Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
“We want you in our memories, Maribel,” I said, leaning closer. “The real memories, not the polished ones.”
Maribel turned her face away, looking out at the gray garden where the rain had finally stopped.
“You have your whole lives to look at photos,” she said. “Let me keep my dignity for the time I have left.”
The apartment was dark when we got back, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside our kitchen window. I stood by the sink, looking at the water spots on the gold-framed mirror in the hallway.
Mason sat at the table, his car keys resting in the center of the dark wood.
“My mother knows,” Mason said. “She knew about the clinic, and she still wanted to move Maribel’s seat to the back.”
“Evelyn is terrified of the reality, Mason,” I said, leaning against the counter. “She thinks if she ignores it, the wedding can still be perfect.”
“There is nothing perfect about this,” Mason said, his hand covering his keys.
“Well, we have to do something,” I said. “We cannot just let Maribel sit in the corner of her own family’s memory.”
