suna
SUNA CANNOT HELP BUT follow him. Not so close that he might notice her, or so she thinks, but at a distance, behind plastic-shrouded clothes and noisy machines. She feels a claim to him, that somehow Ysrael belongs to her. Because she had seen him first. He is still Moon in her mind.
His profile flickers in and out of focus as she moves closer and closer, unable to resist studying his face, his movements. There are razor-thin, long scars along his jaw that she had not noticed before. And the deep well of his moon scar is more jagged and angry than she remembered. She wonders about the story behind that mark. She can see a bit of his thick black hair tucked behind his ears, but the rest is hidden under his baseball cap.
She crouches down low and watches him work the presses, rhythmically steaming each dress pant so they are left with perfect center creases. Apa can never stand the heat for long and often takes breaks, leaving Suna to try her hand at creating those crisp straight lines. But Suna will misalign the pants, try to reline them, steam them again and again and find them smelling sweet and smoky, cast with a peculiar iridescent sheen that Uhmma will inevitably find and scream at her for burning the clothes. Ysrael does not make mistakes. He works steadily, his eyes fixed on each pair of pants, his hands quickly smoothing out each pant leg before lowering the press. His hands are lean and long and every time he waits for the press to do its magic, he puts his right hand on top of the handle, thumb and forefinger pinched together, strumming the air. And above the din of machines churning, the register clicking, steam sighing, Suna believes she can hear the faintest sounds of his music.
mina
HE DID NOT SAY much. Always started the morning with a hello and a nod to everyone and then slipped behind the press or sat down to pull plastic wrappers over the clothes. Sometimes if we were in the same area at the same time he might smile, his eyes flickering up to my face before they rested somewhere on the floor, and softly say, “Hey.” He had a way of making himself disappear, and though the presses continued hissing, sometimes it was easy to forget that he was around.
I filled in a bubble on my practice test, my hand moving in time to the music that was playing on my CD player. Vocabulary words were straightforward. I could handle that. And though I should have been working on the math section, I chose to avoid it. I filled in a few more vocabulary word bubbles and then checked my answers in the back. I caught my breath.
Jonathon’s writing, bold, evenly slanted to the right, was all along the edges in the back. I closed the book and turned up the volume on my player. I didn’t know why I was even bothering. It wasn’t like the SATs were going to change anything. Even if I got a perfect score, my GPA would bring me down. The best I could hope for was a state school. But that just wouldn’t be good enough. Not for Uhmma. I blew out my breath. Since the fourth grade, when the school placed me in the upper track and my teacher told Uhmma that I had potential, Uhmma had been making plans for me. And it all hinged on the best college. Which led to the best job and husband. The best family. The best life. As much as I hated Uhmma for all the pressure she put on me, for all the times she bragged and held me out like some show pony, as much as I wanted to scream at her, I couldn’t. Because I knew how she had sacrificed for me.
I caught her once, soon after Suna was born. Instead of shooing me away like all the other times, she had held out a small photo.
You resemble him more than me, she said and smiled through her tears.
I studied the grainy black-and-white photo. He was sitting in a chair, dressed in a suit as though going to work in one of those office buildings downtown. The smooth skin of his face made him look almost like a boy. A handsome boy pretending to be a man. Uhmma pulled me into her lap.
You must never tell anyone, Uhmma whispered. Even then, as young as I had been, I knew this was our secret.
Who is he? I asked.
Uhmma rocked me in her lap and stared out the window. Someone I loved, she whispered.
I asked, Where did he go? Is he coming back?
Uhmma shook her head. He was not allowed.
I patted her cheeks to make her look at me.
Uhmma pressed her lips together and held me firmly by the shoulders. Her voice hardened. Mina, I do not want to hear you talking about him to anyone. Not even your father. Not one word. She pointed her finger at me. Do you understand?
I nodded.
She pulled me back against her chest. Held me so hard, I had to take small sips of air. She nuzzled my neck, breathed in the scent of my hair. She whispered, How could I have given you up. My beautiful daughter. You are all I have left of him.
We never spoke of him again. When I asked later to look at his photo, a strange grimace settled over her face and she pushed me away, told me there was no such thing. For a long time, I believed he was some kind of uncle. A part of Uhmma’s family. The family we were not supposed to talk about. The family that we had left behind to come to America.
