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Clara’s Thursday
Thursday, October 13, 2022
Second assistant manager of a fast food restaurant. Not exactly a lucrative title, nor one that carries much weight or value in the adult world, and, yet, I felt differently. There I was, eighteen years old, not even out of high school and as serious as could be. For years after this point, irritability was a commonplace, and I never could get enough sleep. There was one thing which kept me going, and it’s the reason I have no regret in staying at Culver’s for as long as I did: money. So much working meant so little time. So much money that I had no time to spend. As such, there has been little issue in paying for my college career, and for that, at least, I am grateful.
It was a Thursday. Shouldn’t be an important detail, yet one which stuck to the minds of all involved like a starfish on glass. “Clara’s Thursday” as it would come to be known, started off poorly. From the clock-in of a 2:30 shift, the day was looking to be one of misery. Understaffed, of course, and there was no mystery behind that.
I wasn’t promoted to manager out of kindness nor out of a sense of ambition for the restaurant’s future. I was simply a replacement. Kirk, the scheduling manager, had chosen a strange and inconvenient method of quitting his job: not quitting. That is to say, he simply chose to stop caring, stopped putting forth any effort, and just waited to be fired or to find an opportunity to simply walk out the door. God only knows how happy I was to see another copy-pasted, half-redacted schedule on the wall that day, understanding that it could only get worse. Great sportsmanship on Kirk’s part if you ask me.
Despite the horrid scheduling, the day didn’t go the path I expected it to — it was significantly worse. An overflow of customers, three in-house registers, and a drive-thru all packed with orders going into a kitchen populated with no more than three or four teenagers. Refunds here and there, orders being forgotten, orders given to the wrong cars, and customers waiting upwards of twenty minutes. There were also complaints, many complaints, far more than would be expected of a day such as this, and aggressive ones too. These customers were dissatisfied, and there I was, a naive looking teenager ready to take it all with a nod and an artificial customer service voice.
Around dawn was when Clara, an employee in the drive-thru asked if shecould go to Walmart. Claims of feeling sick were well evidenced in her voice, face, and mannerisms. It was just across the street, within walking distance, so with only slight deliberation, I sent her on her way. She simply needed some medicine to help with a headache. I agreed, thinking it would be unjust to disallow such after an undoubtedly stressful few hours. Proper night time was when the schedule of a Culver’s shift endured its harshest stress test. Beyond a certain point, the vast array of sub-sixteen-year-old employees were legally required to clock out of their shifts, at which point only the older workers, whose average age I estimate to be less than twenty, would remain. There were six of us. Two at drive-thru, two at front-of-house, and two in the kitchen. But that six soon turned to five, and then to four, and then to zero.
“Where the fuck is Clara!?” I heard. I don’t remember who said it, but the words surely could, and probably had, come from anyone working that night. We were a skeleton crew, and any further loss of manpower would be devastating, and, yet, she was gone. None of those in my vicinity did much about her absence nor did I. After all, there was little time to seek her out when the screens, grill, and fryers were as flooded as they were. Edith, however, felt differently and was kind enough to seek Clara out. Of the six employees in the restaurant that night, Edith was perhaps the worst person to have done so.
A controversial person — devising a pseudonym for Edith is little trouble — as I only remember her name as being a strangely religious one. Fitting as her name was, Edith’s evangelism was bold enough to discomfort even the Mormon coworker. It was not a kind boldness. “Sinner get ready,” “Sinners go to hell,” and other such rhetoric were Edith’s style and would present themselves at any opportunity, only occasionally and accidentally managing to appear polite. I know nothing of what happened to her and her job — whether she was fired — but I feel no envy for those cursed with her presence nowadays.
Naturally, Edith was the one who found Clara in the bathroom and spoke with her for thirty minutes. Not much is known by anyone about what was discussed during that time, but what I do know is that it was in some way religious. Some sort of attempt to convert Clara to Christianity. Perhaps a noble cause — if Clara were not actively dying during those thirty minutes.
