Chapter Fourteen
Now
The crowds were nearly oppressive, but that didn’t deter Fae from her mission.
After we left the boys at the loft, we’d headed back to my apartment for a quick change out of our evening wear. Fae was taller than me by a few inches, so even my largest shorts were booty-hugging on her frame, but she pulled off the look with the same cool confidence she exuded when wearing Prada and pearls. We set out for the flea market not long after, and she soon become a woman obsessed — not, unfortunately, with finding designer deals or hunting down hidden gems amongst the many racks and displays that made up the flea market, but with distracting me from all thoughts of Sebastian. We wound our way through the maze of colorful carts and tables, chatting with the street vendors we knew and giggling at the sight of confounded tourists trying to discern some kind of pattern from the chaos.
The first time I’d been here, I’m sure I’d worn that same shell-shocked look of astonishment as my unaccustomed eyes tried to take it all in at once. Milk crates full of vintage records were stacked along tabletops, mothball-scented mink coats hung from long racks, plastic bins brimmed with unorganized shoes of all sizes and styles, and various food carts exuded spicy, exotic smells. Though it was the first weekend of September, the day was unseasonably warm and sunny. Fae and I weren’t the only shoppers milling around in cut-off shorts and tank tops.
We wandered for about an hour without purchasing anything, before the unrelenting midday sun began to bake the concrete and my skin started to glisten with a thin sheen of perspiration.
“I’m going to grab an ice cream before we go, you want one?” Fae asked. “My treat.”
“Sure,” I told her, wiping the beading sweat from the back of my neck. “But I have to make a pitstopat Vera’s table, just to say hello.”
“Tell her hi for me,” Fae ordered. “What flavor do you want?”
“Mint chip, but only—”
“Only if it’s the green kind. I know, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t know why I even bothered to ask.”
“It doesn’t taste the same when it’s white!” I called after her.
I heard her answering laughter even after I’d lost sight of her in the crowd.
Turning, I made my way to the end of the row, where Vera always set up her table. We’d met last summer, on one of my many weekend trips to the market, and though our language barrier didn’t allow for much communication, we’d struck up an unlikely friendship through shared smiles, a few odd phrases, and a variety of creative hand gestures. Sometimes, after our visits, I’d plug whatever Albanian words I could recall from our conversations into my iPhone in a pathetic attempt to retrospectively decode the things she’d said to me. It was safe to say, the only words I could keep track of with any kind of consistency were “Alo!” forhelloand “Mirupafshim!” forbye.
Petite, with glossy brown hair and delicate features, Vera couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen, yet she spent every weekend sitting behind her table at the flea market, selling stunning handcrafted jewelry and colorful scarves from dawn until dusk. Rain or shine, she was always there — usually alone, sometimes in the company of her little sister, Roza — and she bore her responsibilities with a shy smile. I had no idea where her parents were, and no way to even communicate my concerns that she should be out laughing or playing with kids her own age, rather than working.
Truth be told, I’m not sure why I was so invested in her, specifically — there were many similar young girls who spent their weekends helping their families sell wares here. Perhaps it was that she was alone, and far too young to be supporting herself and her sister. Perhaps it was the warmth in her brown eyes when she’d given me a turquoise bracelet on the Fourth of July last year as a gift, and gently refused to accept any money for it. Perhaps it was because she reminded me of myself at that age — carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and doing it with the maturity and grace of someone with twice her years.
I didn’t know. But I made it a point to stop by her table and purchase jewelry whenever I came to the flea market. Sometimes, I brought along sweets for the two girls to enjoy, understanding even without the benefit of words that they didn’t have the easiest of childhoods and likely didn’t receive much in the way of surprises.
So today when I came upon the spot where Vera’s table had been stationed every weekend for the last year and a half, only to find it empty, Idrew to an abrupt halt. My first thought was sadness that I wouldn’t see her or Roza, as it had been a few weeks since our last visit and I’d been looking forward to a reunion. My second feeling was worry that something had happened to one of them that kept Vera from setting up her stand. But finally, as I stood examining the unoccupied strip of pavement before me, I felt happiness — maybe they’d finally taken a day off, and were out enjoying themselves like young girls ought to.
I smiled as I turned to go.
“Lux?” The small, uncertain voice cut through the din of the crowd and clutched around my heart like a fist. I knew that voice.
“Roza?” I called, my eyes sweeping the scene as I looked for her amidst the crowd. Finally, I spotted her crouched in the shadows behind one of the adjacent tents. Huddled close to a rack of puffy down jackets and outerwear, her tiny form was barely discernible. She was small for her age — seven or eight at the most — but she spoke more English than her older sister. Not a lot, but enough that we could get by. Whether she’d picked it up from other kids or from television, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t even know if she attended school.
“Come here, sweetie,” I said, approaching her cautiously. I crouched down a few feet away and extended one hand toward her. “Where’s Vera?”
At my words, Roza shook her head back and forth, not meeting my eyes. Her body trembled slightly. She was scared, I realized. I felt my heartbeat pick up speed in my chest.
“Roza, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
Her gaze darted up to meet mine, then quickly skittered away to focus on her threadbare sandals. Though our eyes met only briefly, it was enough time for me to see that hers were full of unshed tears.
“You can tell me, sweetheart,” I murmured. “I’ll help you, I promise.”
“Vera,” she whispered. Finally, she glanced up at me, and the look in her eyes nearly stopped my heart. Naked fear was etched into her features.
“What about Vera?” I whispered back, hearing a tremor in my own words.
“Gone,” Roza said quietly, taking a step forward into my space. A tear leaked from the corner of her left eye. “She’s gone.”
I stretched out my hand once more and this time she took it, her small, unwashed fingers and quick-bitten nail beds a stark contrast to the bright poppy color coating my own manicured fingernails.