The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

When I open my eyes, the light is thin and gray, and tiny sparrows are bickering in the branches overhead. My cheek rests on my arm along the back of the bench, my feet drawn up underneath me. Wes’s head lies in my lap, heavy with sleep, one arm still encircling my waist while the other hangs to the ground. He lets out a soft snore, and burrows his nose into a fold of my dress.

It’s today.

Today is my last day.

I don’t want to wake Wes just yet. His face is smooth in sleep. I rub my eyes with a yawn and stretch my arms overhead until my spine cracks. My stays will be leaving red marks on my rib cage.

The park around us rolls gradually out of sleep, birds and squirrels beginning their morning ablutions, and on the far side of the lake, girls not much older than me go prancing past like racehorses, wearing nothing but stockings and tight shirts and shaded spectacles, their pigtails swinging. The city hums to life while I watch, the sky brightening through the treetops, sounds of carriage horns and crying babies and conversations, the honk of ducks paddling by on the pond at our feet.

“Wes,” I say, cupping his cheek in my hand. His beard is coming in, and his cheek is rough.

“Mmmmrrrfff,” Wes says, pulling my skirt hem over his eyes and rolling onto his side on the bench.

I smile down at him, and gently poke his shoulder. “Wes,” I say. “It’s morning.”

“So what,” he says from under my skirt.

“So,” I say, “we’re supposed to meet back at Maddie’s soon.”

“What time is it?” he moans. He rummages in the pocket of his short pants and pulls out his little glass slab. He pokes one eye out from my petticoat hem and peers at the object.

“Argh,” he says.

“What, argh?” I ask.

“Battery’s dead. Do you know what time it is?” He looks up at me with a bright, warm smile.

“Nigh on morning. There’s people about.”

Wes disentangles himself from me and plants a sweet kiss on the corner of my mouth. His beard is scratchy, but I drink in the kiss all the same.

“I love your mole,” he says out of nowhere. “Your mole tastes perfect.”

I laugh, as it’s doubtless the oddest compliment I’ve ever gotten. I never thought much about my mole, though Beattie used to sometimes wake me up by poking it with her finger, as though I were a doll whose eyes could be opened by pressing a button.

Wes takes one of my curls and rubs it thoughtfully between finger and thumb. I reach up and trace a fingertip along one of his eyebrows. It feels silky to the touch. We stare at each other, unwilling to shatter the fragile silence that holds us together, protected from the rest of the world.

“Mommy, there’s a man here!” a tiny voice cries, and we break apart, startled.

A small child in a sailor suit is pointing at Wes, and its mother appears behind it, pushing a wheeled baby carriage with a resigned expression on her face.

“Keep going, Aiden.” She sighs without a word in our direction, heaving the carriage around a corner in the path. The child in the sailor suit scampers after her.

Wes looks at me.

“I guess we should be getting back,” he says.

I nod. I wrap my right thumb around my bare left ring finger.

Today. I’ll find my cameo today.

Hand in hand Wes and I emerge from the park, passing carts selling pastries and coffee on the street corners. He stops to buy a cruller and some coffee in a paper cup that says, “We are happy to serve you” on it in faux-Greek font. The cruller looks good, warm and shining with sugar. I wish I could taste it. With a twinge of sadness I think of the roasted-pear seller I used to frequent on First Street, the fruits syrupy with sugar.

Wes is wiping sugar from his lips with his wrist when we arrive back at Maddie’s building. A different man stands guard at the door today, and before he’ll let us up he has to talk into some sort of oddly shaped speaking tube to obtain our approval.