Free You Are Not Here by Samantha Schutz Page A

guy
    who nods in my direction.
    “Lou’s usually on the ovens with me.
    Come on, I’ll introduce you
    to the cooks in back.”
    Ethan leads me into the back
    and through old saloon-type doors.
    “Mike, Frank, Jimmy,
    this is Annaleah.
    She’s the new waitress.”
    They all smile and wave at me
    from behind columns of steam
    and piles of chopped vegetables.
    I push out a smile
    and wave back.
    Smiling is new.
    For the last few weeks,
    none of the muscles in my face
    have been put to much use.
    No smiles.
    No frowns.
    No eyebrows raised.
    No wrinkled brow.
    No nothing.
    It all hung there
    on the bone—
    motionless.
    Ethan grabs a menu
    and we sit down in one of the booths.
    “If someone orders
    pizza or calzones and stuff like that,
    let us know up front.
    If it’s kitchen stuff
    like salad, meat, and pasta,
    let the guys know in the back.”
    Ethan points to the menu and says,
    “If someone orders from this side of the menu,
    they get a salad to start
    and steamed vegetable of the day.”
    He goes on to list
    more dressings than I can remember at once,
    to explain how each booth has a number,
    and that as soon as someone sits down,
    I should give them a breadbasket
    and take their drink orders.
    “You getting all this?” he asks.
    “Yeah,” I say as I try to repeat
    all those dressings in my head.
    “Ribbit.”
    “Excuse me?” I ask, totally confused.
    “R-I-B-B-T.
    Ranch, Italian, blue cheese, balsamic, thousand island.
    It’ll help you remember.”
    “Pretty clever, thanks.”
    “No problem.
    So, if it’s quiet, you can refill
    the salt, pepper, and sugar.
    You can also make napkin wraps
    or just hang out with me and Lou.
    All right, Annaleah,
    that’s pretty much the end of your tutorial.”
    As Ethan walks back up front,
    he looks over his shoulder and says,
    “If you need anything,
    I’m here.”

The answer to the question
    of how many slices of pizza
    it takes to make me feel really sick:
    three and a half.

I am sweeping
    bits of crust, straws,
    gum wrappers,
    and shredded napkins
    into piles,
    into a dustpan,
    and into the garbage can.
    I want to do the same
    with my feelings.
    I want to sweep them together
    into neat piles,
    then toss them out.
    I want them
    away from me.

I sit with Brian and tell him about work.
    “At Renzo’s, I’m just a waitress.
    I’m not the girl
    whose quasi-boyfriend died.
    To Ethan,
    to Lou,
    to the customers,
    I’m just a regular girl.
    No one asks questions like:
    Are you okay?
    Why don’t you call me back?
    How do you feel?
    Did you eat today?
    Did you sleep last night?
    The only questions I get are:
    Can I get some more bread?
    Do you have root beer?
    Does this have anchovies?
    But when I leave work,
    I go back to being me.
    To being sad.
    To visiting you.”

I’m wiping down table six
    when I turn around and see Marissa
    and Jessica Bennett giving Ethan
    their order at the front counter.
    This is the first time I’ve seen Marissa
    since she stormed out of my house.
    “What are you doing here?”
    she asks, walking toward me.
    “I started working here a few days ago.”
    “Oh,” she says.
    She looks wounded
    that I didn’t tell her earlier.
    “It happened kind of quick.”
    “Well…how are you?”
    “Okay, I guess.
    I needed to get out of the house,
    you know.”
    But maybe that isn’t the right thing to say.
    Marissa’s been trying to get me
    out of the house since Brian died,
    and I haven’t been willing.
    Marissa looks back toward the counter.
    “So…Jess is waiting.
    I should—”
    “Yeah.
    I’ve gotta get back to work.”
    But that’s not true.
    It’s quiet enough that I could talk to her.
    If I wanted to.
    If she wanted to.
    If it weren’t so weird.
    While Marissa and Jessica
    wait up front for their orders,
    I check on my tables,
    refill some waters,
    get someone a straw.
    Marissa is only a few yards away,
    but she’s never felt so far.

Seeing Marissa’s shock
    makes me think I should
    tell Parker and Joy
    about getting a