I had no idea of her intentions. Up until the point of the duo’s graceless return from the bathroom, the pills Clara had bought from Walmart had not even crossed my mind. And, yet, here she was walking out, having taken the whole bottle thirty minutes prior. I’d like to say I was proactive in the situation, that I took immediate action, but I didn’t. I and the others deliberated for some minutes, during which time Clara’s life could have been in danger. “Shut it down! We’re done,” I declared at last, after what could only have been too much time spent thinking.
“I’m fine,” Clara said as we seated her in the manager’s office, but her claims were ignored. With Clara down, I called the police. Meanwhile, the remainder made rushed, hasty attempts to close down operations while also making sure Clara was ok. I held the empty bottle in my hand, too stressed to have ever even read the dosage, and I relayed the information to the phone’s other end. “Holy shit!” I exclaimed without a moment’s thought or hesitation. Before my explanation was even finished, I saw the blue lights arrive less than three minutes into the call, and I was enveloped by shock and awe.
Police and paramedics are professionals, so this was ironically the calmest period of the entire day. Questions were asked, information was given, and I was told that the total dosage taken was not enough to be life threatening for someone of Clara’s body type. Regardless, she was taken to the hospital to have her stomach pumped, from which she would be discharged the following day.
In a surprising moment of thoughtfulness, Kirk came into the restaurant, after all was said and done, to close it himself. He didn’t need help, nor did he want it. All five remaining subjects of “Clara’s Thursday” were allowed to go home. Clara would return to work that Saturday and would eventually be fired after bringing an Orbeez gun into the restaurant and using it to shoot employees.
All these years later, questions still remain. Did she know that the dosage wouldn’t be lethal? What did her and Edith talk about? But there was one, which may have a strange answer, that was quite intriguing: Why were the customers so upset? While the sun shined and the complaints were most frequent, Clara was working at the drive-thru station, specifically, she was taking orders from customers. From breadcrumbs of information and a little reflection, it seems that Clara was quite rude to the customers during this period. Her sour attitude cubed the already exponentially disastrous service being delivered to an extent that I can hardly blame the customers for complaining — although my past self would certainly disagree.
The final note is one of respect — respect to one particular subject of “Clara’s Thursday”: Arthur. Arthur, of course, being the heroic king of Camelot. Quite a fitting pseudonym since Arthur was the hero of that night. During Clara and Edith’s thirty or so minute absence, Arthur maintained his work and took over both of their stations by himself. At no point did he complain, nor did he make much of any noise at all. He suffered silently through it all and were it not for his honorable workmanship, my blood would perhaps have reached the elusive ocean floor level of pressure.
The events of this night cannot be blamed on any particular person. The titular Clara is not the sole reason for this night of catastrophe, and ‘twould be dishonorable to depict her as some sort of culprit. I do wonder, however, how I would feel if she had taken a fatal dose. For one, I would be sad over her death, but would I blame myself? Would I assign unjust responsibility for having allowed her to make that trip to Walmart in the first place? These will remain perpetually unanswered, and, as time goes on, my memory of the events thin. The most significant question persists as well, and I will never find closure in an answer: Why did Clara down that bottle of pills?
Clear Sky Rain
Paul looked at Kate with her hands on her hips as she glared at him. Her face was framed in her shoulder length brunette hair with bangs set just above her eyebrows. Paul was eight years old, and Kate was thirteen. She was wearing jeans and a green T-shirt. “You know why we hate you?” she said. “It’s because you are so different.” Paul nodded, David and Jonas were called willows by the other boys on the street and at school. Paul was sporty, fast and too smart for his own good. “You don’t even have any heart problems,” continued Kate. The rest had heart murmurs and other issues. “You know why you’re like that?” asked Kate. “It’s because you’re adopted. I think Mom just took you from somewhere.” Paul nodded again, as he had heard the story from their mother. “Mom and Dad just left and were away for a week and then they brought you back. Mom didn’t even get big before you came. She can’t ever say you were hers,” said Kate. She shook her head and walked away. Paul had heard the story about how they brought him home, but never heard how their mother wasn’t big, pregnant before.
