Page 2 of My Infatuation with Isabella

“Can I come with you to pick one out?” I ask.

“Of course.”

She slides off my back and hops up onto the counter to sit next to the point-of-sale machine. Dana always dresses like she’s mourning the death of a punk rock band. Heavy black boots with a pair of black jeans or parachute pants and a baggy T-shirt that usually has a cheeky slogan on it. Today it just says:Bite Me.

“There’s a girl in Scott’s class who volunteers at an animal shelter,” she explains, “and she told him they have two little lab puppies. I’m going to ask the parentals if I can get them both. I don’t have the heart to separate them. It’s unnatural for siblings to grow up apart.”

That comment causes a wave of sadness to wash over us, but we don’t acknowledge it. Instead, I sidestep it altogether. “Speaking about Scott. I’m going for another session today, and mom has to be here, so I asked Scott to help us this afternoon. He’ll drop me off first, then he’ll take you to choir practice.”

She rolls her eyes. “Can you please ask Peter instead? Scott is way too overprotective. Peter is annoying, but he’s a lot more relaxed, and I need that because I’m actually trying to have a social life and make friends. What did you tell Scott, anyway? The guy doesn’t let me speak to anyone.”

I chuckle at her exasperation. I’m glad that she feels annoyance instead of fear around them. They’re the only two guys outside our family that she’s comfortable being around. “I didn’t tell either of them anything. I don’t need to explain myself to them. If I ask for something, they just...do it. That’s how they are. I told them I needed help with taking you to choir practice on the days I have therapy. The only instruction I gave was that they can’t leave you alone.”

“Scott took that literally. Peter waits in the shadows, watching me like a hawk, but at least he leaves me to do my thing.”

“Fine, stop whining. I’ll ask Pete to take you.”

“Thank you. So, you have another session today? Have you told the Queen about my demands?”

It wasn’t a demand, more of an exchange. Dana allowed me to tell Bella certain things about her, but with two conditions. One was that I could only tell Bella about how what happened affectedmewithout getting into details of what actually happened toher. The other was that I had to take both of them out for lunch so she could finally meet the infamous woman who was destined to break my heart.

“I, uh, I haven’t asked her yet. She still...kinda hates me.”

“Why does she hate you?”

“Lots of reasons...but mainly because she thinks I left her in the lurch again when that’s not what really happened.”

Her eyebrows knit together because the solution seems obvious. “So, just tell her what really happened.”

“Well, it’s not that simple.” I take a deep breath, trying to brace myself for this discussion. I’ve been delaying it for as long as possible, but I was forced to have a similar talk with her last week and it’s not easy for either of us. “I can’t tell her what happened until I tell you what happened.”

The expression on her face drops because she knows what to expect. There have been many times when Dana slipped into a fit of rage, and I didn’t know if she was awake or still dreaming because she couldn’t remember anything afterward. One of her doctors explained to me that it’s dissociative amnesia. Whenever she gets triggered, she disappears to a safe place as a mechanism to protect herself. Her mind may not be there, but her body fights off whoever it perceives as a threat (which is pretty much anyone in the room). She’s not cognizant of what’s going on, and she doesn’t recall anything that happens during that time. I’ve only told her about a few of those incidents because there’s no point in her feeling guilty about something that isn’t in her control, but she knows these are never good stories.

She lowers her head, staring at the floor to brace herself. After a moment of collecting her thoughts, she looks up at me again. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Two customers walk in. I greet them, then wait for Akeem to direct them to a table before I answer. “Do you remember that Christmas party we catered for last year at The Royale?”

“Yep,” she replies. “The one on Christmas eve, right?” She waits for me to nod. “Mom insisted that we all stay at that overpriced hotel so that her precious, wittle boy didn’t have to spend Christmas alone.” She pouts and pinches my cheek, but I know the playfulness is just to disguise her growing uneasiness.

“I told her that you guys didn’t have to stay there on my account. I didn’t want any of you there because...I had other plans for the night. I even promised her that I would come over the next day for lunch...but you know mom.”

“Yeah, she’s so overbearing, especially at Christmas time. I swear sometimes she treats us like we’re still kids, but we’re digressing. Carry on.”

“So...Bella was a guest at that party and...let’s just say I didn’t...sleep in my room that night.”

“Yourotherplans?” she teases, wagging her eyebrows at me.

“Yeah...but my plans got derailed. You guys were three floors down, so on Christmas morning, I snuck out. I was just supposed to come down, wish all of you a merry Christmas, and then go right back up. I was going to sneak back in before she woke up, but then...” I pause because I hate doing this to her. “Do you remember what happened that morning?”

She’s silent for a long while as she thinks about it, and I don’t rush her. “I had breakfast with mom and dad and...where were you? You were supposed to be there. Mom said...” She stops to think about it. “Oh, yeah...Mom said you had a meeting with the client to discuss some issues. He didn’t want to pay or something, so I didn’t see you that day.”

“You did. You...don’t remember?”

She shakes her head. I try to approach this as subtly as I can. Sometimes the memory makes its way to the fore, and it’s jarring for her. A few times, it triggered her all over again. We’re in public, so I decide to take this discussion away from curious eyes just in case it goes south.

“Akeem,” I call out. “Can you man the payment counter for me, please?”

“Sure, Dylan.”

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