For months, people assumed Alyssa was just “the help.” But as she started attending Sunday dinners, driving Mom to church, and sitting in the family pew, the whispers started.
It came to a head in the produce aisle of the Piggly Wiggly.
I was inspecting cantaloupes. Alyssa was a few feet away, debating between kale and spinach for Mom’s smoothies.Mrs. Higgins cornered me. Mrs. Higgins is the town’s unofficial historian and chief gossip. She’s seventy, dyes her hair a color that doesn’t exist in nature, and wields politeness like a shiv.
“Margaret,” she crooned, parking her cart to block my exit. “Good to see you. How is your mother?”
“She’s doing well, Brenda. Getting stronger every day.”
“And I see you still have that… girl helping her.” She gestured vaguely toward Alyssa. “She’s very dedicated. I saw her driving your mother’s Buick yesterday. Isn’t that against agency policy?”“She’s not with an agency anymore,” I said, turning back to the melons.
“Oh? Private hire? That can be risky, dear. You don’t know who these people are. Where they come from.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard she has no family in the area. A drifter.”
I felt the heat rise up my neck. I looked over at Alyssa. She had frozen, a bunch of kale in her hand. She had heard. Of course she had heard. She was bracing herself, waiting for me to make an excuse, to distance myself, to say, “Yes, good help is hard to find.”
I dropped the cantaloupe into my cart. It made a loud thud.
“Actually, Brenda,” I said, my voice projecting loud enough for the stock boy to hear. “She’s not a drifter. She’s my sister.”
