by J. P. Grider
"No. I don't want to start that. You've missed the past two years to help out the family. I don't want you..."
"Mom," I cut her off. "I can make up the work. Class assignments are posted online, and I can email the professors. It's not a big deal."
"Really, baby? You don't mind? We really can't afford..."
"Mom. Go get ready. It's fine."
"But what about your job? I...I...really shouldn't take off from Donavon's either."
"I'll call work. I'll explain things and tell them I may be out a couple days. It's fine, Ma. Really."
"You can't afford it either though. Your paycheck will be..."
"I'll work extra hours next week. There are days I get out of school early, I'll just make it up. Really, Mom. Please. Just go. You're wasting minutes."
Standing up and kissing my sleeping father on the forehead, my mother sighs. "I'm so sorry, Calista." She walks over to me and gives me the tightest hug she can muster - which isn't very tight at all.
"I love you, Mom."
"Love you too, dear."
Since the day's plans do not include leaving the house, I toss the outfit I was holding back into my drawer. I take Mom's old portable record player out of the bottom of my closet and grab a few of her old records. The album Dad gave her on their seventh wedding anniversary is on top - Lynyrd Skynyrd (Pronounced Leh-nerd Skin-nerd) the expanded version. “Free Bird” is the first song I put on. When I sit on my bed and open my laptop, I look over at the dead plant in my window. My shoulders sink. My pet plant that Mom bought me, because I wanted something to love. Of course we couldn't afford a puppy or a kitten. I was a fucking adult, I shouldn't have even asked. But when Mom came home with this...this plant, I hated her. In that moment, I literally hated her for buying me a fucking plant as a pet. In her mind, she probably thought it was a cute idea, but to an ungrateful eighteen year old, it was anything but cute.
Forcing my attention away from the dead plant, I pull up the college website and email my professors. About thirty minutes later, “Free Bird”, the live version, resounds through my room just as I get a buzz on my cell phone.
What happened? Are you okay?
A text from Griffin.
Yeah, I'm okay. Millicent's sick. Mom had to go to work. Have to watch Dad. :(
:( Miss you, Calista.
Miss you too, Griffin.
My heart beats happy and sad at the same time. Happy - because Griffin misses me, and he must have really meant it, because he called me Calista. Sad - because I miss him and would rather be in his company right now than sitting in my bedroom. Just as the record player needle lifts up and resets to the beginning of the album, I hear my dad coughing.
"Dad?" I ask, rushing in to see him. "You okay?"
His cough not letting up, he nods. He nods that he is okay, even though he can't catch a breath.
Yanking a few tissues from his side table, I put them in his hand and lift his arm so he can wipe the drool from his own mouth. Then I slide my arm behind his pillow and lift his head up to open his airways. The coughing stops. "Better, Dad?"
He nods again, too exhausted from coughing to use words.
"Let me take that," I say of the tissue that's still in his hand after he plops his arm back down on the mattress.
"Thanks...Cal..." he says, struggling to speak.
"How 'bout some oatmeal? Maple Brown Sugar?"
"Per...fect."
After turning on the kettle, I run into my room to turn off the record player. My phone is buzzing on my bed. It's Griffin.
"Hi, Griffin." I say into the phone while running back to the kitchen to grab a packet of oatmeal.
"Calista. Are you all right?" he asks, serious and concerned.
"Yes," I say smiling, even though he can't see me. "I told you. I just have to stay with my dad today. Millicent's sick."
Silence follows.
"Griffin? You there?"
"Yeah. Just thinking. Can I see you later?"
I plunk down on the kitchen chair. I'd love to see him later, but since Dad doesn't know him, he wouldn't be comfortable meeting someone new in his condition.
"Cali? Can I see you later?" Griffin repeats.
"Griffin. My father. I don't think..."
"You're watching your father tonight too?"
"Yeah. Mom's got her second job too."
Again, Griffin falls silent.
Since I don't know what else to say, I keep the lull going.
Until Griffin finally breaks it. "Will you be in school tomorrow?"
"Not if Millicent's still sick. Taking off work too," I say, suddenly uncomfortable.
