A dark sedan pulls up beside the curb. “This is my car.”
“Eva…” His fingers clench around mine, holding me in place as I try to take a step away from him. Our eyes meet again.
“Yes?” Our arms are outstretched. Me leaning toward the car. Him standing on the curb. Fingers still clutching at one another.
He tugs me to him, and I inhale his scent once more. Cinnamon and firewood. His scruffy cheek brushes against mine and his breath tickles my ear. “It was great to see you again.”
Then he releases my hand and steps away from me.
And that’s where this reunion ends.
2
Thanksgiving passes as a reflective day. I don’t celebrate with family but spend the afternoon serving food at a homeless shelter. This doesn’t make me a good person. I’m only here once a year, but as I don’t have plans for a big meal, this is how I’ve spent the past decade.
Afterwards, I visit my mother. Yes, the woman who left when I was a child has recently resurfaced in my life.
As always, visiting my mother leaves me feeling disjointed. I tell her about Zebb, the reunion, and work. I’d often felt I’d like to reach out for her hand, maybe hold it while I speak, but we didn’t have that kind of relationship. Even calling her mom is a struggle. After fifteen minutes of one-sided conversation, I excuse myself and leave.
When I return home, I call my dad. He asks about my mother. The question is terse, and I imagine him clenching his teeth. My father is bitter about her return. Still bitter from her initial leaving. But he doesn’t have a say in my seeing her.Hedoesn’t have to see her. He’s in South Carolina with his new woman, a later-in-life romance involving two people who met on a golf course. It’s sickeningly sweet and gag-worthy uncomfortable to know my father has more sex in his sixties than me nearing forty.
“If you don’t want to know, why do you ask?” My haughty question doesn’t soften him.
“I want to support you. Her return must be difficult.” He hasn’t really supported me since he left this city. He gifted me the down payment on my one-bedroom apartment in the West Loop out of guilt.
In many ways, his leaving was harder. I’d come back to Chicago, and he turned around and left within three months. The symmetry to Zebb is remarkable. Zebb left me after high school. My father left when I transferred colleges. I’m never certain which departure hurt more.
Then again, my father hadn’t been actively involved in my life any more than my absentee mother. I’d been alone for a very long time.
“I’m fine,” I lie regarding my mother’s return. Then I end our call.
The weight of the day presses down on me. My thoughts have repeatedly returned to Zebb.
When we were kids, he’d climb the fire escape late at night and we’d fill the time with us in bed, exploring one another, learning one another, being together. Since seeing him last night, a montage of what we had runs through my head. Of what I wanted us to be.
Foolish teenage dreams.
+ + +
The next morning is a rush with an early alarm and harried customers. I don’t work a register as much as wander the floors, all seven of them, checking on clerks, supplies of register tape, and sales per department. The store looks like Whoville moved in for the winter. Boxes and bows, ribbons and taffeta. Gold and silver plus red and green colors every surface. Millions of mini bulbs twinkle and Christmas carols ring out on every floor. Garlands are strung wherever they can be hung, and Christmas trees fill every crook and corner.
When Ashford’s lost their worldwide reach and took back their original philosophy, an overhaul was made as to what they carried and how merchandise was displayed. I’d been to the famous Liberty London which carries high end house goods, some personal effects, and fancy fabrics. Ashford’s leaned in that direction upon their revival. Shopping here was intended to be an experience. Dining. A theatre. And floors of furniture, housewares, fashion, and personal items. Jude Ashford’s great-great-grandfather would be proud of his great-great-grandson’s vision in the modern age, although the original owner might grimace at his descendant’s arrogant attitude.
He has just bitched me out for a child puking in the children’s department. I’ve called maintenance and I’m taking a much-needed break in my small office when a knock comes to my door.
“Special delivery.” Zaleya sails into my office holding a vibrant red poinsettia plant.
“If that’s my Christmas bonus, I don’t want it.” Last year, in an effort to cut back, Jude gave his top management a gift card to McDonald’s, another Chicago-based business. I’d thought the card was a joke at first, but Jude claimed he was supporting other big businesses with a show of comradery. Three of our managers quit the day after Christmas. Jude didn’t understand he was a largesmallbusiness and he needed to act as such.
“Actually, it was hand delivered. When I overheard the hunk of a man asking where he could find you, I offered to bring this up.”
A personal card the size of a greeting card was attached.
Zaleya set the plant on the corner of my desk and held out the envelope. I flipped it open and pulled out a card stock sheet of people.
What did the Grinch say to the Who?
Turning over the paper, the back read:My heart grew three times its size at the sight of you.