A tall, model-like redhead attends the makeup counter, the Asian brand makeups high up on glass shelves behind her. She is very pretty and must be new—we haven’t seen her before—and Mom instinctively clutches my arm and slows herself. She often did this before Oregon, whenever she saw a salesclerk she did not know, especially people who seemed fake or unfriendly or unusually attractive: people who she thought might look down on her accent. But today she immediately lets go of me. This girl wears a white doctor’s coat, though she has pushed the sleeves above her knobby elbows, and as she moves around her skirt looks stylish without having cost much.

In the past, my mother might have pretended to look around the aisles, though I knew she was really getting ready to go up and talk to the salespeople, and when the time came she would look towards me in a way that indicated I was to come over, in case she needed help. She did not mind embarrassing me, because that went with the non-complaining territory of a dutiful Filipino son, even though I always reminded her I was American by complaining. Today I would not have complained, but she starts towards the counter without sending me the usual glance. As she nears, the cosmetics girl begins chatting across the aisle to a lady who works behind the pharmacy counter window.

My mother stands before the makeup counter, waiting. At this point you would expect the girl to turn away from her friend towards Mom, the customer, but she does not. The way my mother leans over the glass it is obvious she expects the girl to attend to her right away. But the girl continues talking, and not about an order or a work-type responsibility, but a date she had last night. Mom leans off the counter, checking to see if anyone has noticed her being ignored.

I remember the time at Fedco when the perfume salespeople passed her number and she got so upset. That day Tomas comforted her with a hand on her shoulder, and he took her crumpled number up to the counter so she could buy a perfume. But Tomas is not here today and it has fallen on me to help her. I approach. She glances up, but seeing it is me, she peers down through the glass again, as if deep in concentration.

I take a breath and pass her, reaching that part of the counter between the girl and her pharmacist friend.

Excuse me, I say.

The girl does not hear. The pharmacist notices me, but she gets distracted by some question the girl makes about her date that seems to require her attention, and returns to her conversation.

I call to the girl again.