The Fourth of July is one hundred times worse than Memorial Day. Maybe it’s because I have to work every day this weekend. Maybe it’s because Sammie’s requested a shift change, and so now I’m on the desk by myself. Or maybe it’s because it’s 102 degrees, which means that everyone in Bennett Village is here, and they can’t understand why there aren’t enough umbrellas, or why we’ve run out of Diet Coke, or why it’s taking me so long to record their visitor passes. Or maybe, as usual, the answer is all of the above.
I wish I could quit. After that day on the balcony in Professor Cox’s apartment, I tried to tell my mom that I wanted to stay home after all. She asked me if I’d been having more panic attacks, sort of accusing me of having them, not asking out of a real sense of concern. So I rescinded my request.
And I said no.
Which is a complete and utter lie.
Ever since that day, the heart palpitations and choking feeling have been constant. And I’ve had two more Episodes in the middle of the night. But I didn’t wake her. I didn’t want to end up back at the hospital for something I knew would pass eventually.
When she persisted in asking me why I wanted to quit, and I didn’t have a good answer, she just shrugged and said, “If you are not sick, I see no reason for you to quit. It’s an easy job and decent money.”
So I’m here all weekend.
And it’s full life suckage.
Vanessa joins me behind the desk and scans the ID of a resident who’s been complaining, rather loudly, the whole time she’s been in line about how she’s “melting in this heat” and how “this is taking forever.”
“Thank you,” I whisper after the woman is gone. “She’s been giving me the side-eye the whole time she’s been in line.”
“People are jerks,” Vanessa says while swiping more IDs. “Where’s Sammie?”
“I don’t know.”
“You guys aren’t scheduled together anymore?”
“Guess not,” I say with a shrug.
“Had a fight?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Vanessa says. “That blows. Hope you guys make up soon.”
I don’t say anything.
“Do you have any plans for tonight? Any parties?”
This city loves a party. Summer in Chicago means concerts, parades, and street fairs. Fireworks shows at Navy Pier two times a week. Taste of Chicago, with its rows and rows of restaurant fare. Normally, I love a party, too, especially for the Fourth of July weekend, which has always been when Mila and I celebrate our birthdays. Every year on Saturday night, we have a small party. Mila invites a few of her friends, and we have a rooftop barbecue, with my dad cooking hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill, and then we watch the fireworks show from the roof, all of Mila’s little friends oohing and aahing at the explosions. I only invite Sammie, so it’s not really a party for me, but Mila demands that my name be on the cake, too. We’re always together.
We haven’t planned anything this year. Mila said she doesn’t want one, since Dad’s not here. When I asked my mom what we should do for Mila, she recommended that I bring her down for an afternoon swim so she could put some streamers around our apartment for a little afternoon surprise party.
She didn’t say anything about my birthday.
I don’t really feel like celebrating anything anyway. In addition to our birthdays, we’re supposed to be celebrating independence and the pursuit of happiness, but I feel anything but free, anything but happy. I am trapped in this knot of isolation and lies and secrets. I can hardly even look my mom in the eye without wanting to cry. I thought I could never experience shame worse than what I experienced with Dean, but knowing my father is already with another woman somehow feels a thousand times worse.
“No plans,” I say. “At least not yet,” I add, so as not to sound completely lame.
I think maybe she’s going to invite me to do something, but I’m not really in the mood to go out, even if it is the night before my birthday.
Instead, Vanessa tells me that she has to go to a barbecue on the North Side. “It’s going to be boring. Just my family, hanging out on lawn chairs, eating cheap hot dogs and watching the fireworks.”
I don’t say anything in response. I don’t say how perfect that sounds, or how much I miss cheap hot dogs and fireworks and boring family parties.
Instead, I turn my attention to the next family in line and scan their IDs.
*
I clock out and head upstairs to get Mila. I expect her to be panting at the door, raring to go, but instead, she’s slumped on the couch, watching National Geographic and sucking on her pinkie. My mom’s at the dining room table, working on the computer, as usual.
“Happy day, birthday girl!” I force this out, and then pick up the remote and click off the TV. “Are you excited to be going swimming?”
Mila leans toward me, takes the remote from my hand, and turns the TV back on. “No.”
“No? What’s wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong. Daddy’s not here.”
“I know,” I mumble. I try to take the remote from her hands, but she holds on tight. “I’m sorry. But don’t you want to go to the pool? We can still celebrate your special day!”
She puts her pinkie finger in her mouth and sucks on it. I haven’t seen her do this in years.
“Come on, Mila. I’m going to get my suit on. I’ll take you out for ice cream after.”