The nail salon sat between a check-cashing place and a shop that sold phone cards. Tuesday morning, ten o'clock. Mrs. Kowalski would be here soon.
Linh arranged the bottles of polish by color. Red to pink to coral. The chemical smell didn't bother her anymore. Hadn't for years. Tommy was late again, but that was Tommy. The old woman liked it when just Linh did her nails anyway.
Outside, the parking lot baked in the September heat. A man pushed a shopping cart full of cans past the window. The radio played something soft, forgettable.
Mrs. Kowalski came through the door at 10:15, same as always. Her white hair was set in careful curls. She wore the blue dress with small flowers.
"Morning, Mrs. K," Linh said.
"Don't call me that. Makes me sound like a breakfast cereal." But she was smiling. She always said this.
Linh had the water ready, not too hot. She helped Mrs. Kowalski into the chair, watched her settle with a small sigh. The old woman's hands shook a little as she placed them in the bowl.
"How's your week?" Linh asked.
"Oh, you know. The same. I watched my programs. Made pierogis on Sunday, but they weren't right. The dough was tough."
Linh dried Mrs. Kowalski's hands with care. The skin was thin, spotted. She filed the nails down short, the way the old woman liked.
"You should come over," Mrs. Kowalski said. "I'll teach you to make them properly. My mother's recipe."
"Maybe sometime," Linh said. She'd been saying this for two years.
Tommy burst through the door then, twenty minutes late, iced coffee in hand. "Sorry, sorry. Traffic was murder." There was never traffic in Sacramento at ten in the morning.
Mrs. Kowalski looked at him, then back at Linh. "That one's always running around like his hair's on fire."
Linh smiled, kept filing. The old woman's Polish accent made certain words sound round, full.
"What color today?" Linh asked, though she knew.
"The pink. Not the bright one. The quiet one."
Ballet Slipper. Number 162. Linh had done these same nails in this same color fifty times, maybe more.
They didn't talk much while Linh painted. Mrs. Kowalski watched her work, occasionally commenting on the weather, the price of groceries. Small things. Safe things. When Linh finished, she turned on the small fan to dry the polish.
"My son called yesterday," Mrs. Kowalski said. "From Chicago."
"That's good."
"He wants me to move there. Says I'm too old to live alone."
Linh looked up. "You gonna go?"
"Do I look like I want to freeze to death?" But something crossed the old woman's face. Fear, maybe. Or just tiredness.
When the polish was dry, Mrs. Kowalski paid, same as always. Exact change from her small leather purse. She tipped three dollars, same as always.
"See you next week," Linh said.
"God willing."
The next Tuesday, Mrs. Kowalski didn't come. Linh waited until eleven, then called the number in the appointment book. No answer. Tommy said maybe she was sick. Old people got sick.
The Tuesday after that, she didn't come either.
"You should forget about it," Tommy said. "People disappear all the time. Maybe she moved to Chicago after all."
But Linh knew she hadn't. The way she'd looked when she talked about her son. The way she held onto the chair when she stood up, like she was already falling.
On the third Tuesday, Linh walked to Mrs. Kowalski's apartment building during her lunch break. It was only four blocks, but the heat made it feel longer. The building was old, stucco peeling, palm trees out front that looked tired.
The manager, a heavy man in a tank top, said Mrs. Kowalski had been taken to Sunnyside Manor two weeks ago. "Her son finally came out. Found her wandering in the parking lot at three in the morning. Didn't know where she was."
Linh nodded, thanked him. Walked back to the salon in the heat.
That night, after work, she looked up Sunnyside Manor on her phone. A memory care facility. The website had pictures of smiling old people doing crafts, eating in a bright dining room. Everything very clean, very cheerful.
She went on Saturday, her day off. Brought nail polish in her purse. Ballet Slipper, number 162.
The place smelled like disinfectant and cafeteria food. A woman at the desk had Linh sign in, gave her a visitor's badge.
"Room 247," the woman said. "Down the hall, make a left."
The hallways were long, beige. Television sounds came from various rooms. Someone was crying somewhere, but softly, like they didn't want to be heard.
Mrs. Kowalski was sitting in a chair by the window. She wore a hospital gown. Her hair wasn't set. She looked smaller.
"Mrs. K?" Linh said from the doorway.
The old woman turned. Her eyes were cloudy, unfocused. "Yes?"
"It's me. Linh. From the nail salon."
Mrs. Kowalski stared. Nothing.
"I brought polish," Linh said, pulling it from her purse. "The pink one. The quiet one."
"I don't... I'm sorry. Do I know you?"
Linh stood there holding the small bottle. Behind Mrs. Kowalski, through the window, she could see a parking lot. Just like the one at the strip mall, but different cars.
"Can I do your nails?" Linh asked finally.
Mrs. Kowalski looked at her hands as if seeing them for the first time. "I suppose. If you want."
Linh pulled a chair close. There was no bowl of warm water, no proper table. She did the best she could, filing carefully, painting with steady strokes. Mrs. Kowalski watched but said nothing. When Linh finished, she blew gently on the nails to dry them.
"Pretty," Mrs. Kowalski said. "Pink is nice."
"Yes," Linh said. "It is."
A nurse came in then, said it was time for lunch. Helped Mrs. Kowalski stand. The old woman shuffled toward the door, then turned back.
"Are you my daughter?" she asked Linh.
"No," Linh said. "Just a friend."
