After College

Smoothie

I'm waiting at the arrivals section of the airport for Aurora. Nanette had emailed me to tell me that Aurora was living in the city that I was being relocated to for work and suggested that Aurora could give me a ride. My first thought was can she drive? Nanette assured me that Aurora would be a good driver. She always followed rules. Indeed, Aurora was the type that would never jay walk, never cheat on a test despite knowing that she would never be caught, and never I'm scanning the area back and forth, yet my sleeve keeps getting tugged by Isabelle Rousseau, my seven-year-old niece. Usually, she can trick anyone with her clear blue doe-like eyes and light, curly blonde hair, but I've raised her for three years now so I know exactly what she is like.

"Isabelle, be good now," I tell her.

I ignore her tugs while continuing to look for Aurora's car. She said she'd be here in ten minutes, but twenty minutes have already passed. I haven't gotten a cell phone here, so it's not very convenient to call. I'm too bothered to ask a stranger to borrow his or her phone. Hopefully, Aurora will arrive soon.

"But Papa, I just saw someone with balloons!" Isabelle exclaims.

I glance down at her and propose, "Isabelle, can you look for a silver Toyota car for me?" There's no point in telling her the car model. She only cares about a few things in life: Disney princesses, ponies, cupcakes, and clothes.

"They're all silver, Papa!" she groans.

Sometimes, I wonder why I even agreed to be a father at this age, and I constantly have to remind her, "Isabelle, I'm not your Papa. I'm Uncle Etienne."

"No!" She stomps her foot and screams. "You're my Papa."

An old lady passing by all of a sudden comments, "Your daughter is adorable. You're so lucky to have her."

I wasn't even supposed to have her. My older sister, Evelyn, was Isabelle's mother. Isabelle's father was Evelyn's partner, Vincent Rousseau. Evelyn passed away tragically one year after I graduated from college. At that time, Isabelle was only four years old. Evelyn didn't die in a car accident nor did she die due to an incurable disease. Vincent had stabbed her thirty-three times; she had actually suffered years of abuse yet never told my father, my mother, or me of her situation. She probably didn't want us to worry. I should have known what was going on when Evelyn always wore long-sleeved shirts and long pants or skirts. Sometimes, she would have a black eye or a swollen face, but she would quickly explain that she had fallen down the stairs or accidentally tripped. Isabelle, too, sometimes had odd scars on her body that I later realized were cigarette burns.

When the police found Isabelle, she was covered all in blood and apparently she kept calling for Mommy and trying to wake Evelyn up. Her father, on the other hand, had allegedly committed suicide. My parents were too traumatized to adopt Isabelle. After all, she looked exactly like Evelyn. Seeing a constant reminder of their deceased daughter was too much for my parents to handle. I didn't have the heart to give Isabelle up for adoption, so I decided to raise her as my own, except I didn't want her to see me as her father. That would mean that my sister's presence had completely disappeared. I wanted Isabelle to remember her mother at least, yet Isabelle never talked about Evelyn or her father. She seemed to pretend that none of this had ever happened, that it was some bad nightmare, and that I was actually her real father.

The world, however, did not forget about Evelyn. She had turned into a symbol of battered women. Her story had sparked the activists' interests and they used her life to further their cause. Whenever I went out with Isabelle, people would recognize her. They would approach me to confirm, "That's Evelyn's daughter, isn't it?"

I used to say yes, but after saying that, they would start questioning me. Who was I? What relationship did I have with Isabelle? If I were Evelyn's brother, then why hadn't I stopped the abuse? How could I have not seen the signs? Occasionally, I would have some women hit me and reprimand me for not standing up for my own sister. I'd let them hit me. I probably deserved it. Really, I should have known.