Won't Last Long

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  Melina leaned back, nodding and smiling. Well played. She had to admit he’d gotten to her. But he was also eager, and she wanted to cool him down a bit.

  “I’m not sure. You can call me. We can see if something, or dinner, would work,” she said.

  Joshua leaned toward her, a sudden intensity shifting the energy at their table. “Did you like the wine I picked out for you?”

  “Yes,” Melina hesitated, confused.

  “And the story about the Turkish bazaar?”

  “Yes, it was good.”

  “And my encyclopedic knowledge of The Simpsons?”

  “Yes—though I’m not sure you’ll ever need it to solve an engineering emergency,” Melina quipped.

  “Well, then, I’m pretty sure you’ll be having dinner with me next week,” Joshua said. Confident. Almost cocky.

  Who does he think he is? “And what makes you so sure?”

  “Communications one-oh-one, freshman year, one of those classes I had to take to meet the general studies requirement at UW,” Joshua explained. “If you can get your audience to agree with you three times—it doesn’t matter on what topic—then you can usually get them to agree to what you want. I’ll bet your first communications class taught you the same thing.”

  “Mmm, something like that,” Melina hedged. “You’re not a bad salesman. I’ll definitely consider your offer.”

  He’s right. I’ll probably have dinner with him. He’s worth a second date.

  “I’ll call you,” Joshua said. And with a handshake—not a hug, an air-kiss, a peck or any of the half-dozen awkward ways to end a first date—he headed out into the cold Seattle night, coat slung over his shoulder as if the sun was shining.

  That’s nerve, Melina thought. That’s the kind of nerve it takes to be in my business. The nerve it takes to live my life.

  SIX

  The smell of earth and leaves greeted Melina as she pushed through the backyard gate. Mrs. Callaghan said she’d be there to give Melina her first gardening assignment.

  Melina didn’t see anyone in the expansive garden, which grew wild with trees and vines. Each area was its own microcosm: in one corner, elegant, fussy rose bushes were pruned back for winter; in another corner, a mature bay tree shaded a full quarter of the garden, sheltering rhododendrons and delicate ferns.

  Melina stepped into a sunny spot where pea-gravel paths crisscrossed, bordered by variegated shrubs bright with berries. Melina couldn’t name every plant in the garden—not by a long shot—but she appreciated Mrs. Callaghan’s eye for color and texture.

  Movement caught her eye and Melina followed two birds as they darted from tree to tree in an aerial dance. Even in winter, the garden was full of life, with birds chirping and branches swishing.

  Melina walked deeper into the oversized backyard toward an impeccably pruned, lacy Japanese maple still clinging to the last of its leaves. A handful of bird feeders dangled from its branches like Christmas tree ornaments.

  “There you are. You like to sleep late?” Mrs. Callaghan surprised Melina, speaking from a bench almost hidden from sight by a feathery bush.

  “Oh, no, I—uh, it’s just after eight. You said you wanted me here this morning?” Melina was confused. Again, this wrinkled old woman managed to push Melina’s poise off-kilter.

  “Morning comes with the birds,” Mrs. Callaghan said. “They’ve been up for hours. I’m surprised you didn’t notice—some mornings it can sound like a party, the birds make such a racket.” She turned a smiling face to a pair of finches playing in one of a half-dozen birdbaths set around the garden.

  “They did wake me up, but they don’t bother me,” Melina admitted. “I had a canary as a pet when I was little and I loved him. He sang when I came in the room. When the telephone rang, he trilled like he was in love.”

  Why am I suddenly telling my life story to my landlord? Melina stopped herself from sharing more. I don’t want that kind of complication.

  “So, you want me to do some work in the garden and you need to go to the grocery store. Which do we do first?”

  “Sit,” the woman gestured beside her.

  Melina strode to the bench where Mrs. Callaghan was seated. The woman looked even smaller in a bulky coat, clogs and floppy hat. Her gardening gloves were off, laid neatly on the arm of the bench, and she clutched a cup of hot tea containing a large sprig of mint.

