Outnumbered. Mandi Eizenbaum

      1

      “Señor, señor, what’s the matter with you?” the pear-shaped waitress asked. Her whole face puckered like she was sucking on a sour lemon. The young woman dug her long, red fingernails into my shoulder and shook me hard. “It looks like you saw a ghost! Are you okay, señor?” she repeated.

      It wasn’t the first time someone said that to me. The ghost of my late father truly did follow me everywhere. I never met the man, but his words were as aware and persistent as if he were right by my side, lurking in my head and casting a protective shadow over me. But all the secrets, the silences, the numbers, the haunting echoes—it was all too much now. The latest emptiness and grief were only making my anxiety worse. Much worse.

      The panic-stricken screech from the waitress broke me out of my trance. Instinctively, my left hand fluttered to the gold chain around my neck, and my right hand fumbled with my pocket where I carried the faded, crinkled photograph of my father. Squirming out of the waitress’s clutch and shifting my weight in my seat, I shrugged my shoulders and leaned forward over the table.

      “Yes, I’m fine. Can you just bring me a glass of water?” I stammered. A heavy tear escaped the corner of my eye as the jittery waitress hurried away.

      “And where is Gabby?” I exhaled. I crossed my arms over my chest and scrutinized the wasted minutes ticking away on my watch.

      My daughter, Gabby, was a spitting image of her mother in so many ways. They were both constantly running late. It’s a funny thing about time. When you’re young and live in the day, time seems to go on and on for eternity. But when you’re older and try to appreciate each precious moment of life, time seems to be fleeting and provisional.

      I grabbed the crusty sugar bowl from the center of the table and fidgeted with the sugar packets that were randomly crammed in.

      A familiar voice began humming in my ears, Claire’s tone-deaf melody chastising my incurable impatience. After forty-one years of marriage, her words still clung to me like the Caribbean sun hangs onto the horizon at dusk. “Don’t count the minutes, Max. Make the minutes count.” Her words of infinite wisdom swirled in my mind for what seemed like hours, until my attention finally drifted back to the sugar packets in my trembling hands.

      “Oh, my sweet Claire! How