Spring always comes late when you live at high altitude, like Paul’s childhood town, Hinton. Paul never liked the changing of seasons after the long winters. The warm west winds had come and gone during the long winter as Chinooks that made the snow wet and heavy. Building forts and sledding never grew boring for him. Paul hated the melting excrement that had to be avoided as he walked to the playground that was half a block from their house. There was mud everywhere, and the trip to playground was always a disappointment. The seesaws, the slide and swings were in the middle of icy ponds of muddy water edged by rotting snow. Just beyond the play area was the sledding hill that was half covered in mud and the same crystallized rotting snow that was everywhere.
As Paul watched, his older brother, David, walk up to the swings in the middle of the deepest pond in the playground and climbed on. He was fifteen years old. Paul knew better than to say anything as David splashed through the water, drenching his winter coat, and filling his boots with the muddy water. David gazed at the sky vacantly.
Paul knew better than to say, you shouldn’t do that, or you’re going to get in trouble when you go home wet. At best David would repeat, as he did constantly, I’m your elder, you’re not even one of us, you’re adopted. Paul would watch, like he always did until David broke the rhythm of what he was doing, because he was too cold, or he forgot why he was doing it, or he would become aware of what he was doing it didn’t like it.
Drenched, turning white from the cold David slipped off the swing and stared at Paul.
“Why didn’t you come and swing?” David asked.
“I didn’t feel like it,” Paul replied, not wanting to provoke a more vigorous response.
David stared vacantly at Paul, shrugged, and stared at the pond, as if he just noticed it was there. David trudges to where Paul was standing.
“Let’s go to the sledding hill,” David said. Paul nodded and followed with relief as he chose to walk up the alley to the top of the hill, instead of straight through the pond at the base of the hill.
“They say I have Artism,” David said. “I have special needs.”
“What’s that?” Paul asked, unsure of what David may do or say next.
“It’s like being an artist,” he said in his expressionless tone.
“But you don’t do anything artistic,” replied Paul.
“It’s not that kind of art,” David continued, as he attempted to speak with a self-righteousness, as he had heard his mother used. “It’s like the crazy artist types-like poets. They write what no one reads, and if you read them, you can’t figure it out; it’s just crazy art. They do crazy art. Crazy art, crazy art.”
“How did they figure out you’re a poet?” Paul asked.
“They did this weird test,” replied David.
“What kind of test?”
“They made you look at strange faces, these strange faces and you tell them what’s going on.”
“So how did you pass that test?” Paul asked. David straightened his posture but continued with the same distant look.
“I couldn’t say what those people were doing, I wasn’t there when they took the picture, so how was I supposed to know?” asked David.
“Do you have to write poems now?” asked Paul.
“As long as I don’t write any poems, I’ll be all right” replied David.
“Did they tell you that?”
“I told some other guys in class, and they told me about the crazy artists, and Artism,” replied David.
The word Artism was like the word they used to describe the middle brother, Jonas as well. There was a story he told about being a poet, but they had threatened to take him away if he continued to write poems. Paul had heard Edna his adoptive mother telling him he must be careful about what he did, especially at school. Paul must never use the word they said to him, Autism, and if he was ever asked, he must tell others that he had a learning disability, but Paul was different than his brothers he wasn’t related to. There was confusion in everything they knew as the oldest, Julie was in high school, but she had a temper that would explode without warning. She had that same vacant look, which was only replaced at times with laughter or anger. There was, like her two brothers, no warning of what would happen next. Everything was literal and factual in her world.
