Magnolia's Violet

by Rachael K Hannah

  Dad deeply sighed, and his voice finally took on the more serious tone I had sought after.

  “Sage, you need to understand that decision makers always have options. Even when it might seem like there’s no end in sight, decision-makers can and will pivot. At some point, you’re going to have to think about your life choices. Do you want to intern for a photography department that continues to shut you out, even when you’ve proven time and time again that you’re more than worthy?”

  I folded my arms protectively across my chest. “Dad, you know I want more out of life. You do. But none of it seems to work out for me. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “I get it, kiddo. It hasn’t been easy for you. But you can’t back down. You can’t. In the meantime, don’t forget to live. Go to dinner tonight. Meet new people. Laugh a little. A couple of us went to Azucena’s last Tuesday. I think you’ll like it. Still on for City Island paella soon? Invite Farrah. Katie even. Her mom knows you girls are in Forest Hills? A long way from Cos Cob, huh?”

  Katie—or Kat—as she had recently insisted everyone call her, was a friend of mine from Dayton, a prep school I had attended in another lifetime. At some point when her family moved up to Connecticut, and Dad moved back to New York, Kat and I had lost touch for a few years. We reconnected as freshmen when we both ended up at St. Luke’s.

  “Kat’s mom doesn’t know the difference between Forest Hills and Sunnyside—it’s all not-Manhattan to her. So, Dad, how do I become a decision maker?”

  “In many ways you already are. Trust your gut.” Dad reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. It was the same one I had picked up for him a few years back from a tag sale in Weston. “You know your strengths, Sage. Here. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

  Counting off three twenty dollar bills, Dad reached for my hand and pressed them firmly into my palm.

  “Dad, I can’t,” I objected. “Mom won’t let me take that from you.”

  He smiled. “Don’t tell Mom. She’s not trying to be difficult. If anything, this is her way of helping; forcing you to be self-sufficient. She thinks if you depend on others, you won’t be able to defend yourself. It’s how she was raised. You remember her father, or as you called him, Grandpa Thomas. That man was old school all the way.”

  Awkwardly shifting my gaze down to the floor, I tightly closed my fist over the money, crunching the bills into a crumpled ball that I quickly shoved into my messenger bag. I knew Dad was right. Mom’s mother had been ill, like me, only she had tragically taken her life many years ago. Grandpa Thomas had raised my mom to rely on no one but herself.

  I still remember the deep-rooted contempt Grandpa Thomas held toward my father for leaving us. In fact, one night was I was still a kid, I overheard Grandpa Thomas tell Mom that my dad wasn’t worth the gun powder needed to blow himself to hell.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, feeling my cheeks flush several shades of embarrassment.

  Placing his hand over my shoulder, Dad gave it a firm squeeze. Then, without saying another word, he left. As usual, as soon as Dad appeared, he was gone. It always seemed like there was ever enough time, or like his mind was somewhere else. But I had come to accept that about my father a long time ago.

  At least there was always City Island paella.

  In the meantime, I had work to do. Dane was relying on me. I didn’t even want to think about how crushed he would be if Dad left the company. I also had myself to think about. Even though Jorie would sooner recognize the corner coffee shop barista before me, she was still watching everything and everyone. I’d never become anything more than a broke intern—never mind an actual decision maker—if I wound up on Jorie’s bad side.

  Copies could get done in a heartbeat. Food was the priority. If I knew anything about Dane, it was that he was crazy meticulous. The number to Vincent’s would be in plain sight, where anyone could see it—but not on speed dial. Tapping a series of numbers made him feel more deliberate. In control.

  Walking over to his desk, I didn’t have to look too hard before I saw it: a menu tacked up on his bulletin board, starred three times and underlined twice.

  I picked up the phone. “Hi, yes. I want to place an order… catered… last minute… I know you guys can work some magic with me here.”

  *

  Later that night, long after dinner and a few regrettable rounds of karaoke with Farrah and her grad school friends, we parted ways, and I rode the subway solo. Fighting to stay awake, I rubbed at my eyes a little too roughly and forced myself to read the advertisements posted alongside the upper walls of the train. They were promises of a better life for residents and newcomers alike — apartment rentals, English courses, low-interest credit cards, city colleges.