  Melina sat down on the bench and crossed her legs. The old woman sipped. Melina recrossed her legs and checked her manicure.

  How long is this going to take? Melina wondered. It was Saturday, and she had plenty to do, but this errand was key to getting cheap rent. If the old lady would just hurry up.

  “Would you like some tea, dear?”

  “No.” Melina said, a bit too harshly. “No, thank you, I mean. I’d really just like to get going since I have lots to do today.”

  “Of course you do. Why don’t you fill up the bird feeders and then we’ll be on our way to the grocery store?” Mrs. Callaghan directed Melina to a five-gallon pail in the garden shed where she kept her bird seed. Melina eyed it skeptically—that was a lot of seed. “Just fill up that small red bucket and get the funnel.”

  Melina shoveled a couple of scoops into the red bucket.

  “That’s good, dear, but what will the rest of the birds eat?” Mrs. Callaghan asked, laughing gently, as if at a child’s mistake. “You’d best fill it all the way up.”

  Mrs. Callaghan led Melina slowly around her garden to refill more than a dozen bird feeders. Melina stretched to her full height to get the feeders off their hooks in the trees. Once they were on the ground, the landlady showed her how to open and fill them.

  Filling the bird feeders took more than an hour, especially since Mrs. Callaghan moved slowly and took time to point out many obscure species of plants and birds. Melina realized that this garden and especially the birds in it were the dearest things in the old woman’s life. It made her feel a bit bad for being so impatient.

  “I’m ready to go to the grocery store now,” Mrs. Callaghan finally announced. “Thank you for helping me—I can’t reach the feeders properly and Squirt doesn’t always have time to come down and fill them for me.”

  “Squirt? Is that ... a person?” Melina asked.

  “Yes, well, his name is Daniel but I’ve always called him Squirt—everyone has. Squirt’s the closest I’ve ever had to a child. He was my neighbor before he went to college. He was the one who named me.”

  “Named you?” Melina asked, aware that her short questions must seem a bit stupid. She recalled writing Maureen Callaghan on her first month’s rent check. What other name could the woman have?

  “Momo,” the old woman said, “I promised to tell you about my nickname when you moved in.” Her eyes looked mischievous despite a back bent by at least eighty years.

  How old is she? Melina wondered. She was older than Melina’s grandmother, probably older than anyone Melina had ever known. Melina didn’t cultivate friendships with the elderly or with anyone who wasn’t likely to advance her career.

  “Squirt lived down the street when he was a boy. He had trouble speaking—he had a stutter—and when he first came to my door he couldn’t say Mrs. Callaghan or even Maureen properly. He just said Mo– Mo–. So I told him to call me Momo. Pretty soon all his brothers and sisters were calling me that, and it stuck.”

  Momo paused, lost in a memory, and Melina grew impatient again.

  “OK, Momo, are you ready to go the store?”

  “Just let me get my purse, dear. And you might want to freshen up a bit before you go out.”

  Melina recoiled. What gives her the right to criticize my appearance? She took the stairs to her apartment two at a time and peered into the bathroom mirror. Dirt smudged her cheek and collected on her brow; this morning’s ponytail frayed with escaped wisps of hair, and her lips were dry and pale, absent her signature apricot hue.

  She did look messy, and she was appalled by the idea of going out i
n public looking less than perfect. She brushed and retied her hair, washed her hands and face, and slicked on new coats of lipstick and mascara.

  This morning was never supposed to be hard labor—just helping a little old lady with a few things. Melina was surprised by how swiftly the morning passed.

  Melina cruised down her apartment steps to the driveway that separated the garage from the main house. Momo was ready to go, cautiously descending the front steps as she clung to the railing. She looked fragile, in stark contrast to her energetic directions in the garden this morning.

  Melina held open her car door as Momo settled into the low-slung coupe, then gently shut the door. They drove to a neighborhood grocery store, where Momo worked her way through a detailed list written in wobbly, cramped script.

