“Elise,” Abe calls, jogging from behind the counter. He looks concerned, but I’m speechless, darting my gaze around the room. When Abe comes to stand in front of me, he reaches out. “Are you—”
“What’s happening to me?” I murmur as tears spring to my eyes. Before he can touch me, I rush past him toward the back.
Panic, thick and suffocating, rages over me as I lock myself in the employee bathroom. I rest my hands on either side of the pedestal sink, crying softly. That memory—my memory—has left me absolutely heartbroken. I feel shattered, as if pieces of me are scattered about, no longer able to fit together.
“Elise,” Abe says softly on the other side of the door. “Are you okay? Do you want me to call your dad or something?”
“No,” I say automatically. The last thing I need is for my father to get a call from a stranger about his daughter losing it at work. I squeeze my eyes shut one more time, willing away the images of Paul’s life. The feeling of being in love. Those aren’t my thoughts; those aren’t my memories.
I straighten then, looking in the mirror. My eyes are red-rimmed, and I splash cold water on my face, pulling myself together. Something is happening to me, something unnatural. I know I can tell my father, think I should, but at the same time—the idea terrifies me. I don’t know what I’d do if he didn’t believe me.
I have to try to figure this out on my own. Or at least try to. But I can’t do that locked in the bathroom of a Mexican restaurant.
“Not to sound insensitive,” Abe says, his voice echoing off the door as if he’s leaning against it, “but Santo is probably going to hassle you for the outburst. And you’re sort of late for work now. Is there—”
I open the door, and Abe nearly falls in, catching himself at the last second. He’s pale as if stricken with worry.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to sound normal. “I’m obviously off my meds.”
He laughs, looking unsure of my stability. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Maybe counseling would be a good next step.”
I move past him, careful not to meet his eyes, not to give away my fear. I go to the time clock, punching my card. But as I hang it back up, I feel Abe’s hand slide onto my shoulder.
“If you need to freak out about something,” he whispers, “I totally understand. But you should try to keep it together today. I don’t want you to get fired.”
I close my eyes, his smooth voice setting me at ease. His hand steady on my shoulder, holding me still. He’s right. I don’t want to get fired.
Abe smiles when I look at him. “Better?” he asks, studying my expression. When I nod, he brushes the backs of his fingers gently over my jaw. “Good.”
And then he turns and leaves the kitchen.
As I start my shift, I find that my panic has settled into a soft dread—something manageable. And it seems that work helps to keep my mind focused, almost as if I’m able to forget about earlier by acting normal. Acting as if it never happened.
I avoid a lecture from Santo, sneaking past his office to meet Abe out on the floor. It’s nice to be able to throw myself into work, even if I’m still following Abe as part of the training. But he lets me take the orders, standing at my side like my own personal Mexican food encyclopedia. He interjects only when I really mess up my pronunciation. I’ve taken to just pointing at various things on the menu, but Abe is hip to my game and makes me try to sound them out.
“There is nothing difficult about the word albondigas. Say it with me, Elise.” He squeezes my mouth and moves it in tandem with the syllables. “Al-bon-di-gas.” I make the attempt, but then forget immediately when I’m at the next table telling them our soup of the day.
We dive into the shift, the evening passing quickly as Abe explains how to garnish a plate, how to act offended when customers order a cheeseburger. Santo’s is especially busy, and Abe tells me it’s never been this crowded. He says they must be here for me.
The job is fun, though. With so many customers it’s all a blur of smiles and half-filled iced tea pitchers. Between tables Abe’s got me cracking up, introducing me with a different name to each patron. I was Doris, Consuela, and even Godzilla—which he told them was my nickname. I think he was taking a shot at my five-eight height, but he says he wasn’t. Either way, I was a little annoyed after that one so he went back to calling me Elise.
I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen when Abe comes up, smirking. “How will you ever sleep tonight?”
“I still have an hour here,” I say, glancing at the clock to see it’s almost nine. “And besides, I haven’t been sleeping all that well.”
“You’re the hardest-working woman in the restaurant business.” He takes a packet of sugar and hands it over to me, leaning against the food counter while I stir in the sweetener. “Do you like it here?” he asks offhandedly, examining his fingernails.
“It’s the best job I’ve ever had. It’s also the only job I’ve ever had, so it doesn’t have much to compete with. But I do like it. For the most part.”
Abe looks up as if he’s surprised by my answer. “No, not at Santo’s. I mean—”
“Elise,” Santo calls from the kitchen, his voice having its usual gruff edge. I worry that I’m in trouble as I head back there. Abe follows, and I find Santo at the grill, flipping strips of chicken and green peppers. When he notices me, he wipes his hands on the white towel he has thrown over his shoulder.
“Go ahead and take off,” he says with a head nod toward the front door. My stomach drops.
“I’m fired?”
Abe laughs from behind me, and Santo shakes his head. “What? No. I just don’t need you anymore tonight.” He pauses, as if he doesn’t want to say the next part. “Nice work out there.” He pours oil on the grill, drowning out the sound of my thank-you with a sizzle.
I go to grab my purse, untying my apron as Abe snorts. “What?” I ask. I can’t help but smile, a little embarrassed about my exchange with Santo.
“Nothing,” Abe says. “I just think it’s funny that when your boss tells you that you can take off, your first instinct is to think you’re fired.”
“Maybe I’m not all that confident in my server skills yet.”
“I understand that. You’re awful at it.”