Cleanup on Isle Seven

 

            Amber never believed she would be doing this kind of work. She had brains. But she couldn’t find anything else, and besides, it was only summer. Sure, all her friends had gone to camp, doing crafts and swimming in the Kidd Lake, or were spending months traveling through Europe licking gelato and staring at the cute boys whose fathers had yachts. Instead, she was wiping the windows of the dusty store, head down, slinging a mop to soak up Mrs. Stubbins’ accident, a tower of Coke knocked over by her handbag. 
            The lady should stop shopping. She couldn’t even push a cart, proof being that it crashed into the boxes beneath the Oriental foods section. Amber watched her out of the corner of her eye while the mop head turned from white to brown. Then she wrung it out in the bucket. After two months, she should be used to this, working on this busy street in the flatlands of Berkeley, but she never settled in, instead, a reminder that she had sunk. Her whole family had.

            Her father had lost his job. She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she remembered the roses. One day about a month ago, coming home from school, walking up the path to their house, their wonderful house in the hills, the roses were in full bloom. Pinks, reds, yellows. Her mother took pride in those roses. When she shut the heavy front door, putting her bag on the table in the entry, she heard his voice. 
            It was too early for him to be home from the office. She tiptoed over to the door of his study, where the door had been left open a crack. Her mother’s voice said, in a hush, “embezzlement,” and then his name, “Ernie.” She imagined her mother’s arms crossed because of the soft firmness of the words. And her father—all he could do was say her mother’s name—“Esther,” beginning loudly, but shrinking. This all betrayed the nature of the situation, that it was unfortunate, and their tones stayed with her as she gathered her bag and went upstairs to her room, sinking in the deep blue tones of the walls and bedspread. But that only lasted for a few minutes before she started itching. Sitting down at her computer she looked up definitions of embezzlement on Wikepedia. She knew about the dishonest part, but it was the idea of trust that bothered her the most. Yes, a crime was a crime, but her image of her father as tall and sturdy somehow now crumpled. Too, she thought, they were in for trouble. He was like the men in the old movies she watched, like Ray Milland or Robert Montgomery, with their slicked black hair. For as long as she could remember, he had worn beautiful suits and ties, never looked wrinkled or sweaty. 

            A few weeks after her parents conversation and before her high school graduation, they moved everything that mattered into a truck and hauled it to a two bedroom apartment off University Avenue. The building looked interesting, sure, with Moorish overtones, as her history teacher would have said—white five stories tall, with dirt in the pull-up area in front. She and Sharon would share a room, something they had never done. Her little sister, four years younger, who had a completely different life. Amber had overheard many times that her parents didn’t expect a second kid, but never regretted it. Sharon was the cutest kid anyone knew, and Amber would never get used to hearing the compliments, but since they didn’t see each other much, it didn’t matter. 
            Now it would matter. Amber paled by comparison, literally. Her skin had a pasty shade like glue and her dark brown hair only made it worse somehow. Her fallback was to think of herself as an intellectual, but she did work on her appearance. Anyone at her school who didn’t make an attempt at it was ignored or teased, as she had seen with Julie Winters’ miserable first month there before her parents picked her up one day and took her to another small private school. Nefili Academy had nothing to do with Greek, but a small mix of Berkeley kids whose parents could afford the best, and made a point of letting each other know it every time they met, for teacher conferences or arts performances. She realized now, such a small group of people, and the elite mentality went unnoticed. Egged on by her friend, Jules, she convinced her mom to let her tint her hair blonde. 
            Automatically, her popularity improved. She also got a tattoo, on the lowest part of her back, paid for with from the money her grandparents left her for college. Only a fraction of it, she argued to her parents, who grounded her for a week. It was worth it, at the time, for the coolness factor, and for the boys’ attention. When she got to school, she pulled her hip-hugging jeans down just far enough to reveal the image, a Celtic symbol. 
            The family trip to Europe last summer had included a week in Ireland, and Amber connected with the history and the culture, the music and the spirit. The illuminated manuscripts set a fire in her, and her mother bought her a pendant with three curling lines, sprouting out from each other. It was this design she had set in her flesh. It was Jules’ idea to do the forbidden, but Amber relished it—if she was going to join her friend, she was going to make it something meaningful to her. The artist even happened to know the design. Seeing it in the book she brought, he said, “yeh, real cool.”