When the two arrived at the top of the sledding hill, they could see all the lost mitts, scarves, and toques that were freed from the winter hiding places by the melting snow. David sat at the top of the hill as he would have sat on his toboggan in winter. Would he attempt to slide down the hill, through the mud and ice that remained?
“The hill’s too messy to sled,” he said.
“It’s getting a bit too dark to sled right now,” Paul said.
David stood up and stared down at his wet pants and coat. “It’s getting cold out again,” he said and turned toward home. Paul watched as Edna appeared at the door and looked at David with disgust and resignation.
* * * *
Edna was absent, first with trips to the town hospital, and later to Edmonton. She would have a series of surgeries over the years due to her arthritis. Edna had always complained about her arthritis, her hips, knees and back were always in pain, and she used 222, an effective pain killer that often left her looking tired and more distant. She had been using the pain killer for years and because they were harmless, she thought, she used them through all her pregnancies. With her pain killers Edna would not notice arguments between Julie, Kate, David and Jonas and they would last long enough to erupt into scuffles. She would finally intervene, sending them in different directions.
In summer there would be rain falling from the clear sky; caused by a heat inversion warm wet air was caught above cold air from the mountain slopes. With out clouds or warning rain fell. Paul was taught about why this happened at school. He thought the way the icy cold rain fell from the clear was like what happened in the family: unexpected, sudden, and cruel.
Chores were to be carried out by the oldest, Julie, David with help from Kate. For their extra work, they would receive allowances. But it took little time before Julie and David were directing Kate, Jonas, and Paul to complete the housework, it was their job to make sure that things were done, not necessarily do it themselves, as this would be against the natural order of things. Kate worked quickly and without complaint, as she knew that there was always a time, when the task she was directed to do was done, and she could slip out the door and avoid hours of work dictated as soon as one set of work was done.
Jonas, under threat of punishment from the older ones would work continuously as well at times complaining bitterly, and at times fighting with David who would be supervising his work and doing little else. Paul followed Kate’s example and volunteered to do work that would not be where Jonas was to complete his chores. Paul would be assigned clean up of the backyard, carrying pails of trash to a burning barrel, moving rocks away from the side of the garden to the back alley. Once the task was done, Paul was gone.
Of course, when the allowance was paid out to Julie and David, that was the way it was to be. It was utterly unacceptable to have Kate, Jonas, or Paul receive the money, as the work was to be done by Julie and David, and when the chores were clearly complete, it was in fact those two who must have done it.
Home Sweet Home
Skyscrapers watch cars driving bumper to bumper, trying to snag the first parking spot
they see. They each move slightly forward, and gray smoke emits, clouding the sun just a little
more. In each car, every person sits there, grasping the steering wheel, smelling the burning
gas. Staring, dreading their life every second. They look around, no end in sight. They watch out
their window, people walking faster than their car could ever. A dandelion ready to have a wish
made on it grows in the cracks of a sidewalk while thousands rush to work, missing their wish.
Each person walks as fast as they can. Weaving between the city streets. Passing all
distractions. They know the smokers by the train station smelling the toxicness of their cigarette
butts crushed on the ground. They know never to drive because it would get them nowhere. The
way smoke doesn’t bother them, or the homeless begging for money. The way they walk by
protests without saying a word, the shouts of hundreds of people red-faced, holding signs
encouraging others to join mixing with police sirens and marching of the forces.
They watch hundreds of tourists make them late by lining up to take pictures by the Big
Bean. Walking past the family-owned businesses of different cultures and races, competing
over which heavenly smell would enter your nose first. The smell of pastries from Poland or the
ones from Germany. Who would guide you to have a bite of even the smallest crumb? Taste the
flaky pastry and smooth raspberry jam on top sprinkled with sugar like the first snowfall. It
warms their hands, a touch of a loved one, even in the white paper that holds it. As soon as it
touches your lips, the flakes gather on you, and the pastry melts in the mouth as the rest of the
golden brown flakes fall on an unexpecting person. Proving to everyone that they had indulged,
given into temptation. Faster not to miss clocking in, gum sticks to their feet. Who cares to look
down?
