by Mia Mckenzie
“This isn’t how it looks,” I tell her.
She smirks like, if you say so, and goes into a stall.
When I get back to our table, the kid and her stepsister are gone. The word “dutch” has been scrawled on the check and there’s cash for one hot dog beside it.
* * *
—
It’s mid-afternoon and even warmer and sunnier than it was this morning, the sky a stunningly clear, almost glassy, blue. I walk the eight blocks back to the bed-and-breakfast because I think the air will help clear my head. It sorta does and it sorta doesn’t. I’m less queasy, but the last couple of hours feel like a weird dream.
When I get back to my room, I’m thrilled to find it clean and completely free of naked strangers. I put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, strip down to my underwear, then go into the bathroom and throw up one more time for good measure. My phone buzzes. It’s Viva. I ignore it. I get in bed and close my eyes. My phone buzzes again. It’s my brother. I put it on silent and pull the covers up over my head. At least the kid doesn’t have my number.
3
I sleep for fifteen hours straight. When I finally emerge from under the covers, my body is stiff and sore and the morning light streaming through the windows hurts my eyes. I stretch, hearing things crack in various parts of my thirty-eight-and-three-quarters-old body, then pop a pod in the Keurig and drag myself to the shower.
It’s Monday, which means I have a ten o’clock staff meeting with my single employee: my assistant, Toni.
“You look tired,” she says, peering out at me from the video chat screen.
Considering I just slept for fifteen hours, and even bothered to put on mascara, I feel pretty insulted.
We dot i’s and cross t’s for our upcoming trip to Brazil, which kicks off in São Paulo in six days, with twelve Black American travelers in tow. Toni, who’s in charge of making sure passports and vaccines are current, assures me that everything is on track.
After we hang up, I spend a couple of hours answering emails from our travelers, and then, when my stomach starts to growl, I decide to head out for food. I’m walking past Viva’s office when I hear her call my name and it’s only then I remember that I bailed on her at the art show yesterday.
“What the hell happened to you?” she asks me from behind her desk.
I don’t really want to tell her about the kid. But I can’t think of a quick lie that’s good enough to justify ditching her without a word. So, I opt for the truth. I tell her all of it—from day camp and Cynthia to how the kid held my hair back while I ralphed. When I’m done, she’s staring at me in wide-eyed disbelief.
“¿Una nena? An actual human child?”
“I was pretty hungover,” I tell her. “But half human, at least.”
“Wow,” she says, shaking her head in amazement. She leans back in her chair. “So? ¿Ahora qué?”
I shrug. “¿Qué quieres decir?”
“Well, you’re going to see her again, right?”
I shrug.
“But she’s…sort of your kid?”
Skreech. Nope. Nuh-uh. “She’s not. At all. Not even a little bit. That was the deal when I gave Cynthia my eggs and she gave me thousands of dollars.”
“O sea, full,” Viva says, nodding. “I get that’s how it works, pero you must feel something for the kid, right?”
I almost shrug again, but then it occurs to me that if I keep shrugging, I’ll look like a sociopath. Because what level of fucked up would you have to be to feel nothing for a kid who
got half her genes from you;
is a genius about hot-dog-related things; and
is a better speller than several other kids who aren’t very good spellers?
I’m not sure I’m okay with being that level of fucked up. So, I hedge.
“Even if I wanted to see the kid again,” I tell Viva, “I don’t know how. Unfortunately, she didn’t leave me any contact info.” I don’t mention that we never got around to that because when last we talked I was halfway out a bathroom window.
“There’s probably a way to track her down,” Viva says. “How did she find you?”
“She saw my name on some egg donor papers, I guess, and then googled me.”
“Well, you could try that. Kids don’t always have digital trails, pero maybe. ¿Cuál es su nombre?”
“¿Qué?”
“¿Su nombre?”
“Huh?”
Viva frowns. “Girl. You don’t know her name?”
I think about it. “I wanna say it’s…Charmaine?”
“You wanna say it’s Charmaine? Or it’s actually Charmaine?”
“It’s Charmaine,” I say, nodding.
“Well, there’s probably not a lot of twelve-year-olds named Charmaine running around. ¿Cuál es su apellido?”
“No sé. Lucas, maybe? That was Cynthia’s last name. But the kid might have her father’s name, right? Because patriarchy and such?”
Viva nods. “Maybe. What about her neighborhood? Did she mention where she lives?”
Okay, this has turned into Sherlock Hermana and the Case of the Egg Donor super fucking fast and now I regret telling Viva about the damn kid.
“No, Veev. She didn’t say anything like that.”
“…or where she goes to school…”
Okay, wait. Now I can feel my brain trying to reach back and grab something. The spelling bee. At West Philly Montessori. Holy shit. “She goes to West Philly Montessori.”
“Chévere,” Viva says. “So, you do know how to find her.”
I nod. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“I can go with you if you want,” she says. “I could use a break from bookkeeping.”
Wayment. “Go? Where?”
She checks her watch. “Most middle schools let out at two-fifty. You can catch her leaving.”
