A Little Hope(28)

Mrs. Crowley nods. Her glasses reflect the overhead lights.

“I’m not stupid, Mrs. Crowley. I mean, I’m not crazy. I hear people say maybe they just don’t want to be happy, and I don’t think that’s me. I really want to be happy. I am pretty happy. I just feel, well, crushed by this. I keep fighting the urge to call Damon and say we need to cancel right now.

“Why would I want to do that? How twisted would I be to do that to the best man I will probably ever meet? I sound crazy. I’m sorry. I’ll be fine. We’ll have the wedding, and I’ll be fine, and you’ll see me one day at The Greenhorn or at Mateo’s sitting across from Damon, and you’ll think, wow, all that moaning for nothing. I mean, I’m in my thirties. I know what I’m doing. I said yes because I knew? Didn’t I know?”

Mrs. Crowley rests her elbows on the counter. She clicks her tongue as if she’s about to speak, but the words don’t come. Her face looks concerned, serious.

“I’m sorry,” Suzette says. “I—I still don’t see her. Maybe we should call her? I’m sorry. I really don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I think I’m just tired. It’s been dress fittings and paint colors for the new house and passport renewals and my parents. My parents think I’m like this mustang that Damon finally broke—only because I was kind of, I guess, trying out who I wanted to be. And they didn’t get to, you know, with my sister—they didn’t get to see her become an adult and all that. But I’m not wild. I just think, maybe I could do without all this? Is it bad to think that?” Suzette takes a deep breath. She feels mostly relieved. She has gotten out what she wanted to say for so long.

“No, dear, not at all. We feel what we feel, and we shouldn’t apologize for ourselves. There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing.” Mrs. Crowley picks up her cordless phone and dials Freddie Tyler’s number slowly, her eyes looking at a laminated sheet of paper with all the important numbers written on it. “No answer,” she says.

“Hmm,” says Suzette.

“I believe that’s her home number. I thought I had her cell phone number, too, but it’s not on this list.” She shakes her head.

“I have it.” Suzette reaches into her purse. She sees Damon’s text again. She rereads his words. I’m worried. You okay? Poor Damon. She should write back right now. Yes. Of course. I love you. She finds Freddie’s number under recent calls and dials it. “Right to voice mail.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, dear.”

“She’ll come.”

“No, I mean about your problem.”

“Oh, well. It’s not really a problem. I’m making it a problem.”

The radio mumbles. The door chimes, but it’s the UPS man. Mrs. Crowley smiles at him and signs for a small package. The deliveryman nods at Suzette and leaves. When he closes the door, the tinsel garland that’s draped across the store sways under the fluorescent lights.

“I think you should talk to your betrothed. I know what sadness is, my dear, and you look sad.”

“Oh. Well, I’m not… Maybe, yeah. A little.” Yes, she is. Is that what this all has been about? A need for something she can’t find? Why has no one else noticed this besides the woman who owns this dry cleaning place? But Damon notices. That’s what his text is about. He notices. He cares.

“Does something about the wedding make you sad?” Mrs. Crowley puts a dollop of Avon lotion on her hands and rubs them together.

“Kind of.” She takes off her vest. “It’s warm in here.”

“I’m always cold, as you can see.” She gestures to her sweater and smiles again.

Suzette is in full nail-biting mode. She shreds her thumb nail with her top tooth. “She makes me sad,” she finally says.

“Ms. Tyler?”

“No. My sister.”

“Oh.”

“You remember her, don’t you?”

“If I recall, there were three girls in your family, no?”

“Good memory. My older sister, I mean.”

“Of course. Beautiful, beautiful girl.” She frowns and looks down. She shakes her head. For some reason, Suzette wishes she’d say her name. Lisa. “You don’t ever get over that loss. It leaves a scratch in you like a record that never plays right again.” Mrs. Crowley reaches her hand out and waves it at her. “Now, don’t bite your nails, dear. Let’s not make things worse.”

Suzette smiles. “I haven’t bitten my nails this much since she was dying. It’s awful for someone to know they’re dying, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Crowley’s stare is far away. “Yes, yes. It is.”

“I didn’t know what to say to her.” She takes a deep breath. “I tried to act like she would still wear that dress… that this was like a broken leg, and she’d be out and about when it healed.” She looks at her other hand and realizes she hasn’t eaten the candy cane. The wrapper comes off so easily, and she wonders if they plan it that way in the factory. The thought comforts her—that someone in a far-off place cares.

“Tell me her name again?”

“Lisa.” It feels so good to hear it in the air. The two syllables echo for a second. Lisa. Lisa. She whispers it sometimes when she’s in the car by herself. Sometimes she writes the name over and over on a notebook page or a dry-erase board. She just wants her name to stay current. She loves when someone sends a Christmas card to the family and still puts Lisa’s name on it.