by Whitney Boyd
“Yeah, I do.” And I mean it. Little things in life can be the most important of all. And perhaps friendship really is the catalyst to happiness. We walk down the hall and I know that I did the right thing by coming home.
When two agree in their desire,
one spark will set them both on fire.
—English Proverb
Chapter Twenty-Six
I sleep that night in my childhood bedroom where not much has changed. Most of my stuffed animals are still around. The wallpaper is the same light yellow with dainty pink and green flowers. My bed mattress is hardened now, packed down through years of use. Even the pink and purple quilt with fringes on the edges has been on my bed for as long as I can remember. My Grammy made it when I was born and it has comforted me through many a dark night. I snuggle into it, take a deep breath and close my eyes. The blanket brings her closer to me, makes her seem real again.
“Grammy?” I whisper into the dark room. “Grammy, are you still out there?”
It’s been five years since she died. We didn’t see it coming; she was so healthy and full of spunk and energy. The day she was diagnosed with a brain tumor was the same day she baked twelve apple pies for the Drop-In Center. She had been complaining of headaches and finally got it checked out. There was no history of cancer in the family, she had never smoked or used a cell phone or anything. It came out of nowhere and we were a family in shock.
The family fully expected that she’d recover. Surgery, chemo, it would work and she would be fine. Nobody expected that three weeks later she would be dead. The hardest part is that doesn’t give you enough time to say goodbye. Three weeks isn’t long enough to let someone know how much they meant to you.
My eyes fill with tears and I reach blindly across the bed to my now-falling-apart baby doll, Noelle. Her body is duct-taped together to keep the stuffing from falling out. My brother cut off a portion of her white blonde hair in a fit of rage when we were younger, but she is still my dolly.
I cuddle up to her and then continue my monologue to the sky. “Grammy, I miss you. I miss your advice and your cookies. I miss you being here. It seems so empty in this house without you. I know Momma misses you too, even though she doesn’t say it. I think it hurts too much to admit it.”
My prayers to Grammy are sort of a tradition now. Ever since her funeral, whenever I am alone in this bed, with so many of Grammy’s things around as a mini shrine, I find that I can talk to her. I end up spilling my soul every time, saying things that I wasn’t aware I felt.
“I think I’ve been clinging to the things you taught me for too long, Grammy. I hold on to them because it makes me feel like you are with me. I know that astrology can’t tell the future and that Tarot cards are about as legit as the king of diamonds being magical. I also know that superstitions are more of a tradition with me than anything else, but I still try to make them as real as you made them seem. I believed in them enough to go out to Victoria. I tried to find love out there, but it wasn’t meant to be.”
I’m rambling.
“I guess what I’m trying to say, Grammy, is I have to let go. I have to stop letting others dictate my life in the name of fate. I know there is a power out there, I have felt it. But I need to rely on myself more than on that mystical energy.”
Now the tears pour and my nose gets stuffy. I sit up so I don’t gag and finish. “I’m not dishonoring you by having to let go of some of my superstitions. I love you so much. I hope one day I can see you again and tell you this to your face. But tonight I needed to tell you that if you don’t see me tossing salt over my shoulder or rubbing tomb water on my face, it’s not out of disrespect for you. It’s time I find my own path, and I am beginning to know what that is.”
I draw my knees to my chest and cradle Noelle tighter. “Grammy, I love you. I don’t blame you for teaching me all these things, because they made me into who I am today. And I’m starting to figure myself out. I guess the biggest thing I needed to tell you is I’ve found someone that I think you would approve of. You never met him; he came into my life right after you left us. But I’m going to give it a shot, if I can. I’m going to give it my all. I think you’ll be proud.”
I say the last words in a choking whisper and bury my face in my hands. My shoulders shake until eventually my tears dry. I can’t explain it, but I feel peace. I know she’s nearby.
“Bye, Grammy,” I whisper into the night. “I love you.”
I put my head down and am asleep almost instantly. The next thing I am aware of is the delicious aroma of pancakes and bacon sizzling. I leap out of bed and pad down the hall to the kitchen. I squint at the light. My mom, wearing red flannel pajamas and pink slippers, is flipping the pancakes as I wander in.
“Morning, Momma.” I pull out a chair from the table and stretch. “Bacon? Really? What happened to ‘bacon is the devil’s food and it will destroy you one fatty strip at a time’?”
My mom, as a doctor, has been on one health kick after another as long as I can remember, but the one that she’s been on the longest has been her anti-grease in meats. We eat the leanest beefs and chickens she can find, and for a while forced my dad to go hunting every fall so we could have deer. A small part of me is grateful that she instilled healthy habits into my life from a young age; a large part of me always craved bacon.
“You’re too skinny,” my mom replies, peeking into the oven where the bacon is cooking on a cookie sheet. “When I tell you to be healthy, I don’t mean starve yourself. Are you dieting? Is Heather doing a cleanse again for something?”
I smirk. “Yeah, I’m dieting. It’s called the Poverty Diet and consists of me eating instant noodles and only instant noodles because I can’t afford anything else.” I get up and grab two plates, cutlery and mugs from the cupboard and set them on the table. I open the fridge and pull out a jug of orange juice, no pulp, just the way I like it.
“So you’re fattening me up and clogging my arteries at the same time?” I have to tease my mom a little more.
My mom carries a steaming pile of pancakes to the table, gets the bacon out of the oven and places it in a serving tray. Then she joins me. I grab three pancakes, load a pile of butter on top and drizzle it all with maple syrup. I steal about half the pan of bacon and pour a bit more syrup on top of it. Then I take a huge bite, close my eyes and enjoy the moment.
