing. But I know that my dad is different. And I realize that he’s just having a hard time adjusting to “the separation.” That’s what my mom is officially calling it now.

  “So do I get any allowance this week?” I had asked her on Monday.

  She frowned. “Well, yes, of course, Maggie. But I’m a little tight right now. How about if I give you half? Your dad and I still need to work out some financial things.” She pulled out some bills and sighed. “Maybe you can ask your dad for the rest.”

  “So that’s how it is?” I asked. “I’m supposed to go begging money from Dad now? Just because you drove him away?”

  Her dark eyes flashed at me. “I did not drive him away, Magdela. He chose to leave.”

  I took the money from her. “Yeah, right.” I started to leave.

  “You don’t know everything, Miss Magdela,” she said in her snippy voice. “Before you go around judging people, maybe you should get your facts straight first.”

  I turned around and looked at her. “What facts?”

  She pressed her lips tightly together, looking as if she was trying to control herself from swearing in Spanish. “Ask your father,” she seethed.

  “Fine,” I seethed back. “I will.”

  “Fine,” she said as she walked away, her high heels making harsh-sounding clicks on the hardwood floor.

  That’s when I decided it might be time to get a job. But when I looked through the classifieds, there wasn’t a whole lot going on besides retail, and I did that during the holidays last year. Talk about torture! They expect you to learn everything in a couple hours and treat rude customers like they’re not, and then they let you go right after New Year’s. I do not want to go through that again. So I decided that I should give my aunt a call. Okay, it was a desperate move and perhaps just a way to get my parents’ attention—like, I am so desperate I’m willing to work in Tia Louisa’s restaurant, which I’ve always sworn I would never do.

  “I’m actually looking for a hostess,” she had told me on Tuesday.

  “What does a hostess do?” I asked, probably revealing my ignorance, but she is, after all, my aunt.
/>   “She’s the one up in front,” Tia Louisa explained. “She takes your name and seats you at the table, you know?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said eagerly since the hostess is usually nicely dressed and probably doesn’t go home smelling like a deep-fried tortilla. “That would be okay.”

  “The hostess doesn’t make much in tips,” she said apologetically.

  “That’s okay,” I assured her. “I just need some extra money now that—” Then I stopped myself.

  “Now that what?” I heard the sharp tone of suspicion in her voice.

  “Oh, now that I’m going to be graduating, you know, trying to save up for college.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “So when should I start?”

  “How about Thursday? It won’t be as busy as the weekend, and I can help train you myself.”

  So it was settled. I was expected to show up at Casa del Sol at four on Thursday. “To help set up tables,” Tia Louisa informed me. “That’s also part of your job.”

  “So when do you start working?” Claire asks me as she pulls up at my house.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You’re really going through with it?”

  I nod as I reach for my bag. “Yep. And my schedule will be from four to nine on Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.”

  “Man, there’s the end of life as you know it.”

  I sigh. “So do you think my dad will feel sorry for me now?”

  She laughs. “Not if he’s anything like my stepdad. He’d stand up and cheer if I ever got a job.”

  “Yeah, but my dad wanted me to focus on school. He always said there would be plenty of time to work after college.”

  “Well, things have changed,” Claire says in a way that makes me think she knows more about this than I do.

  “But they can change back,” I say as I climb out of her car.

  She shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Thanks for the ride.” Then I walk up to the house and wonder if I’m being totally unrealistic to think that my parents will eventually figure things out and get back together. I mean, it seems entirely possible to me. And then I remind myself of the Bible verse that our youth group leader often tosses out at us: “All things are possible with God.” So why not?

  But as I turn my key in the door, I realize I’ve been leaving God pretty much out of our family’s problems lately. Like, I haven’t even prayed once for my parents’ situation. And to be perfectly honest, I think I’ve been mad at God since I first heard the news. In fact, I still am. I remember that youth group is tonight and wonder if it might help my attitude to go. But I also remember that Claire won’t be there because she and her mom planned to start doing some early Christmas shopping, even though it seems like we’re barely past Halloween. Oh well. I’m not sure I really want to go to youth group alone. Okay, call me insecure or whatever, but I really don’t like walking in there by myself. It’s just the way I am. And besides, isn’t it kind of hypocritical for me to go when I’m still mad at God? Shouldn’t I get things straightened out first?

  five

  I FEEL UNEXPLAINABLY NERVOUS AS I DRIVE TO CASA DEL SOL FOR MY first night on the job. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, like what happens if I mess up and Tia Louisa gets mad at me? Everyone knows that my mom’s older sister has a temper way worse than my mom’s. What have I gotten myself into?

  “Are you sure about this?” Mom asked me as I was getting ready to leave this afternoon. To my surprise, she’d come home from work early. Probably to try to talk me out of working for her sister.

  “Yes,” I said in a slightly defensive tone. “What? Do you think I’m incapable of being a hostess?”

  “No, that’s not it at all. I’m sure you’ll be great, Maggie. I’m just worried about your studies. This is your senior year, you know. It’s important to keep your grades high.”

  “I know, Mom. It’s my senior year, remember? And my grades are just fine, thank you very much!”