It sticks even after rubbing, scraping, dragging across the cracked sidewall. The gum
doesn’t care about them rushing there. It has the heart of Chicago in it. It slows each step,
stretching the mint gum. Dirt, bugs, ashes, political flyers, and stickers are all carried on the foot
of someone rushing to work. They don’t have time to care about this. This is the city, and if you
don’t move forward for one millisecond, you will get tramped. Everyone else will get caught by
scams acting as if they have no place to go while their Tesla patiently waits a few miles away,
already cooled down to a perfect 72 degrees. For all the city’s worth, there is no other place like
it. The obnoxious nature about it clashes with the tasteful side of comfort at the corner of any
street. The community that brings itself together and hides away in nooks that can only be found
by the brave. Everyone continues to go to work, running into glass towers that open up into a
new ecosystem. They all live their lives knowing the city, knowing everything, even the
wonders, but they forget to warn others about this great place. The people in this city do not call
themselves fools, but they all know in their hearts that they are foolish to miss the wishes that
are underneath their feet.
The Stepmother
I first met Andrea when I was eleven, back when Dad was still alive and we first got rich. Dad and I were Nicaraguan, with curly black hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin. Andrea, on the other hand, was pure WASP. She was clearly a natural brunette who’d dyed her straight, bobbed hair a dirty blonde. She owned a “Live, Laugh, Love” pillow. Had a book club that read mostly romcoms. Watched Oprah and Ellen.
Of course, Andrea wasn’t an ordinary Midwestern WASP who lived in a blue McMansion in Ohio and owned a Subaru. She shopped at Whole Foods and had a favorite brand of wine. She went summering in the Hamptons. Went to Yale for Philosophy. Owned a beach house. She was also a decade Dad’s junior and they only really got together for the money and the sex.
“Her name is Andrea too. Isn’t that fun?” Dad said.
But a WASP named Andrea was different than a Nicaraguan named Andrea. For WASPs, Andrea signaled wealth. Class. It was an old-fashioned name, an East Coast, old money name. When a Nicaraguan was named Andrea, her name was plain. Ugly. Hard to pronounce. We didn’t share the same name, even if we seemed to on the surface. Andrea understood this far better than my father. She smiled and her nose curled. She called me a pretty girl, gifted me a Chanel handbag, then went out golfing in a country club with my father.
Andrea likely hoped that I’d be dumped with my mother after she and Dad got married, but unfortunately for her, Mom died from cancer. It was the reason she and Dad were divorced in the first place. Two years later, Dad died in a jetski accident after downing two Jack Daniels and a Molly. And we were suddenly alone with each other. Andrea never wanted children, but she wasn’t actively cruel. She wasn’t that kind of evil stepmother. We didn’t know what to do with each other. We didn’t like each other, but we didn’t know each other well enough to hate each other either.
At the funeral, Andrea wore a black wide-rimmed hat and a black sundress. I dressed simply in a black hoodie and black slats. We were the only ones at the funeral. My mother’s family hadn’t forgiven Dad for leaving her. My father’s family hadn’t forgiven him for not sharing his lottery money. An FBI agent attended the funeral, mostly because they were investigating Andrea, assuming she did it. It offended her.
“I’ve done a lot of horrid shit in my life—bribery, tax fraud,” she said as Dad’s casket was lowered into the ground. “But I didn’t kill him. I’m not going to say I loved him. I didn’t. But I didn’t murder him for money either. I wasn’t even there. How could I have done it?”
“It could have been a hit job,” I said.
A week later, Andrea’s stepbrother got arrested. Apparently, they had been having an affair before Andrea got with my father. Very Cruel Intentions. Andrea was pissed. Her and her family’s face was plastered all over CNN. SNL made a skit about the affair. Andrea hardly went out for half a year. Her stepbrother was acquitted on all charges except one for money laundering. I’m not sure if it was corruption or if he was actually innocent. After all, Dad was really hammered during the accident. But at the same time, it wasn’t not suspicious.