Mrs. Kowalski nodded, as if this made perfect sense, and left.
Linh sat in the empty room for a moment. Then she put the polish back in her purse and walked out.
She came back the next Saturday. And the one after that. Sometimes Mrs. Kowalski was lucid, would talk about Poland, about her husband who'd been dead twenty years. Sometimes she thought Linh was someone else—her sister, a neighbor from childhood. Sometimes she just sat quietly while Linh did her nails.
Tommy asked her once why she kept going.
"She got nobody else coming," Linh said.
"That's not your problem."
Linh didn't know how to explain that it was. That sitting in that beige room, painting those thin nails, was the only time all week she didn't feel like she was floating. Like she was tethered to something, even if that something was falling apart.
One Saturday in November, Mrs. Kowalski grabbed Linh's hand while she was filing.
"I'm scared," she said.
"I know," Linh said.
"I don't know where I am."
"You're safe. You're okay."
Mrs. Kowalski's grip was surprisingly strong. "Don't leave."
"I won't."
And she didn't. She stayed until the old woman fell asleep, her newly painted nails catching the last of the afternoon light. Ballet Slipper, number 162. The quiet pink.
On the drive home, Linh stopped at the Vietnamese grocery on Stockton. Bought rice, fish sauce, the good instant noodles. The woman at the register said something in Vietnamese, but Linh just nodded, smiled. Her Vietnamese was getting rusty. Twelve years in America did that.
At home, her apartment was quiet. One bedroom, small kitchen, a television she rarely turned on. She made dinner, ate standing at the counter. Thought about calling her sister in Vietnam but didn't. The time difference, the cost. Always reasons not to.
She thought about Mrs. Kowalski in that beige room. Thought about her son in Chicago who'd finally come, but too late. Thought about pierogis she'd never learned to make.
The next Saturday, Mrs. Kowalski wasn't in her room. The nurse said she'd had a fall, was in the medical wing. Couldn't have visitors.
"Is she okay?" Linh asked.
The nurse's face did that thing medical people's faces do. Careful, revealing nothing. "She's resting comfortably."
Linh left the nail polish at the nurses' station. Ballet Slipper, number 162. Asked them to give it to her when she was better.
Two weeks later, the call came while Linh was at work. Tommy answered the salon phone, held it out to her with a strange look.
Mrs. Kowalski had passed in her sleep. The funeral was Thursday. Her son had asked the facility to notify anyone who'd been visiting.
Linh went to the funeral. Sat in the back of the church. Maybe fifteen people there. The son gave a short speech about his mother's strength, her journey from Poland, her forty years working at the phone company. Things Linh hadn't known.
After, the son approached her. Tall, gray suit, tired eyes.
"You're the nail lady," he said. "The nurses told me. Thank you for visiting her."
Linh nodded. Didn't trust herself to speak.
"She mentioned you," he said. "Before. When she was still... herself. Said you were kind."
"She was kind too," Linh said.
The son looked like he wanted to say more but didn't. Shook her hand, moved on to the next person.
Linh went back to work. Tuesday came and went. Ten o'clock, 10:15. The chair stayed empty. Tommy didn't say anything about it. Just worked on his clients, music playing softly.
A month later, a young woman came in. Wanted a full set, gel tips. Sat in Mrs. Kowalski's chair. Talked the whole time about her boyfriend, her job at the bank, her plans to go to Cabo for vacation.
"What color?" Linh asked when she was ready to paint.
"Something bright," the woman said. "Red, maybe. Or orange. Something that pops."
Linh reached for the red. Fire Engine, number 230. As she painted, she thought about Mrs. Kowalski's hands. The way they'd shaken slightly. The thin skin, the careful way she'd placed them in the warm water.
"You okay?" the young woman asked. "You seem sad."
"I'm fine," Linh said. "Just tired."
The woman nodded, went back to scrolling on her phone.
When she was done, the woman paid with a credit card, tipped well. Said she'd be back in two weeks.
After she left, Linh straightened the bottles of polish. Found Ballet Slipper, number 162, in the back. The bottle was almost empty. She'd need to order more, but something stopped her. She held it up to the light. The color was exactly as it had always been. Quiet. Pink. Perfect for old hands that had done their work, that deserved something soft.
She put it in her purse. Took it home that night and set it on her dresser. A small thing. A nothing thing. But when she looked at it in the morning light, she remembered. The Tuesday appointments. The careful curls. The blue dress with small flowers. The way Mrs. Kowalski had held her hand that last real time, scared but trusting.
"Don't leave," she'd said.
"I won't," Linh had promised.
And she hadn't. Even now, even after, she hadn't really left. Part of her was still in that beige room, painting nails by the window, tethered to something that mattered, even if she couldn't say exactly what or why.
The next Tuesday, an old man came in at ten o'clock. Wanted his nails trimmed, cleaned. His wife had died six months ago, he said. She used to do this for him. He didn't know how.
Linh set up the bowl of warm water. Not too hot. Helped him settle into the chair.
"Take your time," she said. "We're not in any hurry."
He nodded, placed his hands in the water. They shook a little, but that was okay. Linh knew how to be careful. How to be patient. How to make something small feel like something more.
Outside, the parking lot baked in the morning sun. The radio played something soft. Tommy was late, but he'd be here soon. And somewhere, in a place Linh didn't know how to imagine, Mrs. Kowalski's nails were perfect. The quiet pink. The one she'd always chosen. The one that said everything without saying anything at all.