  The steady, gentle rocking of the train—back and forth, back and forth—tempted my lids to flutter, rest, and all together give in. But the last thing I wanted was to be lulled to sleep and miss my stop.

  That happened once. Coming back from a concert at Webster Hall, I had allowed myself what was supposed to be just a few moments of rest. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the Bronx. I had slept all the way to the train’s last stop (or first, depending on your perspective), flew under the radar and remained utterly unnoticed by transit staff, then rode all the way back—passing throughout the boroughs before waking.

  Determined not to let that happen again, I willed myself to make it to my stop… all the way to the row of apartment buildings where Kat and I lived. Past the alehouse that still buzzed with hipsters, past the 24-hour laundromat that never replaced the broken N and T lights of its sign, and even past my favorite Dominican takeout spot that stayed open late on Friday and Saturday. The rich aroma of mofongo, arroz con gandules, and pernil intoxicatingly drifted through the crack of a propped opened door and lingered just under the tip of my nose.

  But it was as if I were in another world. All I could picture were the wrought iron gates of St. Luke’s, and I felt a sudden chill reverberate throughout my weary body.

  Our street was eerily quiet, for the exception of a lone woman, probably not much older than me. I watched as she climbed out of a black sedan rideshare, and then stumbled over to the apartment building across from mine. The pointy heels of her stilettos were like two long and slender needles, and they looked ready to give at any moment. I closed my eyes and again pictured the entrance of St. Luke’s. I imagined the outline of its looming shadow, illuminated only by a single row of Victorian-style lamp posts lighting its path.

  My eyes shot wide open. Just a few steps more, I told myself. I was almost home.

  When I finally approached the building, my entire body had grown so tired, so heavy, that I could barely walk up the front stoop. But I forced myself. Wearily, I fumbled with the front lock, twisting the key three times before finally hearing a satisfying CLICK.

  I slowly opened the front door, and stood silently still for several moments, staring hazily down the deserted hallway before finally letting out a sigh of relief. Stepping forward, I let the door shut behind me.

  Chapter Three

  Kat

  “You’ve got to be FRICKIN’ KIDDING ME!!! OH, SH—AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”

  Sage. What was it this time?

  I reluctantly pried what had been my undivided attention away from the laptop screen, and peeked outside my bedroom door to see what all the commotion was about.

  Shaking my head at the ridiculous sight, I didn’t even know where to begin. Somehow, Sage had managed to knock down the entire contents of the hall closet’s top shelf. She lay sprawled out on the floor, face down, surrounded by a messy mountainous hodgepodge of wrinkled, dirty laundry and unpacked shower caddy toiletries.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, before sneaking another quick peek at my computer’s screen. I just needed to answer this one email from my professor. If I could only concentrate…

  “DAMMIT!!!” Sage cried.

  Never mind.

  Sage pulled herself up from off the floor, hopp
ed up and down—once, twice—and dusted her jeans off with both hands. They were the same musty pair of jeans she always wore whenever she worked a shift down at the grill, and I didn’t quite have the heart to tell her that those pants could easily afford another spin in the wash.

  Or, better yet, a quick visit to the dump.

  Looking up from underneath an unmanageable tangle of wild hair, Sage smiled in her signature careless, yet disarming, way. Without meaning to, her face was always a map of unpredictable emotion. Right now, it read cheerful. Even chirpy. But with Sage, that could easily pivot in a heartbeat. She could grow stormy, even turbulent, all in a matter of seconds.

  Still, we were best friends.

  “I was trying to find my baseball cap,” Sage explained, still grinning from ear-to-ear, obviously amused by her own clumsiness. “I need to go all the way uptown to the Bronx and I’m running late aga—”

  “Baseball cap?” I interrupted. Popping up from my seat, I sprung over to her room. It wasn’t exactly a very far leap, considering we were both cramped inside what Sage had referred to as the teeniest, tiniest apartment in Forest Hills, ever. A hyperbolic statement, sure. It wasn’t like we were stuffed inside a studio, sharing a communal bathroom with our neighbors! Still, there was a point to be had. New York rent, even in the outer boroughs, was outrageous.