After her father got caught, Amber had a few more weeks to finish up and graduate, and her mom said she would have to take the bus up the hill. But it turned out to be two buses. The Academy had been a short walk from their former house. She used to pick up Jules along the way. Now she would have to take three times or more as long. The first car that was sold was Amber’s. Then, her mother couldn’t drive her because they had to sell both cars to pay off the deal her father’s lawyer made so he wouldn’t have to go to jail, along with selling their house. And her mother got a job working for Jules’ father, at his law firm in downtown SF. She and her father rode in together on the train every morning, as he had managed to get a janitorial job for a department store. No one would hire him in his profession, and she wondered how he got a job at all, considering. Together they would keep the family going, her mom assured Amber. But it wasn’t until she was told she would have to work over the summer that Amber really got it. All their savings was gone, and since she had applied for colleges based on her father’s previous financial picture, she was not eligible for loans or anything. She would have to go to the State school nearby. It was all they could afford.

The grocery store she worked in was small—part convenience for students at the University up the street to grab a few items, part necessity for the older clientele who lived in the neighborhood. This accounted for the Mrs. Stubbinses and the young people, and not much in between age-wise.

“Excuse me.”

She looked up to see a guy about her age with stubble around his chin. He was probably in college. Blonde, almost white curly hair, blue eyes, and red cheeks against pale skin. His brightly-colored plaid shirt fit him perfectly.

People didn’t normally ask for her help, instead turning to the older people who worked there, Sinj and Paolo. Sinj was from India and Paolo from Columbia, both thrilled to be in this country, and when they could, they discussed the differences between their homes and here. They normally worked checkout on opposite shifts, but during the peak times their schedules sometimes overlapped. Amber restocked and did cleanup. She wore a full apron, which she folded over, leaving the upper part down she could tie it around her waist low enough. She bunched her wavy red hair back up.

She didn’t think she could help this guy but would give it a try. She put her mop down.

“Yes, can I help you?”

His hands fidgeted in his pockets.

“I’m looking for this kind of soda, but I don’t exactly remember what it’s called.”

His eyes looked directly into hers, causing her to stare away.

“What flavor, fruit or—” She rattled her brains, but she didn’t drink soda. Her mother only allowed real fruit juices in their house. Or did. They hadn’t had juice in a while.

“Are you okay? You look tired.”

She looked at him. What did he care, what did he know. “Look. I’ve got to clean this up.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal. Well, I mean, I did kind of mean to… I’m Tim.” He held out his hand, smiling.

She shrugged. “Amber.” Then she continued with her work.

“Look, I don’t usually do this. Do you go to school here?”

She could picture him in one of the dorms nearby with some buds he hung out with, probably partying Saturday nights, like this one. She better answer him and get it over. Once he found out she was a high schooler, he would be on his way anyhow. “I’m in high school.”

“Really? Me too. Berkeley High. What grade are you in?” His voice smoothed over the high notes—he was mid-range—tenor—if her years singing could tell her anything.

She stopped working. “I’m about to graduate.”

“Me too. I’ve never seen you around though.”

“Yeh. I go to a school in the hills. Or, I have been. I—It’s complicated.” Why was she embarrassed to say it. “Nefli.”

“Oh.” His voice changed, got lower. He looked away. “I really need to get home. I was nice to meet you.”

“Wait. I thought you were looking for a soda. Come on, over here.” She led him to the cold case and pointed to the array of brightly colored drinks, lit from behind.

“Why are you working here, if you go to that school?” he asked, finally putting the pieces together.

She couldn’t tell him about her father, about how they weren’t invited to parties anymore at friends’ houses. How she would fix dinner from a box every night, her sister setting the table while singing. How her parents came home tired and her mother made a salad and they ate dinner in silence, and then her father went straight to bed, not even saying goodnight. How she would stay up reading library books by flashlight for hours while her sister slept beside her in their tiny room. How she had to get rid of most of her books because they had no room, anywhere in the apartment. How Jules had made friends with Mina, their former enemy—Mina, who was the prettiest girl, whose family right now was at the vacation home in Tahoe, and Jules had gone with them. How her pay from this job never added up because it went straight into the family account, except for useless tips that Sinj and Palo split with her. How her sister’s giggling made her cover her ears because she wasn’t supposed to yell. She hated her father for staring at the walls, not talking to them. She hated him for having no room to herself, no time, no friends, and no fun. She hated not being able to stay in her PJs Saturday morning because instead she had to start at the market at 8am. No, she couldn’t tell him any of this.

“There have been a lot of changes. We don’t live up there any more. I have to work here, but it’s not that bad.” She smiled at him, as if to say, it really wasn’t bad at all.

“Hey. You do what you gotta do. My dad was laid off a year ago and my mom has been supporting us. But she’s home today, making ice cream. Do you want to come over later? It’s a big deal, and she wants people around to eat it. My brother and sister, some friends, let’s see…”

She didn’t know what to say. Was he feeling sorry for her, or was he just nice?

“I’ll come back and pick you up—what time?”

He was insistent, wasn’t he? She had to admire that. It sounded so normal, as if she could be folded in the arms of this family. Suddenly, she felt hungry.