Griffin clears his throat. "Cali?"
"Yeah?"
"You amaze me."
Shaking my head, I snicker. "Where'd that come from?"
"Calista. I'm serious. You don't know how special you are, do you?"
"Griffin, stop." Like Griffin usually can, he stirs up those butterflies in my stomach.
"Am I making you blush, California?"
"You can call me later, you know? I mean, just 'cause we can't see each other, we can talk." The tea kettle whistles, so holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I get up to pour the boiling water into the oatmeal.
"Definitely," he says. "I'm going to the garage after school, so I'll give you a call when I'm done."
"Good," I say, stirring milk into the oatmeal. "I better go, Griffin. I have to go feed my father. Talk to you later?"
"Oh, Calista," he whispers, his tone serious again. "We'll definitely talk later."
"Bye, Griffin."
"Bye, Calista."
Calista. He used my real name a lot in that one phone call. Why? At first I thought it was nice that he was calling me by my full name - it meant he was dead serious about what he was telling me. But why would he have used it at the end of our call? What was he so serious about?
With slinking shoulders, I walk into the living room and paste on a smile and prepare myself mentally for spoon-feeding my once robust father.
31
Griffin
I can't stop thinking about Calista. She's nineteen years old and has the weight of the world on her shoulders. At nineteen, she should be partying and having fun and shopping at the mall. Not feeding her sick father. I promised her I wouldn't feel sorry for her - I wouldn't pity her. But it hurts to realize the differences between Cali's life and mine. Where my life is easy and unburdened, Calista's life is encumbered with worry and stress and the threat of death. It isn't fair.
"Yo, Brooks. You alive?" Joey raps me on the back of the head.
"Fuck. What was that for?" I ask, rubbing the spot where he smacked me.
"You're like in a coma or something. Just kneeling on the floor staring at your car door."
I stand from my crouched position, tossing the masking tape aside.
"What's going on, man? Does it have something to do with that girl from the bank?"
Cocking my head, I say, "Joe. You have a problem with her, don't you?"
He shoots his eyebrows up. "I've never met her. But since the day you did, you haven't been the same."
I cock my head to the other side. "Know what, Joe? I'm not the same. You're right."
"So what are you gonna do about it? I mean you're taping up your car and you don't even have the paint yet. I think you're screwed, is what I think."
"I'm taping up my car to get the rust off. I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Yeah? Where's the car you're driving home then? Once you tape up the car, you can't drive it home."
Shit. He's right. I stand there dumbfounded. "I need to bang the dents out anyway."
"Bang your heart out," he says, handing me a dolly and a body hammer.
"Joe." Putting down the tools, I lean against my car door and stick my hands in my pockets. "Did you ever have anyone in your family die?"
"You mean like a great aunt or something?" Joe pours himself a cup of thick coffee and sits on his desk.
; "Like someone close to you."
"Like your birth father?"
"No, Joe. I didn't even know him. I mean like someone that you really care about."
Joe hops off the desk. "Griff? That girl died? Man, I'm sor..."
"Jesus, Joe. No. No, she's fine. Her dad is dying." Joey visibly relaxes and rests his butt against the desk. "I'm just wondering, like, what it feels like. You know, to have someone you love so much die." I have to pull my hands out of my pocket, because I have the sudden urge to rub the back of my neck.
"I don't know, man. I had an aunt die, like I said, but I wasn't all that close to her. My parents are still alive. So are both sets of grandparents, so... jeez that sucks, huh?"
I nod, thinking I'm speaking out loud, but I'm stuck in my thoughts.
"Griff. You falling in love with this girl?"
Staring at my best friend, I know the answer, but I'm afraid to say it out loud. How can I be in love after just one week? It doesn't make sense.
Getting any work done on my car is futile, because I can't concentrate anyway. So I pack up my stuff, say goodnight to Joe and go home. After grabbing two beers and a packet of hot fudge sundae Pop-Tarts from the kitchen, I head to my room, lock the door, and call Calista.
"Hey, beautiful," I say when she answers the phone.
