How to Be Brave(28)

Maria looks at me, her face drained of blood. She realizes that I understand way more than she thought (maybe even more than I thought I knew). She gives me this sad and sorry look and then hustles to take dirty plates to the kitchen. She urges the others to follow her, and they all scurry, grabbing half-eaten plates of cookies and cake and pie and sweeping out the little kids from under the table until my dad and I are left in the dining room.

My dad, who is finally clued in to the fact that I do speak some Greek, gives me a blank stare.

That’s it.

A blank stare.

He can’t say no.

He can’t deny it.

I start to lose my shit. I can feel it inside, my heart pounding, my head pounding. I’m pissed. Beyond pissed. “Mom’s been dead, what, four months?” I yell across the table. “And she wants you to get married again?” This is bullshit.

“Georgiamou, óxi, no.” He reaches his hand out to me. “It’s not like that.…”

“Well, did you tell her that?” I point to the kitchen toward Maria, my godmother—the one who stood up at my parents’ wedding, who dipped me in holy water under the eyes of a priest and made a sacred promise to watch over me, to take care of me, to provide for me in case my mom and dad were to both die and I was left alone in this world to fend for myself—this woman who breaks this one, sacred promise by offering to play matchmaker when my mom’s body is not even cold in the ground.

What the f*ck?

I stand up. “Give me the keys to the car,” I demand. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

But he doesn’t give me the keys. Instead, he moves his stare to the table.

He can’t even look me in the eye.

I run toward the front door and let myself out, slamming it behind me. I walk away from the house. I need to get away. I need to run, to be free of this day that is nothing but bullshit, but I make it only a few houses down before I realize I can’t go anywhere. I’m in a f*cking suburban nightmare. I plant myself on the curb under a streetlight, where it’s cold and bare and quiet. There’s nothing here. Nothing. A few trees, a few cars. No horns, no taxis, no sirens. The suburbs. I’m stuck in the f*cking suburbs with nowhere to go. If I were downtown, I could walk for miles, but here—here, there’s nothing.

Down the street, I hear the door to Maria’s house creak open.

I hear my dad say good night to Maria in Greek.

I hear his footsteps coming closer to me.

He sits beside me on the cold cement curb. “Georgia—” He says my name with a heavy Americanized hard G and without the mou at the end, without the possessive my that he usually uses.

“Your mother was sick for a very long time.” He pauses, as if to think about what he wants to say or maybe to give me a chance to agree. I refuse.

“And, you know,” he continues, “we made an agreement.”

…

I refuse to give in to this. I refuse to respond.

…

There’s nothing but the sound of our breaths.

The streetlight buzzing.

A lone car in the distance.

…

The cold November air moves around us, blowing dust and leaves down the barren street.

And then he repeats it again: “We made an agreement,” he says.

Fine.

I give in.

“What exactly do you mean, ‘an agreement’?”

Pause.

Breath.

Buzz.

“She knew she was going to die. She told me to keep on going.”

Pause.

Breath.

Buzz.

“To get remarried, when I’m ready.”

“Well, are you ready already?” I ask this question quickly, but as soon as the words leave me, I know it’s a question for which I don’t want to know the answer.

I already know the answer.

I’m not.

It’s just too damn soon.

“No, koúkla mou. óxi. I am not ready.” He inches closer to me. I can tell he’s being careful. Like I’m some fragile glass or something. He motions that he wants to wrap his arm around my shoulders. I let him. “But one day, I will be. Not now, but yes, one day.”

Shit.

“I loved your mother. She was … she was Diana. There will never be anyone else like her.” He shakes his head. “Katálave?”

He’s asking me if I understand.

I force myself to nod, and then I collapse into the crux of his bent arm, his thick coat soft and heavy under my head.

I don’t want to admit it, but I do understand completely.

She asked him to be brave, too.

At first, there was just:

Coughing,

Congestion,

Nausea,

Numbness.


The doctor saw:

Creatinine.

Distension.

Hypertension.

Sepsis.


Thick words.

Medical words.

Foreign words.


It was worse than we’d realized.


And then, in the CCU,

that last time:


The glare of the cold white walls

from the long fluorescent bulb

that fell hard against her

gray skin

against the cold metal

and plastic wires.