1983
“Veronica, chérie, we’re here.” Papa nudges her sleeping head off his shoulder, sweeps the hair from her face, flicks open the porthole shade. Veronica’s eyelids glow pink with pale winter light. “Come, come. Your mémère will be waiting.”
In the aisle, Mommy yanks items from the overhead bin, fiddles with the fancy scarf around her neck. On the loudspeaker, a lady says something in French. Veronica gets a skippy feeling in her chest when she hears “Joyeux Noël.”
“Put your coat on,” Mommy says. The words come out tight, like she doesn’t want to talk. “And don’t forget Loulou.”
Veronica turns around, frantic until she spots the bunny. She grabs a fuzzy-rough ear, breathes in the familiar, sour scent. Loulou smells like home.
At the gate, Mémère scowls and kisses Papa and Mommy on both cheeks. Mémère is a little scary.
“Véronique, viens!” She draws Veronica into an embrace, envelops her in the enormous coat she wears. Veronica pets the soft fur while her father and grandmother speak French over her head.
At the baggage claim, Loulou has vanished.
1993
Mom’s earring back skitters under the bed. Clutching the diamond stud in one sweaty palm, Veronica drops to the floor in pursuit. The floaty overlay of her dress catches under her knees; its delicate fabric tugs at the shoulder straps. She rakes her fingers through the carpet, whispers, “Oh come on, come on.” Her bare arms prickle. Any moment now, her mother will walk in, a cloud of Arpège and bitterness.
2003
Veronica wanders the gallery after the last guest leaves. In three years working there, she’s found a dozen pairs of underwear, wisps of lace she leaves for the Honduran girls to sweep up. Several baggies of coke, which make her the hit of afterparties in grungy lofts. A melted pint of Ben & Jerry’s, plastic spoon perched atop the rubble. Once, a Gucci wallet cleared of everything but ID. Poor Edward Cunningham.
Red dots mark the wall beside several pieces, cheap stickers Dario has her buy at Staples. She takes home the slippery sheets of blue and yellow dots, layers them on found objects to make her own art. Dario critiques them while he fucks her, her hands braced on the thrifted enamel table, his belt buckle clanking against the metal leg.
2013
“Where did this come from? It’s amazing.” Dario stands at the foot of their bed, holds a Missoni sweater by the shoulders. Its multicolored chevrons vibrate. Veronica sees Papa wearing it, maybe on the plane that last Christmas.
She untangles from the sheet to show Dario her mother’s note. His thick brows pull together as he struggles to read the cursive English, not his native tongue. “Wait, she just found this? For eight years, it’s at the back of her closet?”
Veronica shrugs and holds out her hand, gimme-gestures with her fingers. “More like twenty-eight. I think she hid it after he left.”
When Dario hands over the sweater, she buries her nose in it. She expects to smell Papa, but inhales the kerosene scent of dry cleaning.
2023
Finn wails on the kitchen counter, her finger sliced open on a plastic chef’s knife advertised as child-safe. Veronica wads paper towel and presses it against the cut, has Finn grasp it with her unscathed hand.
“You’re OK, Finny, you’re OK. Stay right there.” Heart pounding, Veronica rifles through the cabinets for the first aid kit. “Hold it up, sweetheart! No, higher, above your heart. Where. Is. It.”
Finn removes the paper towel to examine the cut. Blood gushes. She shrieks and topples off the counter. Veronica darts back to catch her. Their scramble spills Finn’s OJ onto the stack of bills.
The medicine cabinet has a few Band-Aids. Veronica hefts Finn onto one hip and hauls her into the bathroom. Pushes aside tubes and canisters and the bottle of Arpège fucking Dario mocked her for. Aha! She grabs the bandages and knocks over a cup. Something gold clinks onto the floor, rolls a few feet and topples flat. His wedding ring.
Neosporin. She needs Neosporin.
