Wait, p.13
Wait, page 13
Elise tries to lie next to Sheba, but the insides of her eyelids are spinning, so she takes her phone into the bathroom and closes the door. She sits on the floor against the wall, welcoming the cold tiles against her legs. In the corner behind the door is Sheba’s underwear, inverted and twisted into a ball. An empty Acqua Panna bottle has rolled next to the toilet. She unlocks her phone and begins scrolling through old photos on her social media, stopping on a photo she took of Harry in her dorm room. He’s wearing a pair of her silk pajama shorts and posing like Rodin’s The Thinker, his impeccable abdominals on display. The post has 104 likes, one of the highest counts she’s ever gotten. She smirks and zooms in on the pointed fold on the seam near his crotch. She closes the app and searches for their last text message conversation, forgetting she deleted their text history soon after she returned to the island. She opens up a fresh message.
Elise: Hiiiii. It’s me.
She finds it strange to see Harry’s name at the top of a blank messaging space. She places her cell face down on the tile floor and slides it toward the toilet. It hits the Acqua Panna bottle with a clank. She places her hands flat on the floor to stand herself up, then looks in the mirror at her drooping eyes and mouth. Her phone vibrates. He responded immediately, she thinks, feeling satisfied. She likes that she can still contact Harry whenever she wants, and in this way, he is still hers.
Harry: I’m at a party. What’s up?
Elise: ooh. cool. cool cool
mr. party
like its 1999
She looks in the mirror again and fixes her hair. She’s imagining the kinds of friends he has made in New York: women with thick chain-link bracelets and dental work, men with combed side parts and monogrammed socks.
Elise: you’re at a party and im not invited?
Harry: haha. are you in the city?
Elise: lol. no. sorry. had a rough day and then got drunk accidentally
kinda wish I didn’t.
Harry doesn’t say anything in reply. Elise begins to wonder if he only answered so quickly because he thinks she’s vulnerable in a way he isn’t. This sensation overwhelms her, a desire to dispel his perception of her as a victim. He needs to remember how attractive he thinks she is, how, one time at breakfast in the dining hall, he’d rested his head on her shoulder, inching closer to her, and her friends thought he was being so sweet, that maybe he would finally ask her to be his girlfriend. He moved his hand up her pleated skirt, subtly, and pushed her underwear aside. She inched her legs open, laughing and nodding at whatever they said across the table, and he slipped his finger inside her. They kept talking, she’d take a drink from her orange juice, her face tingling and warm, and he fingered her until she couldn’t disguise it anymore, and she had to take him by the wrist and pull him away.
She removes her shirt and bra. Her breasts are as drunk as her face. She braces them with one arm and opens her mouth, then clicks a photograph of herself in the mirror. It’s blurry, focused on a bottle of mouthwash on the counter, but she hits Send anyway.
His text bubble fills and pops, fills and pops, for what feels like an eternity, until the reply floats into thin air.
Harry: Haha. I remember those
Elise stares at the response. Her eyes try to jumble the letters into something erotic, or if not erotic, then decent. She places her phone in the sink and walks downstairs, pours a large glass of water, and sits outside in an Adirondack chair.
It’s raining. She feels a mist blow from the curtain of water running off the shingles. How enlivening it would feel, she thinks, to stand on the railing and dive in, to hover above the ground. She imagines gliding through the downpour, and with each pass of her cupped hands, the raindrops part into the stars. She swims down the stone driveway, past the hyacinth bushes and swamp milkweed, through the cranberry bogs. But before she reaches the spot where she and Sophie used to pick blueberries, the rain stops, and she falls, deep down, down-down-down, to a place where no one can reach her.
