Goddess Read Free Page A

for me to call for their approval.
    “Sorry,” I said, hopping up. “Senior moment. All in favor of accepting the minutes as written?”
    “Aye.”
    “Motion carried.” I stepped to the front of the room. “Mona is running late—she’s waiting on her sitter—so let’s skip the financials and move on to the fall carnival. How’s the volunteer sign-up coming?”
    As various women (and the one man in attendance—Frank Branford, currently unemployed) went back and forth over the reasons why volunteers were down this year, I avoided glancing over at the woman in the corner. The way her eyes were riveted on me made me feel like I was somehow different from the other moms in the room—that I merited special attention. It was ridiculous, but her presence rattled me. For a moment, I had become unmoored from the comfortable world of school fundraisers and was drifting into choppy, unfamiliar seas. Over the next hour, as I hurried us through the agenda, the young woman never spoke. I doubted whether anyone else even noticed her.
    When the meeting ended, two mothers immediately made a beeline for me. I focused intently on our conversation about the cafeteria recycling project as the room slowly emptied. I avoided locating the mystery woman, afraid that it would encourage her to remain behind. Finally, when I sensed that we were the last three left in the room, I excused myself. I knew if I didn’t get home soon, Isabelle would have to face the battle of getting Mackenzie ready for bed. I turned to pick up my notes.
    She was standing behind me, a sparrow waiting soundlessly on a branch. I almost jumped back.
    “Thanks for coming,” I said, a little too enthusiastically.
    Her eyes were two calm pools. She smiled demurely and held out her hand. “I’m Nina Hwan.”
    Her hand felt surprisingly strong. “Are you a new parent?” I inquired.
    She nodded. “My son’s in first grade. Mrs. Stinson’s class.”
    “She’s a good teacher. Is your husband at the university?”
    “We both are. I’m a Ph.D. student in archeology.”
    It was a stupid, sexist slight. “Welcome to Fremont,” I said, trying to cover my faux pas . “Let me know if you need anything.”
    Her expression never changed from one of deep curiosity. “I’m wondering, may I ask you something?”
    “Sure.” I was expecting an inquiry about teachers, classes, or the PTA. Instead, she looked down.
    “The design on your ankle. Where did you get it?”
    My eyes followed hers. The tattoo that had drawn her attention had faded over the course of more than twenty years and I rarely gave it a thought. At its center was what some people assumed was a moon, with two sloped lines above it like a roof. Two more lines of different thicknesses, one to the right, one underneath, completed the image. The lines looked vaguely Chinese or Japanese, but I’d never been able to ascertain if they meant something. “A tattoo parlor in Boston, where I went to college,” I said.
    “That’s where you saw it?”
    “No, I…” I hesitated. I usually explained to the curious that it was an abstract symbol I had made up, but something in her demeanor told me she wouldn’t buy that. I had never told anyone the full truth, not even my husband. “I don’t remember where I saw it. It was a long time ago.”
    “Do you mind?” she asked. Without waiting for a reply, she knelt at my feet to get a closer look. I glanced around. One of the mothers I was talking to was still there, pretending to be engrossed in a flyer for Family Math Night. “It’s very unusual,” she said. She reached out an index finger as if to touch it, but she refrained, letting her fingertip hover an inch from my skin. “Are you sure you can’t remember anything about it?”
    “Sorry, no. Does it mean something to you?”
    She rose again, her cool eyes meeting mine. “It’s remarkably similar to a symbol at an archeological site where I was working this summer.”
    “Really?” I said. “Where