The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,67

cups were still in their respective cupholders and the wax wrapping from our hot dogs were crumpled up evidence beneath the stadium seating. I even double-checked my paper ticket to make sure I hadn’t gone to the wrong section, but Anissa had definitely disappeared.

I sat back in my seat and tried to ignore the empty place beside me. I couldn’t focus on the game’s action, however, without wondering where she’d disappeared to. The concession line had moved slowly, but I hadn’t been gone for that long. I couldn’t imagine her getting worried and coming to look for me.

When the eighth inning started and she still hadn’t returned, I wrote her a quick text: Where did you go?

Her answer arrived a few moments later: Bathroom.

I frowned at my phone and the one-word response. Something felt off. I was no expert on how Anissa texted, but the terse reply seemed out of character. Instead of remaining in my seat and waiting for her return, I left in search of the closest women’s bathroom.

My footsteps squeaked and my voice echoed hollowly in the windowless, concrete-dominated space. “Anissa?”

I felt borderline ridiculous calling out her name in a public bathroom. But it was mid-inning, so the women’s bathroom was relatively empty. Only a few of the stall doors were closed and no one was at the wall of sinks.

I heard her slightly muffled voice come from one of the closed stalls: “Over here.”

I didn’t know which stall was hers until I recognized her white shoes underneath the door.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, the closed door between us. I lowered my voice. “Did that hot dog make your stomach angry?”

“My stomach’s fine.”

I stood outside of the bathroom stall, not really knowing what to do or what to say. Finally, Anissa spoke again.

“After you went to get water, someone said something to me. Something not nice.”

My throat tightened. “Because we kissed?”

“No,” I heard her sigh. “Because I’m brown.”

My stomach dropped. “What did they say?”

The locking mechanism of the bathroom door made a sound before the stall door swung open. Anissa stepped out, and I grabbed her hand. I searched her face for answers. The glow, the joy, the lightness of the day had been erased from her features. I could see how her normally erect shoulders slumped forward with the weight of the confrontation. The area around her eyes was puffy, and the whites of her eyes were spider-webbed red from obvious crying.

I pulled her into a tight embrace, unconcerned with the other baseball fans who milled in and out of the women’s bathroom. I ran my hand down the back of her head while my other hand rubbed circles in the center of her back. Her arms wrapped tight around my ribcage, almost aggressively so. I could feel the anger and frustration radiating from her slight form.

“What happened?” I quietly asked.

She stayed in my solid embrace for a long moment before pulling away. She retreated back to her former bathroom stall and pulled several squares of toilet paper free to dab at her eyes and to blow her nose. I remained silent and patient until she was ready to answer my question.

“I wasn’t even doing anything,” she sniffled. “I was looking at my phone and then I heard them. Some woman in the row behind me made a comment about how many foreigners were at the game that day—how not even baseball—America’s national pastime—was safe from immigrants. I tried to ignore her—I really did,” she insisted. “We were having such a nice day. But I couldn’t help pointing out to her that over a quarter of major league players were born someplace else. That if she really wanted to get technical about it, football was the most American sport, not baseball.”

I sucked in a sharp breath.

“She apparently didn’t like me correcting her. She got right up in my face and told me to go back to where I came from.”

My mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me?”

Anissa shook her head bitterly. “It’s just so hard, you know? And I try to rise above it, try to take the high road, but there’s only so much a person can take.”

“Should we report her or something?” I worried my lower lip. “That’s definitely harassment, and I’m sure major league baseball doesn’t want to condone that kind of behavior. There’s got to be a security guard we can tell or a number we can text. You said she was sitting close to our seats?”

Anissa held up a hand. “It’s