I nodded once. “And her father?”
“Out of the picture, always has been.”
We then both looked back at the screen. Our shoulders leaned against each other, our heads close together. I could smell blood oranges and cinnamon.
June slid lower on the sofa until her neck rested on the backrest.
“How did he die?”
“Heart attack. He was driving, and the car veered and smashed into a tree. He didn’t stand a chance either way. I think it was partly genetic. His father died young from a cardiac arrest, too.”
I wondered if her health craze had anything to do with her father’s death.
“I’m sorry.” I shifted to lean my head against the backrest, too.
“Thanks. I don’t remember much of him, though I remember more than my sisters. They think I’m lucky for remembering. I thinktheyare for not.”
I stared at her profile. The tendon in her neck tightened, a muscle twitched in her jaw. I wanted to trace my fingers across that tautness, loosen it for her. Something about this woman, who was irritating one moment and bordering on vulnerable the next, challenged me.Jazz.
“You’re not used to crying. Right, June?”
She shifted to look at me, and our eyes locked. “He died many years ago.”
I didn’t want to push it by saying there must have been other reasons for her to cry about since she was six.
She broke our eye contact and resumed swiping through her photos. Tough as nails, as if my question had provoked her to gather herself from exhibiting any further emotion.
Most of the pictures she flipped through were of products in her shop.
“What about you?” She threw a quick side glance at me and shifted her body away from me.
I swiped my phone screen open. “You know the names,” I said, naming each brother as I went through their pictures. “That’s my mom. I don’t have pictures of my father. He’s alive, as far as we know, but he left us right before my youngest brother was born. I guess a fifth kid was too much for him.”
“I’m sorry,” it was her turn to say.
“He wasn’t very useful, even when he was around, so …”
Her hand suddenly rose and hovered over my forearm, as if she were about to put a comforting hand on me. From the way her hand froze midway then quickly withdrew, I guessed she was as unprepared as I was by the gesture. It was her left hand over my left one. If we were wearing our wedding rings, we’d look like one of those stock photos of a married couple.
June wriggled on her seat and unnecessarily readjusted the hem of her shirt. She cleared her throat. “What did your mom do? I mean, five kids, a newborn.”
“She took double shifts at work, a food factory. A neighbor watched over Marco, and after school, my brothers and I took turns babysitting him and Davide, who is two years older than him. At some point, it was usually me.” I rifled through a few more pictures.
Now it was my turn to feel her eyes on my profile. I turned to look at her. “Once, someone thought he was my son when I took him in his stroller and said I was doing the right thing by raising my baby. I was maybe fourteen.” I laughed to dispel the moment, but June didn’t laugh. She was right; it wasn’t really amusing, though Amber had found it funny when I’d told her.
June straightened up and leaned forward to tie her hair in a loose ponytail. I remained reclined against the headrest, watching her slim back and her long, thin fingers smoothing over her hair, tying it up and exposing her nape. She looked delicate. I knew she wasn’t. This woman was marble.
“You probably had similar experiences, being the eldest and with no father in the picture,” I said to her back.
She half-pivoted toward me, braced her elbow on the headrest, and folded one leg beneath her. “I watched over September and January, too. And when we were older, January and I helped our mom clean houses, and sometimes the kids there … they went to school with us.”
She didn’t have to say more. Up until now, I didn’t know much about her background, but just from the way she said it, I could picture it all and what it had meant for them. I hadn’t been teased when I’d taken my younger brothers with me to hang out with my friends. We had all come from the same place, and others, too, had to sometimes drag younger siblings with them. The girls used to coo at the baby and look at me like I was a man.
“It probably bonded you. No?” I asked, sitting up, as well.
She let out a tight-lipped scoff, the sound emanating from her throat. She averted her gaze before bringing her eyes back to me. “January and I are not very close. We got closer recently, but for years …” She breathed out. “You share and go through so much with someone until just looking at them reminds you of what you’re trying to forget. You know? That’s me and January. Not because we did something wrong, but because we’ve been there through all the shit. She’s a reminder. I’m a reminder. And we’re also … different in many things.”
That woman had reasons enough to cry, yet her eyes remained dry.
