Georgie, All Along (102)

Georgie


“Is that Georgie Mulcahy I’m seeing?”

Halfway through my dinner shift at The Shoreline on Saturday night, I go still in the middle of the act of setting down a plate of tonight’s appetizer special—lemon garlic scallops—in front of a polished, elegant couple at table six who seem to have absolutely zero things to talk about with each other, if the last half hour is any indication. I straighten my wobbling smile and set their plate down gently, hoping I’ve heard that voice behind me wrong.

“Georgie?” I hear again, trilling and musical, and since I cannot stand here with this weird wince-smile on my face and watch this possibly unhappy couple of out-of-towners eat their scallops, I say a pleasant “Enjoy,” take a deep breath, and turn around.

To face the music, again.

Mrs. Michaels and her husband—the wrestling coach at the high school, if I remember right, who has a head in the shape of a lantern—are being seated by our recently hired hostess at table nine. That is mercifully not in my section, so at least I’ll be spared serving someone who already looks like she’s eaten a full plate of this-is-exactly-what-I-expected-of-Georgie-Mulcahy pie.

But I know I can’t be spared at least some conversation. Not without being rude.

I start to make my way over, lifting a hand in greeting. Remy passes me on their way to the bar and whispers, “Oh Christ, it’s Mrs. Michaels! Watch your posture,” in a tone that’s so knowing and sarcastic I have to suppress a laugh.

It’s such a small moment, but it’s hugely helpful as I approach the table—joking, casual snark with a friend and co-worker, someone who’s on my team and who I know will have my back if I need them. But after the initial cringing surprise of once again running into Mrs. Michaels, I find that I’m pretty sure I won’t need anyone’s protection. I find I don’t care if Mrs. Michaels eats twenty of those this-is-exactly-what-I-expected pies, because tonight I’m perfectly happy to be working at The Shoreline, chatting with customers and commiserating with staff, pulling in good tips already.

All right. Maybe not perfectly happy. Maybe pretty much happy, except for the big, impatient hole in my heart.

The one that gets bigger every day that I don’t hear from Levi.

But my old music teacher doesn’t need to know anything about that.

“Hi, Mrs. Michaels,” I say, my wince-smile transforming into something that I hope looks broad and genuine. “Mr. Michaels, nice to see you.”

“Georgie Mulcahy,” he says, pointing a meaty finger at me and narrowing one eye. “Didn’t you used to cut holes in your gym uniform?”

“Sure did!” I say, and he laughs.

“I didn’t know you’d taken up waitressing!” Mrs. Michaels says.

I wave a hand, then set it comfortably on the spare chair at their table. I set my other hand at my waist, cocking my hip out in a posture I know she hates, but one that conveys my comfort, my total confidence in standing here for a catch-up.

“Oh, I was a waitress for years,” I say. “It’s nice to be back at it!”

She raises her eyebrows. “Is that right?”

“Mmhmmm. How are things going for you? Getting ready for the new school year soon, I bet!”

“Oh, well . . . yes. Yes, I am.” She’s clearly caught off guard by not leading the conversation, and I have to admit: I love catching her off guard.

“You know who I ran in to not long ago? Melanie Dinardo! I know you remember her. She had such a great voice. I always wanted her to learn my special ‘Circle of Life’ lyrics. Do you remember those?”

Mrs. Michaels clears her throat.

“I remember Melanie,” she says, through pursed lips. “And I remember you saying you’d come home to spend time with Annabel.”

I do a dramatic gasp. “Have y’all heard about Annabel? She had her baby! I’ll come by and show you pictures later. Sonya Rose Reston-Yoon, if you’re wondering.”

Probably she wasn’t wondering, plus, I bet she hates the hyphenate. But at this point I will use any excuse to bring up Sonya, who I’ve made a major feature of my days lately, while I work so hard to be patient. To give Levi his space.

“Well, that would be nice,” Mrs. Michaels stutters, smoothing her napkin over her lap. But this is a lady you could never keep down for very long; once she fell off the makeshift stage in the cafeteria while she was leading the choir through a version of “Lean on Me” and she hardly missed a beat. A second later, she’s changing tactics.

“Does this”—she gestures up and down at my uniform, a dismissive gesture if I’ve ever seen one—“mean you actually are moving back?”

I shrug casually, keeping my smile firmly in place, even though this is pretty much a direct hit, and not because I believe—the way I did a couple of months ago—that moving back to Darentville for good would be some kind of failure. No, it’s a direct hit because I’ve thought and thought about exactly this question over the last couple of days, and I only want to talk about my answer with someone specific. Someone who is not my ninth-grade music teacher.

But it’s been a whole week now—a whole week of doing crafts and holding baby Sonya and helping my dad fix that old shutter, a whole week of keeping myself busy—and I’m starting to wonder if it’s time to take matters into my own hands.