“Three. My shift ends.” She could barely speak.

“Okay, then. I’ll see you later.” He grabbed a bottle of orange soda and went to the register. Before leaving, he turned around and waved at her.

She waved back, to signal to him, okay, yes. Fresh ice cream. Her mother had never done that. Maybe their mothers could be friends. Maybe they would go to the same college, right here. She was qualified for Harvard, Yale, and other top-notch schools where she had been accepted, but now she had to stay here.

“Excuse me, please.” Mrs. Stubbins’ voice crackled near her.

Amber looked up. No! She hadn’t finished mopping up the sweet sticky mess of brown on the floor and the woman was heading with her cart towards the spill unaware.

“Mrs. Stubbins!” she called. “Wait!” But she couldn’t hear her, and went right into the eye of the storm.

The next thing Amber knew, Sinj was down on the floor trying to untangle legs and arms of the woman. She looked like a spider, caught in that guk.

“Paolo, call 911,” Sinj cried.

            As Amber approached her building, making the turn from University onto Chestnut, she played and replayed the scene in her head. Mrs. Stubbins falling. Sinj screaming. Paolo making the call.

The paramedics had carefully arranged her onto the stretcher like a chicken in the pan. They took her out to the vehicle, the machinery already in action before the doors shut, one person pumping her chest, another calling out, “one, two, three.” And over again, as the doors shut and the siren began. The three of them stood at the door, watching it peel away. Sinj tried to comfort her.  He sent her home early, saying “let me deal with the owner.”

            She knew this wouldn’t go over well with the owner. The fact of her not doing her job. And all because of the cute guy who she’d never see again. Paolo said she should leave, even though it was only one, two hours before the end of her shift. Time froze. She had nowhere to be.

            As she turned the key in the door she heard her father’s voice.

            “Yes, Max. I blew it. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.”

            He was sitting on the couch, their old elegant piece from the former living room. It looked strange in the apartment’s simple walls and doors, the tiny kitchen and dining table just big enough to fit two people comfortably, but having to seat four. He was hunched forward, as if rushing toward her uncle on the phone, back East. Her father always said he took a risk coming out here all those years ago, that he could have easily “made it” with Max in his firm in New York. But they had argued and her dad decided to split off. Their differences long ago settled, he must not regret his decision, she thought.

He must have heard her rustle.

            “Gotta go, talk to you later.” He turned to her. His eyes were bloodshot, he had bags under his eyes. He wore his brown plaid robe. Dark curly hair fell into his eyes. “My little papoose,” he said.

            It was as if no time had passed and she was younger again. She fell into his arms. She hadn’t done this for a while. In his old study, she used to run in unannounced, as he called it, and interrupt whatever he was doing. He would never reprimand her, always make time, as if she were the most important thing at the moment. Lately, he was always tired and lacking words. Now, he seemed like his old self.

            She inhaled his robe, which had the familiar smell of tobacco from his pipe, though she hadn’t seen him light it lately. And the faint odor of shampoo, from the previous day no doubt. The warm just-out-of-bed freshly baked smell, when skin feels most human.

            “Daddy.” She hadn’t called him that in years. Hearing her friends call their parents by their first names—Rosalie, Don, Jim, Mary—she couldn’t follow, instead graduating to “father” and “mother” from “daddy” and “mommy.” Suddenly it had sounded so juvenile. Her sister still used the old names and Amber was jealous—she couldn’t go back.

            But now it came automatically.

            “You’re home early,” he said.

            “Yep.” She must have had a look on her face, because he took her chin in his hand.

            “What happened, honey bunny?”

            She thought of all the things she could tell him, all the ways to make it sound not as bad. But it was useless.

            “I didn’t do such a good job today.”

            “Oh, that’s hard to believe.”

            “No, really.” Her throat felt sore. Maybe she was getting sick. “It was my fault.”

            “What was? You are such a conscientious young lady.” He rubbed her back to console her.

            She stood up. Her heart was racing. “It was my fault. She slipped. She fell. And now, she’s probably going to die.” Wiping her face with her hand, she could see him looking over at her.

            “Look,” he began.

            “They’re going to fire me. I know,” she said.

            “Listen,” he said. “Sometimes we do things, and we don’t mean to hurt anyone.”

            She saw him then. He was crying. Her father crying.

            He hadn’t mean to hurt them just like he hadn’t mean to hurt people in his business. Why he had done it didn’t matter so much now, as much as he was sorry. She went to him and put her head on her shoulder.

            “It’s okay, Daddy. You didn’t mean it. I know.” And she did know, as much as she hadn’t known before.

            The phone rang, but he didn’t answer. He put his arms around her. “It’s going to be alright.”