says.
* * *
—
It’s my favorite kind of day. There’s a steady stream of customers, no one is too much of an asshole, no one stiffs us on a bill, and no one I recognize comes through the door. Well, I mean, some of them I recognize—regulars who stop by Deli-Lishes two or three times a month. But no one I’ve known in a previous life.
Which isn’t surprising, right? New York is almost eight hundred miles from Chicago. How many people would have made that migration in the past fifty or so years? Maybe I’ve left a lot of demons behind this time.
Maybe.
The only moment that gets a little weird is when an older woman, probably in her late fifties, takes a seat at my table around the dinner hour. She’s big, a little flushed, as if the heat of early spring has made her remember how wretched it is to sweat. She sucks down the first glass of ice water I bring her, and thanks me fervently when I bring her a whole pitcher to keep at her table.
“Oh, you’re a sweetheart,” she says, gulping down another glassful. She’s staring at me as she swallows, and when she sets the tumbler down, she’s got a small frown on her face. “You look so familiar,” she says.
“I’ve worked here two years.”
“No, I’ve seen you somewhere else, I think. Have you ever worked in Evanston or Winnetka?” she asks, naming a couple of the northern suburbs.
“Nope. The Loop and Lincoln Park, mostly.”
“No, that’s not it . . . Maybe you were in high school with one of my kids.”
“I didn’t go to high school in Chicago. Maybe I just look like someone you know.”
Her face shows dissatisfaction. “Maybe.”
Lili’s been close enough to hear this whole conversation, so she contrives to follow me to the kitchen. “Sasha! She remembers you! From before!”
“Well, I don’t remember her.”
“I guess you can’t remember everybody you’ve ever met.”
“I think she’s just a stranger.”
Armand, who is in back taking a fifteen-minute dinner break, glances over at us. “A bit of your past caught up with you?” he asks in a neutral voice.
For no reason, it’s even more annoying when he says it. “No,” I answer in a brusque voice. “She’s nobody.”
Armand shrugs. “Well, everybody’s somebody,” he says. “Even if she’s not somebody to you.”
I’m so irritated I don’t even answer. I just grab a fresh pitcher of tea and go out into the dining area.
There are no more uncomfortable conversations with the unfamiliar woman. There are no other ghosts from my past who make their way to the diner. The day ends, we share out our tips, and Lili and I head for the L together. We don’t live near each other, not in this lifetime, but we still catch the train together as part of our nightly ritual. It still makes me feel safe.
Though I know I’m not safe.
* * *
—
Tuesday is almost as crummy as Monday was fine. It’s raining, Lili has the day off, I don’t like the other two waitresses whose shifts overlap with mine, Juwan is in one of his rare bad moods, Sanjay has called in sick, and Armand is Armand. Because we’re shorthanded, we’re behind all day, so customers are crabby and everybody tips poorly. I have a headache by two and a blister on the back of my foot by four.
“Smile, sweetheart, it can’t be that bad,” says a smarmy-looking junior-executive type who manages to touch my hand three times as I lay silverware, napkins, and food on his table.
I feel my eyes narrow as I give him a cold, level stare. You obviously have no idea how bad it can get, I want to say, but I swallow the words. “Would you like anything else? A slice of pie?” I ask in a brittle voice.
He leans back against the seat and leers at me. “Pretty girl like you,” he says. “I bet you have lots of boyfriends.”
“Just the right number of boyfriends,” I say. “So