  But we had to find that hat. Sage was notoriously late for everything, and the last thing we needed was for her to get canned from this job. Forget about making the rent. If Sage didn’t have something routinely predictable to keep her focused, it might be a little too easy for her to lose her way.

  “No, no, wait, I’ve seen it.” I paused for a moment and nibbled a bit on the side of my lip, attempting to conjure up the image of the hat’s location. “It’s not in your closet…” my voice trailed off as my eyes circled the room, slowly—before settling on Sage’s bed. “There.” I pointed. “You shoved it in there. Way underneath all that stuff.”

  Wack! Sage impulsively flung her arm wide open and smacked the side of her forehead.

  “Of course! I remember now! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she exclaimed, leaping onto her bed of disarray. Sure enough, after we lifted the covers and sorted through yet another mess (old textbooks, some recently clean laundry she had remembered to fold but forgotten to put away… did she sleep on all this stuff?), we found her hat—worn out and slightly tearing at the brim.

  “Thanks a bunch!” Sage blurted before she bounced off the bed and bounded straight out the door before I could say another word.

  That’s when I remembered—I had to cancel our City Island plans.

  I bolted out into the hallway after her. “SAGE, WAIT!”

  She froze in mid runner’s lunge. “Yeah, Katie—er… Kat? Sorry.”

  “I’m not going to be able to make it tomorrow night. Something’s come up at home,” I explained, tracing the outer perimeter of our welcome mat with the edge of my bare toe. Hmmm. How to let her down without hurting her feelings?

  “Oh.”

  “And I might not be back till Monday morning,” I quickly added.

  Sage frowned, her brow furrowing just a little bit. Stormy? Turbulent? She couldn’t be that upset, could she? It was just one dinner.

  But then, just as quickly, she perked right back up again, seemingly unfazed at all. “I guess I can ask Farrah if she’d like to come instead. Although… she was kinda checking out my dad the other day… like she was hiding behind her phone, but I think I caught her peeking. It was a little gross; not gonna lie.”

  Sage wrinkled the tip of her nose, just slightly, as if sniffing something moderately off-putting. For a second, I wondered if she had finally discovered the urge to toss her jeans out in the trash, too.

  “Come to think of it, I think I’ll just go alone,” she concluded.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized. I mean, if this… issue at home… is, well, no longer an issue, I can go. But I’d rather tell you that I might have to cancel now than let you think I can go but then bail at the last minute.”

  “No worries!” she nodded her head profusely, and I could tell she was fine after all. “The only thing is, well, I know it’s none of my business… but is everything okay? You know? At home.” No longer frozen in her ridiculous lunge pose, Sage completely turned towards me, hands turned upwards at her sides, and I could tell that she was genuinely concerned.

  Home. Where could I even begin? It was probably just best not to.

  “At home? Of course! I just have some small little thing to attend to,” I fibbed. “Paperwork and such. My mom needs my help. It’s not her thing. And now that my parents aren’t together anymore… well, you know how that can be.”

  Sage’s nodded. “Unfortunately I know a little too well. Don’t worry, Kat. Say no more.”

  I needed to change the conversation. It was getting awkward, fast, and she was running late. “Oh! Before I forget. Did you remember to take it?”

  As much as Sage hated to admit it, she often needed a gentle, friendly prodding to take her medication every morning. It wasn’t that unusual of a topic switcheroo. And in all honesty, it worried me a bit whenever I thought about what might happen if I wasn’t there to remind her. I didn’t feel that guilty about using it as a distractor.

  “Yes, I did, Mom. And, I promise not to forget tomorrow while you’re home. I know you think I’m gonna, but I won’t. I’m running late. On the clock, girl!” Sage headed back down the hall, yelling over her shoulder, “Have a safe trip up to C-T, Kat! Bye!” And she was out.

  “Bye,” I whispered down the deserted hallway.