I asked Andrea about it and she admitted I’d never know for sure.
“We’re so privileged—my family and I—that we can’t even comprehend just how privileged we are. I’m not sure if my stepbrother even knows if he’s innocent or not. We’re innocent because we’re filthy rich. We’re also guilty because we’re filthy rich.”
“Do I have that same superpower by association?” I asked.
Andrea shook her head. “If you have to ask, it means you don’t have it.”
I got paler as I got older. My hair grew oily and wavy. My eyes were still dark, but I still looked white. Or at least, I looked whiter. I was White Hispanic because I was rich. And spoke Spanish with an American accent. And knew all the lyrics to Sweet Caroline. In Latino culture, such simple aesthetics were all that was needed for Whiteness.
But, of course, even though I was White, it was a different sort of White from Andrea, an off-white. I was a white girl ordered off of Wish—a cheap imitation. A tacky knock-off Gucci handbag. I was still White, but somehow not White enough, not for America at least. I was White in the sense that I put down White in the census. White in the sense I could smile at resource officers while walking through my high school hallways. White in the sense I was considered the prettiest of all my cousins all because I was the palest.
But I was not White in the sense that I got lumped under “person of color” just because I was Hispanic. I wasn’t White in the sense that someone read my surname and assumed I’d be browner. I wasn’t White in the sense that I had to explain my identity to people—my heritage, my first language, my skin color. Andrea never had to explain herself. People took one look at her and already knew what she was, and her name only confirmed it. Andrea got to be just White, while I was White with an asterisk attached.
With Andrea’s help, I was able to get into Yale. I listed myself as a legacy thanks to her and one of my extracurriculars was working at a company founded by one of her wine club friends. It was pure privilege. But I didn’t feel bad about it. I didn’t feel good either though. I didn’t feel. When I announced my acceptance on Instagram, a white kid from my high school claimed it was just affirmative action that got me in.
Andrea and I celebrated with dinner at Olive Garden, just because I liked the breadsticks. She donned a polo shirt and a short tweed skirt, meanwhile I just wore sweatpants and loafers. The waiter thought we were girlfriends rather than mother and daughter. We didn’t correct him because it was Valetine’s Day and there was a special on pasta. I pointed out that we didn’t need the special to afford the food, that there wasn’t a point in pinching pennies. Andrea said it wasn’t about the money.
Andrea ordered a glass of Merlot. I got a coke can. Andrea took a few sips of her drink then smiled toothily. “Y’know, your dad never told me he had a kid when we married.”
I took a bite of a breadstick. “He thought you’d just deal with it, like my mother would have. Like my aunts would have. Like all Latina women, really.”
“I almost divorced him when I found out. He knew I didn’t want kids.”
“Yet you stayed,“ I said.
Andrea shrugged. “It would have looked bad if I’d gotten divorced,” she explained. “We just—we don’t do that lightly, not after so few years of marriage. No, we poison our husband’s dinner instead, play the role of grieving widow, then move on quietly.”
“Good thing for you he died so quickly then.”
Andrea looked at her plate. “I’m… I’m sorry he died so suddenly on you.”
I shrugged. “My mother always told me that men—fathers especially—were optional. A nice bonus.”
“What about your mom, then?”
My mother had been a dentist, with a pretty Spanish-revival villa in Coral Gables. She attended protests for Nicaraguan democracy. Read books on Aristotelian philosophy and feminist thought by Simone De Beauvoir. Owned a Volvo. Married a moron. She untangled my hair each morning, pulling out knots like they were weeds. Though she understood English, she only ever spoke Spanish with me. She never had carbs in her home, not even bread, because they’d rot my teeth. She wanted me to know basic life skills, but never had the patience to show me how to use the washing machine or crack an egg without shrieking. Her red acrylic nails pinched my ears when I fucked something up. Her lipstick stayed smeared on my brow when she kissed me goodnight.