Part III
The Main House
A stream of cars feeds into a set of four gas station pumps across the street from the island’s main supermarket entrance. Two attendants are managing the line: an elderly Black man and a white teenager. The elderly man is wearing a flat cap and squeegees the car windshields with a bucket of murky water, biding his time until he hears the click of the gas nozzle. The teenager runs back and forth in camo-print sneakers to deliver change and receipts for drivers. Across the street is an empty self-service gas station with a much larger lot, but no one relinquishes their position at the full-service station.
Elise stretches her legs into the brake and clutch, realizing the mistake she’d made by taking the most direct route home from work. Cars disappear and replicate in front of her: one car finishes getting gas and is replaced by a new car, but the total number of cars never seems to shrink. If no original cars remain, she thinks, is it still the same traffic line, the same Ship of Theseus? She finds a packet of M&M’s in her car door and sucks on one until her tongue turns green and sweet milk chocolate coats her mouth.
After half an hour of stopping and going, she approaches the rotary where the traffic has cleared, but when she turns onto Polpis Road, she finds herself stuck behind a family on low-rider bicycles wearing matching polka-dot bathing suits and tiny leather backpacks. As she drives by them, veering around to give them ample space, they wave to thank her. She waves back, and as she returns to her lane, the family shrinking in her rearview mirror, she feels a teardrop drip off her chin and onto her lap, a stroll of emotion loitering inside her.
She and Sophie have been living in the guest house for nearly a month. The ocean connecting them with Gilda has formed a mass in their minds, a volume of distance. Elise knows they have been distracted by their jobs and living with Sheba, but Gilda has become preoccupied by her life in Brazil too. She hasn’t been spending as much time waiting around the house for a phone call from them.
Elise parks, steps onto the guest house porch, and nearly trips over a cardboard box taped shut and covered in postage stamps. She picks it up and reads a Brazilian address with no name on the sender’s line. The departure stamp is from over a month ago. The box has collected stamps through the north of Brazil and two separate customs checks, through Florida, Virginia, and Western Massachusetts. It was originally sent to their house, but someone (Mrs. Wagner, most likely) crossed out the address in black Sharpie and redirected it here. It’s probably a copy of Mom’s waiver application, Elise thinks. She asked her to send one weeks ago, but Gilda had been unable to find an affordable place to make a scan. Elise carries the box inside the guest house, and when she places it on the oak peninsula, she feels a heavy weight shift from one side to the other.
Hi, Sheba says, reclined on the sofa, her hand skimming the floor.
I didn’t see you there, Elise says, and slides the box toward the coffee maker.
They left, Sheba says, sitting up. They went back to New York.
Who? Elise says. Helen and Holly?
Sheba nods. They said they had to leave for work, but I think they just don’t want to see me anymore.
Elise walks around the oak peninsula and sits beside her on the sofa. Sheba’s cheek is creased from where she had been lying.
Why wouldn’t they want to see you?
Why do you think? She grabs a pillow and tucks it into her lap, fidgeting with its braided corners. The yacht club. I got rejected.
No way, Elise says in genuine disbelief. That Sheba wouldn’t be accepted hadn’t seemed possible. How do you feel about it? she asks.
Sheba sighs and collapses over the pillow. I didn’t even want to be a member! I wanted to stay in London, remember? But now that I didn’t get in, I’m, like, paranoid about why they rejected me. Was it something I did? Was it something I said? I probably said dick or titty in front of a senior member and didn’t even realize it. My mouth is a liability.
You should be able to say dick or titty without retaliation, Sheb. Seriously, fuck that place. It’s much more interesting not to be a part of the yacht club.
Can you say that loud enough so that my moms can hear? They’re probably at Teterboro already.
Fuck the yacht club! Elise yells. Sheba laughs and rests the side of her head on Elise’s shoulder.
We’re parentless now, she says. No supervision needed.
Elise rubs the back of Sheba’s hand, massaging her soft skin and thin bones.
Your parents will be back, she says, not directly to Sheba but to the taxidermy animals on the mantel, who resemble a jury, or perhaps a promenade of angels. I don’t know if my mom will ever be able to come back.