I start to say no way, like how did we even end up here? I WAS ON MY WAY TO GET FRIES. But Viva’s looking at me expectantly and if I protest, she might decide I’ve become a jaded loner who no longer cares enough about anyone to put in some extra effort. I don’t want her to think that. Even though it’s probably true.
* * *
—
When we get to West Philly Montessori, it’s only two-thirty. I don’t feel like sitting in Viva’s tiny electric car for twenty minutes, so I suggest we take a walk to a nearby record store I like. Viva’s down, so we cross Spruce Street and turn down Fifty-second and in half a block we’re at Gus Brown’s Records. It’s a small store that’s been here as long as I’ve been alive and I don’t really understand how it’s still in business. Gotta be a front for a drug operation, but whatever, the records are mostly good. The inside smells like old carpet and sometimes body odor, but today just old carpet. Gus is reading a book behind the counter and he looks up when I enter, squinting at me over his glasses. “Ain’t seen you in a minute,” he says.
“I just got back from…Mozambique…?”
“You telling or asking?”
I’m not altogether sure, so I just shrug and head to the blues section, while Viva heads for hip-hop.
Blues sections of record stores are where I feel the most calm. There’s something about being surrounded by old, blackity-Black music that settles my nerves. I can feel my shoulders relaxing as I pick up a John Lee Hooker Never Get Out of These Blues Alive LP. The cover is worn, which is how you know somebody loved listening to it. I move my fingers over it, remembering how, when I was a depressed teenager, I blasted the title song on repeat while holed up in my room. On rare occasions, my mother, who didn’t know I was alive most of the time, poked her head in to tell me I had no idea about being “doomed” with the blues and that I should stop being so dramatic.
At the end of the aisle, there’s a small glass case with a record on d
isplay inside. It’s a vintage Etta James “If I Can’t Have You” live jawn, in perfect condition from the looks of it. There’s a woman standing on the other side of the case, peering in. She’s thick-thighed and dark-skinned, with a pile of dense, kinky hair that’s pinned up on top of her head in a way that somehow looks both neat and excitingly precarious. She’s wearing glasses on a delicate chain around her neck—like your third-grade teacher—and knee-high leather boots—not at all like your third-grade teacher. We lock eyes for a second and then she starts looking around for Gus. I look for him, too, but he’s left his spot at the counter. She smiles at me.
“I’ve been trying to get my hands on this recording for ages,” she says, in a West Philly–accented voice that’s a little bit deep and raspy.
“Yeah, me too,” I tell her, which isn’t true.
“I’m buying it for my grandmother,” she says. “It’s the first song she and my grandfather danced to. He passed a few months ago.”
“Oh, that’s so sad.”
She nods like, isn’t it? and then looks around for Gus again.
“But, actually, I’m buying it for my grandmother, too,” I say. “You’re not going to believe this, it’s such a crazy coincidence, but it was also the first song she and my grandfather danced to. We called him Pee Paw. He also died. Yesterday.”
I should mention here that I don’t believe a word of her sad grandma story. I’m good at knowing when other people are full of shit, maybe because I’m so full of shit myself. But I realize I’m taking a pretty big risk here. If she’s the bullshit liar I suspect she is, this move is gold and I’m proud of it. If she’s not lying, I’m officially the worst person on earth or, at the very least, the worst person in this record store right now.
For a second, she just stares at me, her mouth open a little, like she can’t believe what is happening. Then she blinks a couple of times and says, “You can’t do that.”
And I’m like, “Huh? Do what?”
“You can’t just steal my story.”
“But it’s such a good story,” I tell her. “It has everything. Romance. Family. Grief. It’s perfect. Bullshit, but perfect.”
“But it’s my bullshit story,” she says. (I knew it!) “You can’t just repeat it back to me.”
“I didn’t. I made Pee Paw’s death much more recent. Makes the pain more visceral and immediate, amirite?”
The woman is looking at me like she can’t decide whether I’m batshit crazy or a genius. It’s a look I’m super familiar with. “Okay, so”—she flashes her palms toward the ceiling—“what now? What’s fair? We flip a coin? Draw straws? Rock, Paper, Scissors?”
What’s fair? What a naïve way to look at the world. I want to say to her that there is no fair. One of us just has to want the record more than she wants to be liked by a stranger. Also, I always lose at Rock, Paper, Scissors because I always do rock and the other person, no matter who they are, always does paper. I mean always. Like, one hundred percent of the time. I’ve tried to not do rock, but at the last moment I just can’t stop myself. It’s a compulsion. I have no explanation for why the other person always does paper. That’s just how my life is.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “I’ll take the record but I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it.” The suggestion catches even me off guard. But I was right about her being a liar, so I feel confident I’m also right about her being queer. It’s not something I picked up on at first, but as the exchange has progressed I’ve noticed that she holds eye contact for long periods of time. Most straight women don’t do that. Most people don’t do it unless they’re attracted to the person they’re talking to, even if only subconsciously.