“What about her?” I asked. “She’s dead. Not much to say there.”
My mother had bottle blonde hair—like Andrea. Fell asleep crying while watching the Keira Knightley version of Pride & Prejudice—like Andrea. Wore corny wine mom blouses—like Andrea. Had milky white skin and soft beach curls—like Andrea. But Andrea and my mother were worlds apart, and not just because the latter grew up doing homework on a tin can roof in Matagalpa, Nicaragua. They could have been twins in every form, but Andrea still would have had more. Andrea would always be the woman my mother was left for. Because America decided that Andrea mattered and my mother didn’t. And what America decided, the world decided. Because Andrea was a WASP. And I still didn’t understand what that meant even as I understood completely.
“Well, don’t you miss her?” Andrea asked.
“I…” I blinked. Andrea looked so serene then. Calm though inquisitive. I’d never seen my mother look so calm, even on quiet days spent simply sitting by my side, listening to me babble on about everything and nothing in broken Spanish. No Latina I’d ever met, white or not, looked as calm as Andrea did then.
“I wish my mother could have lived like you,” I said.
“Yeah,” Andrea said. “I get that.”
The server came then with a slice of chocolate cheese cake decorated with strawberry slices. Part of the Valentine’s Day special. “By the way, you both make a really cute couple,” he said. “Can I take your picture?”
Andrea smiled. “Of course.”
Andrea scooted closer to me, forced my head to rest against her shoulder, then placed a hand at my waist. I almost rolled my eyes, but strained a smile. Andrea tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then did the same to me. She picked up her glass of wine and smiled.
“Say cheese,” the waiter said.
The server snapped several pictures, then handed back Andrea’s phone. When he was gone, she cackled at the photos taken. “You like I took you hostage.”
I groaned. “Don’t do that again. That was so weird.”
Andrea scoffed. “Oh lighten up. Take a bite of cake.”
She took a spoon, scooped out a bite.
“Open up, daughter dearest. Here comes the airplane.”
Reluctantly, I took the bite. Andrea laughed even harder.
“Now you look like my bitchy teenage daughter,” she said.
Sighing, I planted my elbows on the table, shoveling another bite of cake into my mouth. “Why’d you let me stick around, anyway?” I asked. “You said yourself you didn’t want kids.”
Andrea went silent, planted her palms on her knees. Her eyes went everywhere around the table. Everywhere except at me. Eventually, she simply shrugged while staring up at the ceiling.
“Well, uh, you didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go.”
She looked nothing like my mother with her jittery expressions and tweed blazers. Looked nothing like me with her piercing blue eyes and perfect pearly white teeth. When the bill came, her signature looked like more like calligraphy than handwriting. Not a wrinkle dotted her face, not one scar that revealed her true age, whatever it actually was. We went home that evening and watched Pride & Prejudice at Andrea’s insistence. She fell asleep on my shoulder—like a schoolgirl. A sister. A stranger. A pretty white girl hardly older than I was.
A stepmother.
Novus Interview with Anders Carlson-Wee
Anders Carlson-Wee is the author of THE LOW PASSIONS (W.W. Norton, 2019), a New York Public Library Book Group Selection, and DYNAMITE (Bull City Press, 2015), winner of the Frost Place Chapbook Prize. His work has appeared in The Paris Review, BuzzFeed, Ploughshares, Virginia Quarterly Review, The Sun, New England Review, The Southern Review, Best American Nonrequired Reading, and many other publications. The recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, Poets & Writers, Bread Loaf, Sewanee, and the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference, he is the winner of the 2017 Poetry International Prize. His work has been translated into Chinese. Anders holds an MFA from Vanderbilt University and is represented by Massie & McQuilkin Literary Agents.