Sorry, Sheba says. I shouldn’t have equated the two.
We’ll be OK, Elise says after a moment and lets go of her hand.
The sofa begins to vibrate, and Sheba searches with her hands beneath their seat. Elise fishes the phone out of the crack in the cushions and sees that it’s her mom. They look at the phone, then at each other. Elise feels a pang of guilt for knowing she needs to leave Sheba to answer. I should take this, she says finally. I haven’t talked to her in a few days.
Sheba groans and rolls into a ball on the sofa, her face obscured, as Elise carries the phone outside. She sits on the bottom porch step, rubbing the soles of her feet against the grass.
Oi, filha, Gilda says. Where are you?
Why? Elise answers instinctively, afraid the question might be foreboding.
No reason, Gilda says. I tried to call earlier but you didn’t answer.
Oh, Elise says, scratching her forehead. It took me forever to get home from work. Traffic was terrible.
I don’t miss that summer traffic, Gilda says. The way she says that traffic makes Elise think maybe it is the same traffic, even with different cars. You sound a little blue, honey, she adds.
I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.
Hey, Gilda says, trying to sound upbeat. I called because I want to tell you some good news. I got a job. I’m doing bookkeeping for a kitchen-supply store in town.
You did? Elise says and stands. You’re not cooking anymore?
I cook, just not for work. I can’t be on my feet twelve hours a day, filha. My back is killing me.
I thought you said getting a job would hurt your case, Elise says. You told me you didn’t want to show you were planting roots.
Yes, I know, but the lawyer said it will take time to hear back.
Elise leans against the still-warm hood of her car. I didn’t even know you were looking for a job.
I want to help your aunt with the bills, and I need something to do during the day.
Sophie and I can send you money, Elise replies. We’ve been saving.
Her mother’s voice goes thin. Oh, Elise, she says and releases a slow breath. Don’t waste your money on me. I’ll be fine.
Elise glances up at a cloud passing overhead. So, how did you find this job?
Well, Gilda says, and laughs a little. It happened really because Beth is terrible about buying fruits and vegetables. I mean, she goes to the grocery store and comes home with butter, cheese, bread, and ice cream. So I decided to walk to the open-air market that’s in town on Saturdays. I have to send you pictures—they sell the most beautiful, red, delicious strawberries, nothing like the flavorless strawberries in the U.S. I finished my shopping and then I thought, Since I’m here, I’ll go to the internet café and send you girls an email.
Did you get my email, by the way? she says as an aside.
Yes, Elise says, I got it. It was an email about Elise’s future, musings on what Gilda thinks she could do as a career. Elise hadn’t written her back yet, overwhelmed by her candor. As I was writing you all of these thoughts, Gilda says, I began to list in my head all the jobs I’ve had in my life. I’m in my forties now and I’ve been working since I was a teenager—can you believe that? So I thought, Maybe it’s a good idea to write everything down. Because, you know, I was starting to tell myself this story that all I’ve ever done is cook, and so all I’ll ever be able to do is cook. But as I was listing each of these jobs, I remembered that as a sous I did all of the product ordering for the kitchen, every week. And I calculated plate cost every time we changed the menu. I have experience expediting tickets and negotiating with vendors. It was actually really cool to lay it out on the screen, because—she pauses, her voice wavers—I was beginning to think I hadn’t accomplished anything in my life. That I had worked all these years and had nothing to show for it.
That isn’t true, Elise says. You have done so much.