I should say here that I’m not a woman who picks up other women. I used to be, in my aggressive femme lesbian youth, when I had a kind of awkward-girl game that women found irresistible. But somewhere in my thirties, I lost my game and my nerve. What has gotten into me on this particular afternoon, I can’t really say for sure. Maybe everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours has pushed me to the brink of emotional overwhelm, the inevitable outcome of which is me hurling myself into some sort of emotional kamikaze mission. Maybe. Whatever it is, it feels like it’s happening almost outside my control. Also: She seems like a woman who takes up space and I’ve always been attracted to that kind of woman.
I’ve rendered her momentarily speechless for the third time in the span of three minutes and that makes me feel like I’m winning, although I haven’t decided at what.
“I think I’d rather just have the record,” she says.
I chuckle. It’s a more awkward chuckle than you could possibly imagine.
“I guess I’m flattered, despite this being the strangest conversation I’ve ever had. But I’m not—”
“You’re not queer?” I ask. “Shit. Are you sure? Because you seem really queer to me.”
“I’m…not really sure what you mean by that. But I was going to say I’m not single.”
“Oh,” I say, chuckling again. WHY DO I KEEP CHUCKLING? “Okay, then. It’s cool. I mean, whatever.”
Mercifully, Gus has reappeared and she waves him over. She doesn’t look at me again and I know she’s decided she’d rather have the record than be liked by a stranger, which makes me feel kinda proud of her.
* * *
—
When Viva and I get back to the school, tweens are pouring out of it. We stand a little distance from the exit while I look for the kid in the crowd. Part of me is worried that I don’t remember what she looks like. I know that if I walk up to a kid who turns out not to be her, Viva will think I’m a horrible monster and I’ll probably agree. But then I see a girl bouncing down the steps in fatigue cargo pants, her unzipped jacket revealing a pink T-shirt with Grace Jones emblazoned on it, her shiny cornrows held at the ends with colorful rubber bands, and there’s no doubt in my mind it’s her. I see hints of my girlhood self: same walk, same tilt of the head as she looks around for her ride.
“That’s her,” I tell Viva.
The kid spots us super quick and I think she frowns when she sees me. I give a little wave, like, Hi, remember me? I’m that dipshit who helped make you and who also tried to climb out of a window while you were eating a hot dog in a really weird way. A little surprisingly, the kid runs toward me instead of away. When she’s about three feet from us, she stops and looks uncertainly at me.
“Oh, hey, Charmaine,” I say, smiling, trying to seem real casual and shit.
She looks confused, like, Who the hell is Charmaine? “My name is Vicky.”
Fuuuuuuck. “Right!” I say. “I knew it started with a consonant!”
The kid looks at me like I’m the worst person she’s ever met. I want to tell her that I’m not, that I’m just bad at human-on-human relationships. Instead, I say, “Look, I know you’re probably still pissed about the window thing—”
A car horn honks loudly and the kid turns to look. Then, without another word or even a glance back at me, she walks away. I watch her head toward a silver SUV that’s double-parked halfway down the block. Once she’s inside the car, it U-turns and drives off.
“What window thing?” Viva asks.
I shrug. “Fuck if I know.”
“Pero you’re the one who said it.”
I turn to look at her. “Why did you force me to come here? The kid didn’t even want to see me!”
“Force? ¿Como que force? You said you wanted to come.”
I shake my head. “Whatever.”
I turn and start down the street away from her.
“The car is over here,” she calls after me.
“I’ll walk!”
While I’m waiting for the light to turn, my phone rings. It’s my brother. “For fuck’s sake,” I say out loud to nobody. I open my airline app and in a few swipes I change my plane ti
cket so I can depart for Miami tonight, then head to São Paulo early. As soon as I get back to my room, I start packing.
4
I’m stuffing underwear into my carry-on when I hear a tapping at my window. I’m on the second floor, so I don’t know what the hell is going on. I try to ignore it, but it’s relentless. Tap. Tap. Tap. Finally, I go over to the window and look down. Standing on the sidewalk below is my stupid-ass brother. I try to duck back real quick, but he sees me and yells my name. “Skye!”
Shit.
“I see you! Don’t be an asshole!”
I open the window and lean out, frowning at him as hard as I can. Like, my face actually hurts, I’m frowning so hard. “What are you doing here, Slade?”
He shakes his head, like it’s a stupid question. “You thought I was just gon’ go away?”
Um, yeah, that’s what I was hoping. By the time I finished vomiting, he’d left the bookstore and I let myself believe he wouldn’t just show up again.
“How did you even know where I was?” I yell down at him.
“Where else would you be?”
“How did you know what room?”
“I didn’t. I been throwing jelly beans at every window I could see,” he says, opening his hand and revealing a palm-full of assorted colors. “Let me up.”
“Viva’s here,” I tell him, thinking this will stop him in his tracks.
“No, she’s not,” he says. “I waited until I saw her leave.”
“Ugh! Coward!” I shake my head. “Fine. You’re not coming up, though. I’m coming down.” I shut the window, zip my suitcase, check to make sure I’ve got everything I need, then call a cab.
When I open the door, Slade is leaning against the porch railing, smoking a cigarette. He looks skinny, for him, and his shoes look a little worn, but his hair and goatee are freshly cut, so I know he has a job, or at least a pretty good hustle. He eyes my suitcase but doesn’t say anything.