“The Horvath order came in,” I say.
“I know, I signed for it this morning.”
“The Petofi collection needs re-shelving.”
“Also know. Also morning.” She sets down the last book and turns to face me fully, crossing her arms, which is Nadia’s physical vocabulary forI am about to say something you don’t want to hear.
“Lena. You’ve been here for five years and you haven’t gone on a single date and you flinch when men stand too close to you in the marketandevery time you have that dream you spend the whole next day looking like you’re being followed.” She tilts her head. “I’m not saying anything. I’m just saying all of that.”
“That’s a lot of not saying anything.”
“I contain multitudes.” She picks up the cart and starts pushing it toward the shelves. “How’s Theo?”
The pull in my chest again, warmer this time. “He’s currently a self-appointed bodyguard for the ants in the driveway. He spentforty minutes yesterday trying to feed them a single Cheeto, but he was worried it was ‘too spicy’ for them, so he licked all the orange dust off first.”
Nadia laughs, the real one, not the polite one. “He’s four and he licked the spice off for the ants? That’s true service.”
“He’s five next month.” I smile at the book in my hands. “He also decided that chairs are ‘tricky’ today. He’ll only eat his cereal if he’s crouching on the floor like a gargoyle because he says his legs feel ‘too jumpy’ for furniture.”
“He’s not wrong.” She disappears around a shelf. Her voice floats back, muffled by paper and distance. “Furniture is overrated. Are you bringing the gargoyle to the reading hour on Saturday?”
I check my watch.
Shit.
“I have to go.” I’m already standing, already reaching for my jacket from the hook behind the counter. “I’m late for pickup. He’s probably trying to convince his teacher that his pockets are actually portals for his rock collection.”
“Go, go.” Her hand appears around the shelf, waving me off.
I grab my bag and I’m out the door.
The car is parked two streets over, which is two streets further than I’d like on a Tuesday afternoon when school lets out at three and it is currently four minutes to three. I walk fast and then faster and then I’m half-jogging down the street with my keys already out, the particular controlled panic of a parent who is about to be the last one at the gate.
The car protests when I start it, the way it always protests, a sound like someone clearing their throat very loudly and with great feeling.
I pull out into traffic, taking the route I know by heart now, two years of school runs having worn it into my navigation like a groove. Left at the pharmacy, straight through the market street, right at the church with the green door, then the school gates at the end of the residential road with the chestnut trees.
I find a space. I get out. I walk to the gate.
The other parents are clustered, the ones who know each other talking, the ones who don’t are checking their phones, and I stand slightly apart the way I always stand slightly apart because five years of being careful has made proximity to strangers feel like a choice I need to consciously make.
The gate opens. Children begin to pour through.
I watch for him. Dark hair, his height, the specific way he walks that is so precisely not mine that sometimes looking at him is like being handed something I don’t know what to do with.
The stream of children thins.
I watch the gate.
The gate stays open and no more children come through then I notice Mrs. Farkas standing just inside, and I raise my hand to wave at her the way I always do.
She doesn’t wave back.
She’s looking at me. Just standing there looking at me with both hands pressed flat against the front of her dress, and even fromhere, even through the gate, I can see that her face is the color of old paper.
I’m through the gate before I decide to move.
“Mrs. Farkas.” I put a smile on my face that doesn’t reach anything. “Where’s Theo? Did he go back for his bag, he always forgets his?—”