I know, I know, filha. But it’s easy to start thinking that way after what happened. They threw me out of the country like I was a nothing. Like I was nothing more than a little flea. And I began to think that maybe it was true. But as I wrote down everything I’ve done, to record it, like a résumé, I realized it wasn’t true. I have accomplished a lot. I have skills, and I have things to offer. So I printed out ten copies, and I walked to the stores in town and handed them out, said that if they needed someone to help with sales or ordering or bookkeeping, that I have the experience. And then—you won’t believe it, Elise—the next day I got a phone call. Only one day later. If my grandmother was alive, she would say it was an act of God. I was so nervous. I haven’t gone for an interview since, I don’t even remember when. I told Beth and she said she would help me prepare. She put on a pair of reading glasses and pretended to be an interviewer, and—Gilda laughs—Beth was much harder on me than the actual interviewer was. Actually, the owner was really impressed with my experience and seemed to like me. She didn’t mind that I hadn’t worked in Brazil for so long. And then, at the end, she told me I got the job. Beth was waiting outside in the car, and when I came out, I ran to her screaming! I couldn’t help it. We were both dressed up, had makeup on and everything, so we went straight to a restaurant to celebrate, ordered a big steak and a bottle of champagne.
Gilda stops, realizing Elise is silent on the other end of the line, and waits for her to say something.
Hello? she says. Are you still there?
I’m here, Mom, Elise says and returns to the porch steps. Sorry, I’m just taking it all in.
Gilda slows down. I just finished my third day, and I really like it there, she continues. The owners are nice people. They said I can leave early if I need to, for errands or appointments. And they gave me my own desk by a window. There’s a hibiscus bush outside.
Elise taps her fingers against the wooden railing. I’m happy for you—really. It sounds perfect, she says, trying to sound upbeat.
Are you sure you’re not sad? Gilda says.
I’m sure. I’m just tired.
You should take a nap. Make some chamomile tea, she says. Give your sister a big kiss from me. I love you.
I will. Love you too.
Elise hangs up and leans her torso over her knees, pressing the air out of her lungs and stomach. When she feels her face expand, turn hot and red, she sits up and gasps for air, dark clouds blooming in her vision. I guess that’s all it is, she thinks as her breath steadies. My mom has a job. She has a new job, a sister, and a life in Atibaia. She stands, stretches her calves against a step. I think I need to go for a long walk, she says to the open air, and looks through the window at Sheba, who is standing at the oak peninsula, rotating the package in her hands.
Is this from your mom? Sheba asks as Elise walks inside. Let’s open it.
I don’t know. I think so, Elise says. I should wait for Sophie to get home from work to open it.
Did you ask your mom what’s inside?
No, I forgot, Elise says, shaking her head. It’s probably just legal paperwork.
How do you always put off opening packages? Sheba says and pushes it toward Elise. I open everything the second it arrives.
Elise shrugs, ignoring the box. I’m going to go for a walk, she says instead. Do you want to join? It’s beautiful outside. She figures Sheba will probably decline, but to her surprise she agrees. She dons a straw hat and a pair of tennis shoes, and suggests they walk on a trail at the back of the house that leads to a series of kettle ponds. They hop over a split rail fence behind the garbage shed, then follow a sandy path lined with dense arrowwood and hazelnut bushes. Sheba points whenever she thinks she hears a bird, likely for Elise’s amusement—towhees and catbirds squawking in the brush. Elise can tell she’s trying hard to lighten the mood, but her mind is still swirling about her conversation with Gilda, how she said she felt like she hadn’t accomplished anything in her life. The thought makes Elise’s heart hurt. The truth is, she’s had the same thought before too, about herself and about Gilda. As a teenager, she resented her mother for not accomplishing more, for not striving further, for not being like other moms who seemed to work in an office and cook dinner every night and clean the house, the motherly tasks Gilda didn’t do. Elise? Sheba says. Are you listening? Yes, sorry, she replies. Her thighs are slipping against each other with sweat. She feels bad for having these thoughts, but she’s hurt that Gilda has moved on, that she—subconsciously or not—is building a life in Brazil without her and Sophie, even if it’s the only option Gilda has. Elise stops in the middle of the fire path, the sun dipping below the tupelo trees. An indiscernible amount of time has passed, and it’s unclear to Elise how far they’ve walked.
