Free Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1) by Alex A. King Page A

begs for forgiveness.
    That’s the Eleni protocol.
    Right now, in this moment, Vivi feels every day of a million years old.
    “Yeah, I’m okay,” she says.
    “Are you sure about this?” her father asks. His forehead is wearing more creases than usual, probably from the constant pressure of Mom’s thumb.
    “It's already done. All Mel and I have to do is get on the plane.”
    There’s a scuffle in the hallway. Eleni runs back into the kitchen, Vivi’s handbag in her fists.
    “You want to go to Greece, eh? I do not think so!”
    She upends the lot on the kitchen floor. Lipstick bouncing, tampons rolling, receipts fluttering to the floor. She moves fast, pouncing on the floppy plastic ticket holder, yanks them from their protective coating.
    “You want to go to Greece? How will you do that without tickets?”
    She makes confetti. Sprinkles some, crams the rest into her mouth.
    “I can print new ones,” Vivi says. “It’s all electronic, anyway.”
    Eleni raises both hands (chewing, chewing), makes them shiver in the air, as though she’s at one of those Holy Roller services.
    “The spirits . . . they are saying you should not go! Bad things will happen if you do!”
    “She always says that when it's convenient,” Chris says, in a stage whisper.
    “Trust my words,” Eleni says. “If you go to Greece you will regret it. There is nothing for you there except unhappiness.”
    So, just like here, then?
----
    T hings have changed . In the old days Eleni said no to night-lights. “Why we want to pay for light we don’t see, eh?” Now there’s a tiny LED nightlight in every room that isn’t a bedroom. The hallway reminds her of an airport’s landing strip, with its white-blue glow.
    It’s Eleni’s way of acknowledging the passing of the years. Vivi’s parents are not as young as they used to be, nor are they as old as they will be soon.
    Vivi goes to the kitchen, raids the galaktobouriko Eleni didn’t bake.
    “Cut me a piece, too, eh?” Elias says, from the doorway.
    “Can’t sleep, Dad?”
    “The older your mother gets, the more she talks in her sleep. Tonight she is having a conversation with a shoe.”
    “What kind of shoe?”
    “An old shoe.”
    Two plates, two forks, two desserts. Two silent eaters.
    When his plate is clean, her father says, “Your mother is upset with you, but she will get over it. Like she did with the Friday underwear – remember?”
    Like Vivi could forget. Eleni swore she would kill Vivi, but that didn’t work out. Vivi wound up with a mouthful of pepper, and seven years of dishwashing. One year for each pair.
    Elias leans back in his chair, pats his belly. “When you go to Greece, maybe people will tell you some stories, eh? About me, about your mother.”
    “What kind of stories?”
    “It has been so long . . . Who knows what the stories will be now. Time changes the shape of a story. Enough time passes and only the original idea is the same as it was. Everything else becomes different. The truth is no longer true, the names change. You will see. Fifty years from now, you will look at this time and you will not recognize the character of Vivi as yourself.”
    Okay . . .
    “Don’t believe everything you hear, eh? When somebody gossips, they are not doing you a favor by giving you information. They are trying to elevate their position, to seem more important than they are. And they are trying to extract information from you, also. Remember that.”
    “Does this have anything to do with that box, Dad?”
    “What box?” he says. “There was no box.”
----
    Y eah , right. No box.
    But that’s okay. It’s not her business.
    Elias and Eleni Pappas are not John and Vivi Tyler. Their marriage is a rock.

15

Melissa
    M elissa is making progress of the backwards kind.
    Regress?
    If anyone pointed that out to her, she’d say, “Whatever,” and keep on cutting.
    Nobody her age wears a watch anymore. They’ve all got phones to give them life’s Cliff’s Notes.