  “They are fine for now. But what about later?”

  “Look, maybe I wouldn’t have to get a job if you and Dad weren’t making such a mess of everything. But I guess it’s time for me to become more independent, to stand on my own two feet since it looks like my family is totally falling apart.”

  “We’re not totally falling apart.”

  “Whatever.” I glanced at my watch. “I have to go.”

  But now as I’m driving to work, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. Normally, I would pray about something like this, but since I’ve been feeling like such a hypocrite lately, I’m not so sure. Finally, I just shoot up a help-me-God kind of prayer. I hope he’s listening.

  “You look very nice,” says Tia Louisa when I walk in five minutes early.

  “Thanks.” I look around the deserted restaurant. “It’s not very busy.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Magdela,” she says in a slightly scolding voice, “surely you know we don’t open for dinner until four thirty?”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. “I guess I’ve never been here that early.”

  “Put your coat and purse in here,” she says as she leads me to a small room with lockers off the kitchen. She hands me a padlock. “I’d like to say that I can trust all my employees, but that is not the case. You lock it up or take a chance on losing it.”

  So I lock my things in an empty locker and put the key in my skirt pocket. Hopefully I won’t lose it. Then my aunt gives me a tour of the restaurant, which I think is kind of funny since we’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember and I’m pretty sure that I’ve seen it all before. Still, I listen and try to act like I’m really paying attention.

  Then she shows me where the linens are kept and how to set the tables. Another woman—I’m guessing she’s from the kitchen since she has on a white jacket—is working on the other side, setting tables too. Tia Louisa is very precise about how she wants the napkins folded and where to place the silverware.

  “I’m sure you know the proper way to set a table,” she says as she straightens a knife that isn’t pointing directly to the water glass (the way she told me to do it), “but I want everything to look perfect.” She picks up a wine goblet that has what appears to be a lipstick mark on it. “Susan,” she calls, holding the goblet up. “There’s a stained glass.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Iago. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You see, Magdela,” Tia Louisa says in a quieter voice, “the reason for perfection is because of the image.”

  I nod as if I understand. “The image.”

  “Yes. I mean, the image that we get stuck with as Mexicans, you know? Of the old stereotypical Mexican restaurant that is not very clean or stylish or refined.”

  “No one can accuse you of that, Tia Louisa.”

  She smiles. “Yes, and that’s just how I want to keep it.”

  I know that’s her hint to me that I should be very proper and careful. And as a result, I’m feeling even more worried about making a mistake. But we quickly work our way around the tables, and I think I’m actually getting the hang of it, and by four thirty, everything really does look perfect.

  My aunt pauses to adjust one of the red roses, which is hanging just slightly over the edge of the small crystal vase. “There,” she says. “That should do it.”

  Then she explains that it’s my responsibility to answer the phone and demonstrates how to take reservations. She shows me exactly where I will stand beside the wooden podium and greet the guests. She explains how I will take their names and offer to take their coats, and where I will hang them after seating a party. She makes me repeat how the numbering of the tables works and how to use the chart properly, and finally she shows me how I will escort the guests to their tables and pour their water.

  “The waiters usually light the oil candles,” she tells me. “If it’s busy, then you can go ahead and do that. We don’t want anyone sitting there in the dark. Also, when it gets busy, especially on the weekends, I’ll expect you to serv
e beverages as well—other than wine and beer, of course. You’re not old enough for that. But you can take their order and have someone from the bar handle it.”

  She gives me a few more tips, like to be careful to avoid the small dance floor in the corner if it’s in use, and I actually wonder if I should have been taking notes the whole time. Then, just a few minutes before five, our first customers arrive: two middle-aged businessmen who explain they’re from out of town and looking for an early dinner. My aunt stands on the sidelines as I offer to take their coats and then escort them to a table. So far so good. But then I’m not sure which table to put them at and finally decide on one that’s off to the right. My aunt explained earlier how there are “good” tables and “better” tables and finally the “best” tables, near the big fireplace. But since the restaurant is completely empty, I choose a “better” table. I hope that’s okay. I try not to slop as I pour their water, and then I tell them that their waiter will be with them shortly.

  “Nicely done,” she tells me. I feel as if I can take a deep breath now.

  “I’ll go hang up their coats,” I say as I pick up the coats from where I previously stashed them (a discreet table behind the podium that my aunt explained was for this purpose).

  And so it goes for the next few hours. The restaurant isn’t terribly busy, just consistent. I make a few mistakes, like pouring water from a pitcher that’s mostly ice and making a mess all over the table. Fortunately, Tia Louisa was in the kitchen. Then I accidentally seated two parties in the wrong order, and the ones who had been waiting longer became a little annoyed. Of course, I apologized, but it’s not like they had to wait very long—not more than five minutes, I’m sure. Still, Tia Louisa was not happy.

  “It’s very important to seat guests in order, Magdela—unless they have reservations, of course.”

  My feet are killing me by the time my shift ends at nine. I’ll remember to wear more comfortable shoes next time. I go to where Tia Louisa is doing some bookwork in her office. “I guess I’m done,” I say.