  Momo often spent several minutes debating between brands. It drove Melina crazy, and she carelessly tossed a few items—mostly prepackaged meals for those rare occasions when she ate at home alone—into their joint shopping cart. The tiny convenience kitchen in Melina’s new apartment was fine for making toast and coffee, but not much else.

  “Could you read me the ingredients on this label, please?” Momo asked Melina, holding a box of flavored rice that Melina had placed in their cart.

  Melina rolled her eyes, thinking that exchanging grocery runs and gardening for reduced rent was becoming a bad trade.

  “Rice, enriched white flour, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, salt, sugar, autolyzed yeast extract, hydrolyzed soy protein, monosodium glutamate, chicken fat, hydrolyzed corn gluten, disodium guanylate, disodium inosinate, ferric orthophosphate—” Melina stumbled over the complicated words.

  Momo pounced. “Do you know what all that stuff is? I don’t, but I can tell you one thing: it’s not food. It never was food. They just mix it into our food to make it stickier or sweeter or smoother or last longer. That’s not good for you.”

  “Oh-kayyy.” Melina stretched out the two syllables until they snapped. What could she say to that? I happen to like hydrogenated oil, so bug off, you old bat! I don’t cook, never learned, and not going to, so as far as my kitchen goes, this is food. What I eat is none of your business.

  Tempted to fire back, Melina bit her tongue and gingerly removed each offending, unpronounceable item that she’d placed in their cart, handling them as if they were hand grenades.

  Once each item was returned to its rightful place—on any other trip, Melina would have just offloaded them on a shelf—Momo pointed their cart toward the checkout aisle.

  Momo bought at least a week’s worth of groceries, but Melina bought only a few apples, toothpaste, cream for her coffee and a loaf of bread. As the clerk scanned their items, she wished she’d grabbed real butter after Momo goaded her into putting the margarine back.

  Melina drove them home, fuming. Who does this woman think she is, telling me what I can buy and eat, and criticizing how I look?

  Momo remained unperturbed, smiling slightly as she watched the houses go by on the drive back to their neighborhood.

  “Dear, thank you so much for taking care of my birds this morning and taking care of me,” Momo patted Melina’s arm as she climbed out of the car. “Come have a cup of tea with me before you go do the very important things you have planned.”

  Melina wanted to blow her off, if only to escape back to a world where she held all of the cards and was always—absolutely—in control. But she wasn’t planning to go anywhere immediately, just organize her apartment, and she feared getting off on the wrong foot with her landlady so soon.

  I bit my tongue more than once today. I can handle it for a little bit longer.

  Momo shuffled out of the house with two cups of hot tea, a mint sprig immersed in each. The tea was sweet and sharp, and Melina leaned into the cushions of the bench-style porch swing. Rare winter sunshine didn’t warm her, but it improved her mood.

  “Tell me where you are from,” Momo said, more command than question. “Who are your people?”

  Melina always avoided this conversation about her family and her background, and took a breath to prepare her rote reply. “I grew up in Indiana. My dad is in manufacturing and my mother is a music teacher. My sister’s two years older than me and lives in Florida with her husband and kids, and my baby brother is in New York training to be a concert violinist.”

  Momo was silent, gazing across the front lawn. “What else, dear?”

  That’s all there is to tell; all I want to tell, anyway.

  “That’s it. That’s my family. I don’t see them a lot and that’s fine with me. I may have grown up there, but I’ve really outgrown them. I don’t think any of them could make it out here, in my business. We might be related genetically, but they’re not my people.” Melina’s face twisted, pained by the memory of being the odd one out.

  “Dear, they’re your family. They’ll always be your people,” Momo said gently.

  “Spare me the lecture,” Melina spat back, with a force that surprised her. “I rarely talk to them, and they don’t exactly care. I’ll make more money this year than my dad ever did, and he still won’t think I’m successful.”

  Momo held very still. She waited for Melina’s shaking voice to calm, watched as Melina took a gulp of tea. Melina blinked hard, avoiding her gaze.