"Hey, handsome," she responds, sounding happy to hear from me.
"How'd your day go?" With the bottle opener I keep in my nightstand next to the condoms, I pop open my beer.
"As good as it can, I guess."
"Dad not doing too well?" I ask, waiting for her to answer before taking a sip from the bottle. It just doesn't sit right with me to sip a beer after asking her that.
"Uh, well, no. He's barely able to talk anymore. Just kinda lays there." I put my beer down, unable to drink it. There's a weight on my heart that I have never experienced before. Have I been that disconnected with the world that no one has ever affected me the way that Calista does? Have I been that oblivious to human emotions?
"Oh, sweetheart. I'm so sorry."
"Griffin. Don't be sorry. It is what it is." Her voice hitches, but I know she's trying hard to hide her sorrow. She's too proud to let me hear her cry.
"Yeah. It is," I say, for lack of anything better to say.
"How was class this morning? Did I miss anything?"
"We worked in groups. There's a group presentation due in two weeks. You're in my group."
"Really? Did you request that or did he randomly pick it?" She's smiling, I can hear it. If smiles can be heard, that is.
"Well both actually. He put Tabitha, me, and some girl Fiona together and then proceeded to put the rest of the class in groups of three and four. So when he was done, I raised my hand and said since we only have three in our group, can we have you in our group. Since you were out today. He said yes."
I hear her sigh. A happy sigh, I think. "Oh good. What's the assignment on?"
"We have to simulate a television discussion panel. We come up with the topic. Kind of like that ladies' show. You know. The View?"
"Ah. Yeah. Sounds fun. Did we pick a topic?"
"Yeah. We decided to discuss if downloading music for free, without permission, is the moral equivalent to stealing."
"Nice. You think of that?"
"I did. You know me well."
"I'm starting to. So let me guess, I'm on your side of the debate."
"Ding. Ding. Ding. We got a winner." My heart is lighter, so I pick up my beer and take a sip.
"Okay. Now let me ask you this. Are you and I against downloading music without permission?"
I laugh, ripping open the foil Pop-Tarts packet. "You're on a roll, my dear."
She giggles. And it's a beautiful sound.
"We'll be working again in groups next Monday. This Thursday and Friday we're doing those other speeches."
"Yeah. Hopefully Millicent's back by then. I told Professor Anderson I'd let him know. He said he understands, but if I don't give my presentation by Friday, I have to take a zero on the assignment."
"Damn. That's a...wait...wait a minute. What if I do my presentation on Thursday, and then on Friday, I come watch your dad while you go to class? Will you let me do that for you?"
"You'd... you'd do that for me?" she says so softly I barely hear her.
"Of course," I say without hesitation. "Why wouldn't I? I lo... I'd love to help." I must be falling hard for her, because I swear I was just about to tell her I love her. But it's too soon. It's too fucking soon. I can't even be sure if that's what I'm really feeling. I've never been in fucking love before. I wish I could tell for sure.
32
Cali
"It took me a long time to figure out what I was going to say today," Griffin admits in front of the class, his turn to share his Oral Communications essay about a significant experience. He looks down at the paper in his hand, folds it up, and sticks it in his pocket, clearing his throat before he speaks. "Growing up a privileged boy of a very rich man, there weren't many opportunities for me to learn anything very significant or deep. Anything I wanted or needed, I received. You want a new bicycle, Griffin? Sure. What color would you like this one to be? You want that new pair of two-hundred dollar sneakers, son? Sure. Let's go get them for you right away. What would you like for dinner tonight, my boy? Surf...or turf? Both? No problem. And did I tell you my father bought me a fifty-thousand dollar car to play around with? On top of the BMW he'd already gotten me for high school graduation? Yeah. That's right.
"And don't think I was one of those poor little rich boys who got all the materialistic things in the world but no love. No. I got that too. An endless supply. My mother made sure of that." Griffin's hand comes up to rub his chin, and again he clears his throat. "My holidays - Christmas and Easter and shit. Ooh, sorry. Christmas and Easter, Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, you name it. Tons of family, tons of gifts, tons of food. My siblings and I never wanted or needed for anything. And since my parents are fairly young, all my grandparents and aunts and uncles are still alive and well. I went from living in a big house to a huge house only a year ago."
