Daughter's Keeper Read Free

the NLRB and sue them.”
    The two fell silent.
    Finally Olivia, her voice drained of its spirit, said, “It’s just hard trying to support two people on a waitress’s salary.”
    Elaine turned the packet of dolls face down with a firm snap. “I’m sorry, Olivia. I know that you’re having a difficult time. However, I think I’ve made my position clear on this issue.”
    â€œRight. I don’t even know why I asked. Forget it.” Olivia reached across the table and grabbed the packet of paper dolls. She got up and went over to the family at the center table. She kneeled down next to one of the little girls.
    â€œ Para ti ,” she said, handing her the packet.
    The girl’s eyes widened, and her parents looked confused.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Olivia said. She cupped the girl’s cheek in her palm and smiled gently at her.
    The little girl looked over at her father, who shrugged, then nodded. Only then did she tear open the packet. She pulled out the paper dolls and looked at them, uncertainly. “ Gracias,” she murmured, and then, as if to reassure Olivia, smiled broadly.
    Children liked Olivia, they always had. And she liked them. For a long while Elaine had assumed she wouldn’t have to worry about her daughter, that Olivia would always spend her weekends and vacations baby-sitting for families in the neighborhood rather than out getting in trouble with kids her own age. She’d been a highly sought-after sitter—her New Year’s Eve sleepovers were the stuff of legend in the Elmwood, the part of Berkeley where they lived. Neighbors and pharmacy customers still reminded Elaine about it—more than one couple remembered those years as the last they’d been able to celebrate the holiday without their children. Of course that had ended when Olivia had discovered boys—or rather, when they discovered her. Even after she’d begun dating, though, Olivia remained in close touch with the neighborhood kids. Almost every weekend morning a child or two would ring the front door, and Olivia would sit on the porch with them, feeding them cookies or popcorn. They would submit, for her inevitable approval, especially well-done homework assignments, rollerblading tricks, and newly acquired puppies. To this day, half the holiday cards that filled Elaine’s mailbox every December were from local families and were addressed to her daughter alone.
    Elaine sighed. She peeked out of the front window of the restaurant at her car, a three-year-old Honda Accord parked across the street. Not for the first time, Elaine regretted the color. She had bought it off the lot, and gotten a good deal, but had almost immediately been embarrassed by the obviousness, the ostentation of a cherry-red car. In this neighborhood, it seemed worse than ever. She had followed Olivia’s directions here, growing more and more nervous as she drove out of the parts of Oakland that she recognized. Elaine had never been to Fruitvale. The closest she’d come was reading the exit sign as she whizzed past on her way to the Oakland airport or down to the Peninsula.
    Driving along Fruitvale Avenue, Elaine had battled the overwhelming urge to lock her doors. She knew Olivia would think she was being racist, but the groups of young men with slicked-back hair and baggy pants standing on the corners struck her as ­menacing. She had parked across the street from the restaurant and sat in her car for a moment, wondering if she should snap the anti-theft club in place over her steering wheel. She felt a vague sense of embarrassment; she didn’t want to hurt the feelings of anyone who might be passing. She also knew that the sight of the bright red club would enrage her daughter and prove to Olivia that her mother was, after all, an incurable bourgeois bigot. Finally, Elaine left the club on the floor in the backseat. It wasn’t until she got out of her car and walked to