  “Dear, you make your own family. I hope you won’t abandon your childhood family, but the point is, your family is yours to create as an adult.” Momo twisted her wedding band around a spindly finger.

  “I did,” the old woman continued. “I met my husband and created a life and a whole family with him. No children, not exactly, because we never could have children of our own. But gradually, we chose the children and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and grandchildren who would be a part of our lives, regardless of blood.”

  Melina clutched her teacup tighter. “I was never good enough to make it in my childhood family. Why would I want them in my adult life now?”

  “I’m not saying how they lived, how they treated you, was right,” Momo said. “But now is your opportunity to choose them—” Melina’s jaw hardened “—or not. Just make space in your heart that it’s possible. Someday.”

  Melina finished her tea, said goodbye and walked wearily up the apartment stairs. She was willing to do errands and gardening, but a counseling session she could do without.

  SEVEN

  This is ridiculous. I should just leave. The serious, willowy brunette took a tiny sip from her glass of wine. My time is more valuable than this—I bill three hundred dollars an hour, for God’s sake.

  Dressed in a dark suit and classic patent heels, Andrea looked more ready for a client meeting than a first date. Screw him. I’ll go.

  But maybe there’s traffic. Or he’s parking right now. She tapped her nails on the tabletop in frustration. How petty would I look for leaving after twenty minutes? And if I do leave, what will I be missing?

  Andrea’s practical side warred with her insecurities. In her twenties, a blind date seemed like par for the course. Now in her thirties, Andrea was tiring of the game.

  He should know enough to call me. I gave him my cell number. She punched a button on her mobile. No messages. Should I call him? Or does that make me look desperate?

  “Can I borrow your chair?” a blonde woman interrupted Andrea’s thoughts, already gripping the seat back to move it to the next table, which held four brightly colored drinks and eye-catching handbags.

  “Um, no, actually,” Andrea faltered, her anxiety high, now feeling like she had to defend her rights to the chair. “I’m waiting for someone.” Andrea squirmed under the blonde’s direct gaze. “My date, actually. He should be here by now.”

  Any minute now. That’s what I meant to say. Now this woman thinks I’m being stood up, Andrea thought. This night’s not getting any better.

  The blonde released her grip on the chair and turned her back on Andrea, picking up a magenta drink in a martini glass. Ice crystals floated like diamonds on its surface.


  The press of the happy hour crowd was Italian leather and expensive perfume, well-cut suits and sassy heels. Young professionals streamed into the bar, located on the fortieth floor of one of Seattle’s tallest buildings. Towers like this had an elevator pecking order: the nicer your shoes, the higher your floor destination.

  Andrea fit right in; her office was located twelve floors above the restaurant. She worked as an associate at a sedate, old-money law firm specializing in taxes, trusts and probate—not the most exciting aspect of law, but she was good at it, and she had the potential to earn a partnership.

  Miserable but not yet willing to throw in the towel and admit to being stood up, Andrea settled for eavesdropping to occupy her mind.

  ***

  “Is she a bitch all the time?” asked the blonde who tried to take Andrea’s chair. Three immaculately groomed women sat clustered around a tiny table while the blonde hovered over them, her posture graceful, as if she preferred to stand.

  “Not all the time. Not when she wants something,” said the red-headed woman with a mint green hobo bag. “Last week she was all, ‘We should have lunch, there’s so much we need to catch up on.’”

  “She was probably working you for a story,” the blonde said darkly. “I know you can handle her, Holly, but why don’t you make it a threesome for lunch? We could pitch her on our new client.”

  “Which one?” The brunette clutching a copper-colored bag leaned forward with interest. “Is this the new client you were hinting about last week, Melina?”

  The blonde nodded. “Graystone Bank. I brought them over to Pursuit and Holly’s doing their PR now.”

  Holly dropped her voice to share the gossip. “They switched marketing firms because there was some kind of conflict of interest. I heard at a networking event that their old rep is no longer sleeping with someone on their board of directors and that’s … a problem.”