Page 32 of Destiny

“Don’t ask,” I say under my breath.

“Got it.”

I turn to face her. “So, what’s up?”

“I just came to pick up the most recent pay stubs.”

“Oh, okay. They’re in a labeled manila folder at the back.”

“Great. Thanks. You know, your dad and I were talking, and we are thinking about setting up an open mic night. To generate clientele and what not.”

“That’s a great idea!” Micky joins the conversation and places her hands on either side of my shoulders. “You’ll have to sign up, Bea.”

“No . . . no, I can’t.”

“But you have such a beautiful voice, Beatrice. When you were a little girl, we couldn’t get you to stop singing, and you’d even put on little shows for the family during Christmas and other holidays.”

“That was when I was a kid.” I’m uncomfortable with this topic, so I try to busy myself by reorganizing records that seem ajar.

“Sure, but we got you into voice lessons, so your voice must have only improved with the time that has passed.”

“I’ve caught her a few times here and there—especially on deep cleaning days,” Micky jumps in to say. “She’s incredible.”

“Okay, so what’s the problem?”

“I just don’t want to, okay?” I bark.

My mother and best friend exchange a look before seeming to agree to move on nonverbally.

“So, what night were you thinking?” Micky asks.

“Maybe Thursdays?”

“I think that’s a great idea. It’s just close enough to the weekend that people are starting to feel a little more relaxed and perhaps adventurous, but not Friday or Saturday—when they’d probably rather be in the pubs or something.”

“Exactly.”

I’ve moved on to stocking shelves but can still hear them talking.

But my mom approaches me from behind. “How have your insulin levels been lately?”

I put the box in my hands down and show her my pump. “Good.”

“Good to hear. That pump has really been a God send. Do you remember when we’d have to take time out of the day to give you multiple shots?”

“I do. That was the absolute worst.”

“Ugh. Talking about when you were little . . . you never understood why I was intentionally hurting you like that, and it broke my heart.”

“When was she diagnosed again?” Micky inquires while picking up some of the new stock I just placed on the ground.

“She was four.”

“Is that a common age—”

“According to the doctors, yes.”

“Wow.”

---