Griffin pauses again to take a sip of his bottled water, and I'm thinking - wow, our worlds are just complete opposites. But when Griffin puts down his water, I stop thinking and continue listening.
"My days growing up were filled with school, baseball, homework, tennis lessons, swimming at the country club. Pretty fun stuff. I rarely remember a day in my lifetime where I was legitimately sad. I'm sure I cried over a skinned knee or a broken wrist from when I thought it would be fun jumping from the sun-room roof into our Olympic-sized built-in pool. But sad? No. I do not remember crying from heartache, hunger, loss, or...desperation. No.
"Now don't get me wrong - my life didn't start out all champagne and classic cars. My birth father died when I was only one, which left my mom and me alone. Though her parents came to live with us, so we weren't really left that alone," Griffin chuckles. "But then my mom met a good man. A man who had a son, a house, and lots of money. Instantly, I had a brother, a father, and a great life. The only life I've come to know." Taking another sip of his water, Griffin closes his eyes for a moment. It actually looks like he's taking a deep breath.
When he opens his eyes, he directs his attention to me, and smiles. "But then I learned something very recently," he says, still piercing my eyes from across the room. "I learned that not everybody lives a life like I do." He finally averts his eyes and looks at the rest of the class. "I've seen it in the movies or on TV or on the news, and I'm sure I'll sound like a first-class fucking prick. Ooh, sorry again, Professor. I'm sure I'm going to sound like a first-class sheltered prick, and I may not be sharing with you anything new, but to me...well let me just say...it hit me like a ton of bricks." When Griffin closes his eyes and takes a couple deep breaths, I start panicking. He's talking about me. I'm sure of it. And damn-it if it doesn't piss me off. I asked him not to pity me, and here he is, pitying me in front of the whole fucking cl
ass.
"There's a whole world of people out there that not only don't get to buy bicycles and two-hundred fucking dollar shoes," in lieu of apologizing again, Griffin holds his hand up to the teacher. "But they can't even celebrate Christmas or buy a simple cup of coffee because that would leave them with not enough money to put gas in their car at the end of the week." He picks up his water bottle, unscrews the top, but doesn't take a sip. I'm growing more and more pissed as he continues, and I'm just about ready to grab my things and walk out of the room.
"And not only that, but they have close family members who are sick, yet can't receive the best treatment, or any at all, because the funds just aren't there." He sips his fucking water now, but doesn't put it down, his eyes, the whole time on everyone else in the class but me. "And to top it all off, these people have to put their own lives on hold to take care of their ailing father...," he slips up. I know he does, because his eyes dart to mine before he corrects himself. "Or their mother, or their grandparent, or their child. And they do this all...the struggling to get money for their next meal or their next tank of gas, or their college education...the exhausting task of caretaker… while also holding two full-time jobs while their kid goes to work to help pay the bills."
Griffin tightens his eyes, and I swear it's to hold back his tears. Finally putting down his open bottle of water, he then uses his fingers to rub at the spot just below his eyes. "In my world, a child's only concern is to be kind to others so his mother doesn't take away his toys, and to have fun." He shakes his head back and forth, biting his lip and looking at me. "But that's not the real world. My world is a facade. And what I learned recently is that these people, these wonderfully hard-working people, who never asked to be put in these awful predicaments...well they do it all with a smile and resignation. The world sees them smiling too, so we think everything is fine. We brush all the unsightly things under the rug. But until you get to meet one of these beautiful people," he says, still looking at me, and though I wish he would look anywhere else but, I can't pull my eyes from his either. "You won't know that there is a heavy weight bringing down that smile - the weight of the world that was just tossed at them like an open bag of crumbled potato chips onto a shag carpet - thrown at them in a millisecond and leaving them without a vacuum to suck up the crumbs. Life sucker-punched them. And at the risk of sounding cliché, they still stand. They still fight. They still go on…"
