Glory slept well that night, and she woke up with possibility fluttering in her stomach. When she closed her eyes she could still feel the pressure of Julian’s arm pulling her in, confident and decisive in his intention. She could feel the firmness of his body against hers and the surge of electricity that passed between them as he whispered into her ear. It took every ounce of pride within her to not message him, “So what are we then?” Without a doubt she wanted him, but a message like that would be very off brand.
She had better things to be doing anyway. There was the job hunt that she had promised her mother was well underway when in reality she had barely gone over her CV. Every time she thought about opening up that Word document she was filled with despair. She didn’t want another job, she wanted money, a reason for her mother to get off her back and for her to stop feeling useless. She didn’t want to be tap dancing in interviews, trying to explain her questionable choices and haphazard career to someone whose job she could do blindfolded. Her charm and determination had seen her walk into the LA role before her body had a chance to adjust to the new time zone. That was gone now. She was tired. All of that optimism had been burned out long before her return. But thinking about Julian made her feel hopeful again and, as foolish as she felt as a woman in her mid-twenties daydreaming about her crush, she could allow herself this one indulgence.
She stayed in bed for a while, savouring the silence now that her mother had returned to work. Over the years Celeste had had many jobs, everything from the fabled cleaner of immigrant lore through to receptionist and carer for vulnerable adults. In between those jobs she had had countless hustles, trying her hand at catering (but she much preferred attending parties to serving at them), importing small quantities of lace and Swiss voile to sell to her friends (but she got tired of chasing debts), and when she discovered a cheap supplier of trinkets and household items, she had gone into business with Auntie Dọ̀tun, providing Chinese fans and bottle openers in bulk as party favors.
When Celeste got promoted to management at the elderly care home she had been working at for nearly a decade, she zeroed in on the opportunity, tolerating the tedium for the steady benefits it provided. Until Victor’s trial and her husband’s death, Glory doubted she had missed more than a day of work at that place, and she was grateful that Celeste’s attention would now be directed somewhere other than her.
A message appeared on Glory’s phone from Lará, who had been quietly persistent in keeping her word about meeting up.
“Random, but I won dinner for two at this fancy place in my work’s raffle. Let me know if you’re up for it x”
Glory was not, but she didn’t have the heart to turn down Lará again.
“Congrats!” she typed back. “I’ll let you know x”
Glory decided it was time for a shower. When she noticed blood spotting the smooth surface of the bathtub she realized it was not possibility she had been feeling in her stomach. She finished showering quickly and hobbled to her mother’s bedroom, trying carefully not to leave a trail of red in her wake. As she rummaged through drawers she feared Celeste’s menopause may have already started, meaning an uncomfortable walk to the corner shop with tissue wedged between her legs.
Thankfully, she found a packet of Kotex pushed into the back corner of the wardrobe. When she pulled it out, it brought with it a bundle of paper that had been tucked tightly beside it. The bundle contained a photocopy of Hope’s birth certificate, taken from her father’s file, it seemed, along with the photograph of the three sisters and the white couple, and some other pictures she had never seen before.
In one, Faith sat on the lap of the woman, whose light brown hair was buffed into a haphazard halo. The pose was disarmingly intimate for a stranger or casual acquaintance, with both faces upturned to the lens. The other photograph was of a frowning little girl in school uniform who looked like Glory, but something told her that she wasn’t looking at herself. The little girl clutched a blue bag, her stare piercing through the gloss of the two-dimensional print.
Glory held the photographs until they began to buckle beneath her tense grip. She could feel a panic attack approaching, the force of it encroaching upon her like waves breaking on a beach. The air seemed to dissolve in her chest as her breathing got shallower and shallower, and her pulse began to quicken until she could feel it in her neck, throbbing violently. The steady descent of a bead of blood down the inside of her thigh brought her back to the present. Its sticky trail forced her back to the bathroom, still clutching the photographs, and in the shower for the second time, Glory’s thoughts sorted themselves. She needed to speak to Faith.