Woke Up Carrying His Secret

Gerald was looking at me again. That's what it felt like, anyway. I lay on my back on the old mattress, the one with the spring that poked my hip, and stared at the brown stain on the ceiling. It looked like a rabbit with one long ear. I named it Gerald when I was eleven. "Sixteen days," I told him. Gerald said nothing. He never does. That's why I like him. "I'm getting married in sixteen days, Gerald. To a man I've never met. Isn't that funny?" It wasn't funny. My voice cracked in the middle of the word married, and I pressed my hand over my mouth like I could shove the sound back in. Down the hall, a cupboard slammed. Then another. Then a pot hit the stove so hard the whole apartment shook. Mom was mad again. Or scared. In our house, those two looked exactly the same. I sat up. The spring poked me and I winced. The room was small. My bed, a wobbly desk, and a closet with no door. Taped to the wall above the desk was the only thing I really owned. A yellow sticky note in my own handwriting that said, Ella Garnacho, Attorney at Law. I wrote that when I was fifteen. The tape had gone brown. The ink had faded. I never took it down. I got up and walked to the kitchen with my arms crossed, like I was cold. Mom stood at the sink with her back to me. Her gray cardigan hung off her shoulders. She was scrubbing a pan that was already clean. "Want me to do that?" I asked. "No." "I can dry, then." "I said no, Ella." So I just stood there. The fridge hummed. Under a pizza magnet, three red envelopes sat in a neat little stack. I had seen them for weeks. Nobody ever opened them. Nobody ever threw them away either. They just sat there, glowing like tiny warning lights. Mom turned to the stove to stir something. Her back was to me. I stepped closer to the fridge. My heart was thumping so loud I thought she'd hear it. I slid the top envelope out from under the magnet. I peeled it open with one thumbnail, slow and quiet. FINAL NOTICE. The words were big and black. Under them was a number. I read it twice because I thought I'd made a mistake. Four months. We were four months behind on rent. Four months. And Mom had told me it was only one. My stomach dropped like I'd missed a step on the stairs. "What are you doing?" Her voice was sharp as a slap. I jumped. The paper shook in my hand. "Nothing," I said. "Give me that." She crossed the kitchen in three steps and ripped the envelope out of my fingers. The paper tore a little at the corner. She held it against her chest like I'd tried to steal her wallet. "That is not your business," she snapped. I stared at her. Something hot rose up my throat. It tasted like every dish I'd ever washed and every time I'd said sure, Mom. "Then whose is it?" I asked. "Ella." "Whose business is it, Mom? Because I'm the one getting sold for it." The kitchen went silent. I mean really silent. I could hear the fridge. I could hear a baby crying in the apartment above us. I could hear my own breath going in and out like I'd run up ten flights of stairs. I waited for her to yell. I waited for her to say that's not what's happening, you ungrateful girl. She didn't. She just stood there, pale, with the envelope pressed against her cardigan. Her mouth opened a little and then closed again. Then she did the thing she always does. She smoothed her sweater down with both hands, like she was wiping the whole conversation off it. "Dinner's at six," she said. That was it. Dinner's at six. I think that hurt more than if she'd hit me. "Okay," I said. My voice sounded flat, like it belonged to somebody else. "I'll set the table." I got out four plates. Then I stopped. I put one back. We only had three people now. Katie's chair was still at the table, but nobody sat in it. Nobody moved it either. It stayed there like a hole in the room. Katie was my big sister. She was the brave one. She talked back to teachers. She wore red lipstick to church. She was the kind of person who walked into a room like she owned it, even when she owned nothing. Two months ago she packed a bag in the middle of the night and left. All she left behind was a note on my pillow. Sorry. Don't look for me. I love you, El. That was all. Nine words. I counted them a hundred times. I still don't know why she left. I still don't know why she didn't take me. And now the bill had come due, and guess who was standing at the sink with the plates? "Ella." Mom's voice was softer now. "Don't make that face." "What face?" "That face. Like I'm the villain." I put the plates down on the table. I did it carefully, one at a time, so I wouldn't throw them. "I didn't say that, Mom." "You didn't have to." She was right. I hadn't said it. But I thought it. And she knew, because she's my mother, and mothers can read your face like a menu. "You'll have a nice house," she said quickly. "You'll never worry about money again. You'll go back to school. You always wanted that, didn't you?" I looked up. "Did you ask him to say that?" "Say what?" "The school part." Her eyes slid away from mine. "It's in the paper." "What paper?" "The agreement." "Can I see it?" "No." "Why not?" "Because it's grown-up business." I laughed. It came out ugly. "I'm twenty-five, Mom." "And I'm your mother." "That's not an answer." She picked up a towel and started drying a plate that was already dry. Her hands were shaking. I noticed it, because noticing is what I do. I can tell when someone's lying by the way they hold their shoulders. Dad's go up near his ears. Katie used to chew her thumb. Mom's go perfectly still. They were still right now. Stiff as boards. What's on that paper, Mom? What are you not telling me? I wanted to ask. The words sat right behind my teeth. But I'm the oldest daughter. I'm the one who says sure, Mom. I'm the one who keeps the peace. So I swallowed it, the way I swallow everything, and it sank down into my stomach like a stone. "I need some air," I said. "Dinner's at six." "I know. I'll be back." I walked to the front window and pushed it up. The wood stuck, then gave way with a loud crack. Cold air rushed in, smelling like rain and car exhaust and somebody's fried onions. I leaned out and closed my eyes. Breathe, Ella. Just breathe. Down in the street, kids were kicking a flat soccer ball between two parked cars. A man yelled at a pigeon. A bus groaned past. It was just a normal evening in Brownsville. The kind of evening I'd seen ten thousand times. I opened my eyes. Across the street, there was a black car. It was long and shiny and way too clean for our neighborhood. Nobody in Brownsville drove a car like that unless they were lost or in trouble. It was parked in the shade of a broken streetlight, with its engine off and its windows dark. I frowned. It hadn't been there yesterday. I was sure of that. But I'd seen it this morning when I went out for the trash. I remembered thinking how weird it looked. I'd figured it belonged to somebody visiting. Nobody visits for a whole day. I stared at the windshield. The glass was tinted, but I could see the outline of a man behind the wheel. His head was turned. He wasn't looking at the kids. He wasn't looking at the bus. He was looking right at our window. Right at me. The back of my neck went cold. My fingers tightened on the window frame. Behind me, Mom was clattering plates. The kitchen light buzzed. Everything inside felt normal and safe and small. But I couldn't move. The man in the car lifted something to his face. Something black. Something with a round glass eye that flashed once in the last gray light. A camera. He was taking my picture! Who was he, and why was a stranger watching the Garnacho apartment?