Chapter 6 - The Bandage Slipped On The Rug
I had been standing too long by the side table. That was the first mistake.
The main plates were still out, the air thick with heat from the candles and the smell of rosemary and butter. My tray was empty now except for a folded linen, but I kept holding it in front of me like it could keep me upright. Mr. Hale was talking about the foundation dinner in town, his voice smooth and even. Mr. Romano wasn't eating. He was watching.
When Mr. Hale lifted his water glass, I stepped forward to refill from the pitcher on the side table. My right foot caught the edge of the rug under the table leg. It wasn't much, just the thickness of the weave, but when I shifted my weight to catch myself the bandage slipped.
Pain shot up the back of my leg so fast my vision blurred. It wasn't dull anymore. It was sharp, like the skin had pulled open under the gauze.
I grabbed the corner of the side table. The wood dug into my palm. The pitcher rattled against the silver tray and I froze, waiting for someone to look. The chandelier light swam for a second and then settled.
"You alright over there?" Mr. Hale asked without turning his head. His tone was pleasant. It was the kind of pleasant that meant be quiet.
"Yes, sir," I said. "Just the rug."
Mr. Romano's chair creaked. I could feel him lean forward. He didn't say anything, but his eyes went straight to my right foot. I tried to put weight back on my left, but the rug bunched under my heel and the shoe pressed wrong against the swelling.
I had to make a choice fast. If I took the shoe off, even for a second, the bandage would show. Mr. Hale would see it as disobedience. If I left it, I wasn't sure I could make it back to the kitchen without limping in front of both of them.
I bent just enough to pretend to smooth my apron. With two fingers, I reached down inside the back of my shoe and pushed at the loose edge of the gauze, tucking it back under my ankle bone without unlacing anything. The fabric was damp with sweat and it stung when it moved. I bit the inside of my cheek and kept my breathing slow.
When I straightened, Mr. Romano was still watching my hands.
Mr. Hale finally glanced over. He smiled, that practiced host smile, and then he touched two fingers to his own mouth. A small gesture. Smile through it.
I understood. I pulled my lips into something that might have looked like a smile if no one looked too close.
"Emma," Mr. Hale said, "Mr. Romano's glass."
I nodded and stepped around the table. Every step on that rug felt uneven now, like the floor was tilting a half inch to the right. I kept my left leg stiff to take the load, kept my right toe pointed just enough that the shoe didn't rub the raw spot.
As I poured, my hand shook. A single drop ran down the outside of the crystal and I wiped it quick with the linen before it reached the stem. Mr. Romano didn't look at the glass. He looked at the way I was holding my weight off that foot, at the white edge of my knuckles where I still gripped the linen too hard.
He started to speak, then stopped himself. Mr. Hale cleared his throat.
May you like
I stepped back to my place by the side table and locked my knees. The pain settled into a steady throb that pulsed with my heartbeat. The shoe was still on. Nobody had seen the bandage move. From the outside, I was upright, quiet, smiling the way I was supposed to.
Inside the shoe, I could feel the gauze sliding loose again with every breath I took.
