It was enough to survive. That was all she needed right then. Survival.
But as her stomach began to get nourished, other parts of her began to wake up. On her days off she would wander the streets of Minneapolis. Her eyes filled with images of how other people lived. Normal people. Couples. People who could rely on each other, hold hands, go to lunch, browse a clothing store, all with such ease. Such carefree airs that floated toward her, as if to invite her in.
She didn’t envy them. It was more than that. She wanted to immerse herself in what they had. She wanted to somehow transform.
It was on one of her walks in late summer when she saw them. Sitting across from each other on the patio of an Italian restaurant in Uptown. Her breath caught and she placed a few fingers near her throat. She was disconcerted with her reaction to these two people. What was it that made her stop like that?
They glowed. A halo that only she could see lassoed around them. The woman had fair hair, the features of a beauty as if plucked out of a Scandinavian fairy tale. Her ice-pick eyes glinted as she sipped from her glass and listened intently to her companion. With a half-serene smile, she didn’t take her eyes from him once.
Him.
It was him that really halted her. She watched him smooth back his jet-black hair; a lock kept straggling and she wanted to go put it back in place for him. The outline of his lips looked almost drawn—a light burgundy hue that perhaps was stained even further by the red wine he shared with his wife. She could see the bands on their fingers. He whispered something and she laughed. Their affection seemed genuine. They weren’t putting on airs, were they? At least that was what she wanted to believe. They were beautiful to watch.
Beautiful.
“Are you ready to go, honey?” the woman asked, pulling her violet shawl over her gracefully sloped shoulders.
“Yes, yes, we should get going . . . I’ve got a big day tomorrow. My first faculty meeting.”
He began to get up but she stopped him. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
“I’m so proud of you, Patrick.”
CHAPTER 15
ISLA
1996
Mom smeared the orange paint across my cheeks. She paused to dab more on her brush and stepped back to look at her work.
“Do I look like a tiger yet?”
She shook her head and smiled. “But we’re getting there, Isla.”
Halloween always meant my birthday. Dad made a point to tell me the same story every year. How Mom’s water broke right as they were about to leave for a party. She didn’t even have time to take off her Marie Antoinette costume, I came out so quickly. Dad was dressed as Frankenstein and it was quite a scene to see him hold me, crying so loudly. He would shake his head when he said this part, then tousle my hair.
It always seemed like such a crazy story. And he remembered every detail like it was yesterday. I would ask to see a picture of them in costume, but they could never find it.
This year the story wasn’t mentioned. Dad was too busy putting Marlow’s ladybug costume on. He struggled with the black tights as she wriggled and played with the antennae headband, the two velvet balls at the ends bobbling sideways.
“Can you please stay still, sweetie?”
She tossed her head back and forth and then smacked her mouth a few times.
“Marlow . . .”
She giggled and leaned forward, patting his cheeks. “Okay, Daddy.”
Mom stopped mid brushstroke. It was the first time Marlow had called him that.
Dad froze and then pretended that name was nothing new. That she had always called him that and there was no need to give it attention.
“There,” said Mom as she put her hands on my shoulders and turned me to the bathroom mirror.
I looked up to see the black and orange streaks she had carefully created across my cheeks, my forehead white, my nose dotted with a tiny black heart.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.” I turned my head side to side to admire her work.
“Happy tenth birthday, my Isla,” she said in my ear, her breath warm.
Marlow squirmed her head under Mom’s elbow, clinging to her. “Happy birthday!”
I felt Mom go rigid. She awkwardly moved away from Marlow’s head. I could see her staring at the three of us in the mirror. Our faces, each a different piece to a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together.
She scooted us downstairs to the kitchen, where she made us a quick dinner of leftover porkchops. The microwave whirred as she took out the steaming breaded meat with some green beans on the side. The smell of her food circled around and danced with the lunch Moni had made earlier—one of my favorites, pan-fried mackerel with rice and kimchi. The synthesis of their distinct aromas wisped about the kitchen, entwining and creating a mixture that was nurturing to me—an essence of home.
A few of the neighborhood kids were invited over for cake and ice cream before we went trick-or-treating.
Sawyer arrived first. “Cool face paint!” he exclaimed, his voice muffled behind his red Power Ranger mask.
He was followed by the Bollinger twins, Topher and Greta, and then Oliver, who lived at the far end of the cul-de-sac.
They each handed wrapped gifts over to Mom, as if it were their entrance ticket to the house, and she judiciously stacked them on the kitchen table. Dad brought out the cake, Funfetti with white icing as I’d requested. Marlow sang the loudest in my ear, but I didn’t mind. I blew out the ten candles but forgot to make a wish.
I opened the gift from the twins first, a K’Nex building set. From Oliver, a heart-shaped purple Polly Pocket. The last was Sawyer’s. I held up the small dream catcher and smiled, knowing it had to be from Ada.