  After taking a few moments to center myself quietly, I turned to head back inside. Planting myself back in front of the laptop, I quickly pounded out that email, hit send, and waited. I just needed a few minutes to ensure Sage hadn’t forgotten anything (it seemed she always forgot something) and was off to the train.

  *

  Hunched over, I cradled my throbbing forehead tenderly within my hands and counted. Ten deep and soothing breaths. 10…9… 8…

  Eventually reaching zero, I rose from my chair and attempted to steady myself, but I was still shaking. I stumbled toward the wardrobe, arms held out in front of me. Reaching. Propping myself up against the wall, I scanned the wardrobe’s contents.

  It was precisely because of my rigid attention to detail, which bordered on pathological, that I could find exactly what I was looking for, regardless of how disoriented I felt at that moment: khakis, a fitted madras—the cranberry and navy one. I decided that the matching cardigan wasn’t necessary.

  I dressed quickly, deterred only slightly when noticing the khakis fit a bit too snugly against my waist. Perhaps the cost of my Achilles tendonitis injury last summer? Sighing, I just knew that Candace would fat-shame me about the extra growth—growth that I wasn’t ashamed of. That is if she wasn’t too consumed with the details of her own appearance to notice.

  Candace always said: People judge women by their looks, their clothes, and their friends. She was a wealth of unwelcomed motherly advice.

  Candace. I always called my mother by her first name.

  As a final touch, I pulled my hair away from my face, tightly securing each ash blond colored strand into a ponytail held by a single elastic. I slipped on oatmeal colored moccasins to warm my feet.

  “I DON’T WANT TO EAT TURKEY MEATBALLS! IT’S SATURDAY!”

  Parker’s booming voice tore through the kitchen, reverberated throughout the halls, and

  eventually even penetrated my locked door.

  It had started again.

  Sighing, I decided I’d better head downstairs and figure out what fires needed putting out.

  “I have grilled cheese for lunch on Friday and Saturday,” I heard Parker recite mechanically as I slowly descended the staircase. “Meatballs are on Wednesday, and they’re regular meatballs.”

  It had been over ten years since my little brother had been diagnosed with autism, and our parents were
still clueless when it came to helping him. My feet somehow managed to quicken the pace, past the family room, hurriedly through the dining room.

  “Mom. MOM! You have to tell her. Tell Katie. Meatballs made with beef. Not turkey.”

  I watched from the kitchen doorway

  “Oh for heaven’s sake… KATIE! Where is this girl… Oh. There you are.” Candace finally noticed me standing there, her voice a grim juxtaposition of relief and disappointment. “Katie, can you… put whatever that is back in the refrigerator and make your brother a grilled cheese sandwich? I do not have time for this,” Candace sighed, unsettled, as she paced back and forth, barely balancing herself in the most absurdly high heels I’d seen her wear in ages.

  Click clack, click clack.

  Hastily tossing an assortment of items—car keys, house keys, cell phone, a crumpled wad of paper napkins—into a designer handbag that cost more than most monthly mortgages, Candace barely even glanced in my direction. “Don’t worry, Parker. Katie’s going to make you that grilled cheese,” she promised absentmindedly. “Now, did someone see where I left my wallet?”

  She plopped the day’s newspaper in front of me, already folded open to page six. Sure enough, there was Farrah, in a blue, sleeveless, sequin covered cocktail dress, holding a matching clutch. She has been spotted coming out of a club, and the whole thing was blown out of proportion. The reporters were after her again.

  “Your friend’s in the papers again,” Candace said. “Reaming her for not going along with her father’s communist crap. Everyone knows that man’s just spewing whatever liberal garbage the progressives want to hear. These reporters… they ought to leave that girl alone. I would kill for a figure like hers.”

  “I’m not even going to bother reading it. This stuff is pure trash. And no way about the meatballs. I prepped lunch this morning to make things easier on everyone,” I protested. “All you have to do is pop this in the microwave.” Crossing over toward where Parker stood, I reached for the first thing I could find, which in this case was a pot holder, and childishly slapped it against the granite counter top. “You have got to be kidding me, Candace. This doesn’t take much from your busy… schedule.”