1
Callie
“Isimply don’t understand how you could possibly be too exhausted to come over for dinner tonight.” The sigh my mother manages to physically push through the phone would make any bridezilla proud. “You know we only have these twice a month since all your siblings stay so busy with their work. Though, heaven knows I’d prefer my babies in my home every week. And anyway—Calloway Leora Rutherford, are you listening to me?”
The sound of my name pulls me back to the conversation. “Of course I am," I answer absently. Meanwhile, a student’s still-wet finger painting lifts off the stack of papers in my hand thanks to the chilly winter breeze. Right onto my favorite sweater. Why I didn’t leave grading our class’ craft for tomorrow is beyond me. Especially knowing there’s a family dinner tonight.
“Then what did I just say?”
“Uh … ” Reaching my car, I perform a juggling act of monumental proportion in order to unlock the door and holdthe offending painting in place whilst managing not to drop any of the other artwork, all while continuing to listen to my mother complain about how I’m just a glorified babysitter. Only when I’m safely inside the vehicle do I find myself able to answer, “You want us all to be together.”
A dissatisfied humph comes through the line. “It’s not easy to plan dinners with everyone else’s busy schedules, Calloway. You could be a little more grateful they’re willing to take time out of their busy weeknights to get together.”
My engine roars to life, effectively cutting off my mother’s spiel. Heat filters through the vents, thawing my fingers that managed to become popsicles in the short walk from the school to my car. Tugging my favorite wool scarf tighter around me, I once again wish I had worn my hair down today for whatever warmth it could have provided.
“Calloway.” The chill in my mother’s voice rivals the frigid Colorado afternoon.
“Mom, I promised I would be there. And I will,” I sigh. Shifting slightly, I’m able to carefully lay the stack of pictures down onto the passenger seat. “Give me an hour. I need to run home and change first.”
“I guess that’s fine. Your siblings are all coming straight from work. It’s very considerate of you, not wanting to show up in pajamas.”
I did that one time. Once. And I came straight from pilates.But of course, that’s what she remembers. Pressing my lips into a firm line, I count to three and take a deep breath. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll see you soon.” Without giving her a chance to respond, I end the call and haphazardly toss my phone into the cupholder filled with hair ties and bobby pins.
A quick glance around the parking lot shows that nearly everyone else has headed home to people that actually enjoy their company.
So I decide to do the same.
One of the main reasons I chose my apartment was its proximity to the elementary school. Well, that and its price. As a single woman living alone, those were two factors I simply couldn’t pass up on. Not to mention, I knew the vintage exposed brick would compliment my plethora of plants perfectly.
And Gilmore, of course. My perfect Nidularium Bromeliad child I’ve had since college. My pride and joy. My raison d’etre. The day my life changed, I was walking around the hardware store when boom—there he was. This tiny plant with dark magenta kissing the tips of each inner leaf sitting all alone on the top of a display tower, the grow light acting as a halo. The fluorescence gave his uniquely colored tips a warm glow, calling to me. When I read ‘Easy Maintenance and Hard to Kill’ on the tag, I knew he was the plant for me.
I’m allergic to cats and I’ve never been brave enough to get a dog, so that was the beginning of the plant lady madness. Since then, I’ve rescued bulbs, sprouts and seedlings alike.
No Plant Left Behind—my own personal agenda.
My best friends, Ian and Aaron, only add to the madness, having gifted me a new plant baby every birthday and Christmas since Gilmore came home.
The drive home is short and warm, just the way I like it in the freezing winters. And when I step out of the cozy vehicle, a sheet of snow smacks me square in the face.
I need hot cocoa, stat.
“Hi, Mrs. Martinez,” I call over, waving enthusiastically. Though my coat hinders my waving ability more than I’d like.
My elderly neighbor turns as she reaches her door, a stack of mail in hand. “Are you just now getting home, Callie?” Dark skin and salty curls highlight every snowflake that uses her as a landing zone, but her pink fleece robe and matching boots dare the snow to outshine this woman’s sweet nature.
“Parent/Teacher conference night,” I shrug. “But I’m heading out soon. Need anything from the store? I’m almost out of hot chocolate, which is dangerous for everyone.”
“Just to the store?”
“Well … it’ll be on the way.”
“Family dinner?”Okay, my schedule has been way too predictable lately, apparently.The tiny, shrewd woman raises a nearly invisible brow. My lack of response must be more than enough to answer her question. Or my grimace. “They’ll see your worth one day, dear. Don’t worry.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, matching my hair. “You really need to get out of this cold, Mrs. Martinez.” Unlocking my front door and stepping inside, I drop a canvas tote I’ve used since college right to the side of it.
“I have some fresh chicken tamales for you,” she says, half inside her own apartment. “I’ll leave them in your mailbox.” Raised in a traditional Mexican home, she learned plenty at a young age. Namely, how to cook. I’ve easily gained ten pounds since moving in next door.
Beaming through the light snowfall, I shake my head. “You’re the best.”