“You seem different,” my mom comments as she cuts the one lone slice of bacon she took and stabs it with her fork. “You went to bed very distraught, but today you seem at peace.”
I think back to last night. To my ‘conversation’ with Grammy and my decision to stop relying on dumb superstitions that I know deep down are silly fallacies. The knowledge that I miss Josh and that it would be better to risk a relationship with him rather than lose him altogether.
“I guess I came to terms with a few things,” I say, stuffing pancakes into my mouth and speaking around them. I swallow and continue. “I thought a lot about what you said yesterday, how my former relationships never worked because they were just men I found attractive and weren’t people I was friends with. I am going to try to apologize to Josh. I don’t know if it’ll work . . . I saw him yesterday downtown hug some gorgeous woman after asking her on a date. But he told me when I called about Carter Clinton that he wants to get together for dinner with me later, so maybe I haven’t ruined everything.”
It’s difficult to admit I was wrong, but my mother doesn’t rub it in. She watches me then has another bite of bacon. “Well, I think it worked. You seem calmer and happier than I’ve seen you in a while.”
The remainder of breakfast we spend talking about the newest books we’ve read. My mom informs me that she just got a Kindle Fire and I welcome her to the twenty-first century. When we finish, I help clear the table and load the dishes from the sink into the dishwasher.
I go back to my bedroo
m and get dressed. I toss my toothbrush back into my bag and search for my hairbrush. It’s time to go home. Time to buckle down and find myself a job. Time to call Josh and have a real conversation with him.
My phone interrupts me. It’s a number I don’t recognize. I hesitate as my nerves kick in. It could be Carter Clinton or maybe the Law Society. It could be one of the jobs I’ve applied for, requesting an interview. I lick my lips and bring the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Charley?” It is a woman’s voice, very perky with a hint of a British accent.
“Yes.”
“Charley, my name is Natasha. Josh Mahoney gave me your number.”
“Okay.” The wheels are turning in my brain. Her voice . . . I know I’ve heard it before, but I can’t place where.
“I work for the Calgary Justice Services at the Court of the Queen’s Bench. We have been looking for new legal counsel to assist high risk children in family court. Specifically you would be representing children who are in the foster care program and their families. I know you haven’t applied for this position, but I was given your résuméand a glowing recommendation and I feel you might be a good fit. Would I be able to meet with you?”
“Josh,” I murmur. He did this for me. After I turned him down and probably crushed his heart, he not only looked into the mess at Carter Clinton for me, but also sent off my resume to some contacts with a ‘glowing recommendation’. I don’t deserve this! I don’t deserve him.
“Excuse me? I didn’t catch what you said,” the woman says.
I forgot I am still on the phone. I clear my throat and respond rapidly. “Yes, definitely we can meet. When is good for you?”
“Well, I’d like to chat with you, tell you a bit about the job and get to know you. It won’t be a stuffy interview or anything, so why don’t we meet at a coffee shop around four o’clock today. Does that work for you?”
Seeing as my calendar is a big, blank page of nothingness, yeah, I think I can swing it. “Yes, four o’clock would be fine.”
“All right, do you know the Coffee Café on 4th Street? It’s down from the courthouse about half a block.”
I don’t know the place, but I am sure I can find it. “Sure, I’ll meet you there.”
“Lovely, it will be great to meet you and see how you’ll fit into our team. Have a nice day.”
“Thanks, you too.”
We hang up and I throw my head back and laugh. It sounds like I have the job! She hasn’t even met me and yet it seems like this interview at the coffee shop is basically a formality. And what a job too! Making a difference, working with children. This is why I went to law school.
I run into the living room, squealing with excitement at the door that has just opened. “Momma! I need a ride back to my apartment! Hurry!”
The eyes are the window of the soul.
—English Proverb
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I find the Coffee Café no problem. When I walk inside, a little chime on the door tinkles and I mutter, without realizing I am doing it, “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets her wings.” I know it sounds dumb, but my thoughts go to my Grammy. Maybe this means that since I let her go, she can finally get her wings and be free too.
I look around. Natasha, Natasha. Who in here could pass for Natasha with that gorgeous British voice? I should have said I’d be wearing a red shirt with a gold pin in the shape of a star, or something, like in the movies. There are three women sitting alone at their tables. I have just decided that one near the bathroom is Natasha, because she has incredible jewelry and an expensive Blu suit, when the door opens beside me. I step to the right so the people entering can get by me, just as I hear the voice at my side.
“Hello, you must be Charley.”
I turn with a smile, hold out my hand and my jaw drops slightly. I recover quickly and play it off, turning my open mouth into a drawn out “Hello!”
It’s the girl I saw yesterday. The one with the sexy black hair who hugged Josh on the street. My stomach flips. The one he is probably going on a dinner date with. She is even more exquisite up close . . . perfectly manicured nails, bright red. A curvy, taut body, with the perfect hourglass shape. Bright blue eyes and that huge mouth stretched into a pleasant smile.
“Why don’t you grab us a table and I’ll get some coffee,” Natasha suggests after introducing herself. “What would you like?”
I squint at the menu behind the counter. “Uh, I’d like a double chocolate mocha, please.” I reach for my wallet but she waves it off.
“It’s on the company’s dime, so don’t worry about it.”
I glance around the café for an empty spot. The café is darling; wooden tables and chairs that are stained a deep brown. Pictures of the Eiffel Tower and the Coliseum and Angel Falls, done in black and white and in matching wooden frames hang on the walls. If you look out the window, you can see the twin Bankers Hall towers looming high above and people walking by on the sidewalk. In the corner there is an empty table, a little off from the others, and it looks like the perfect place to have a job interview. If that’s what this indeed is.
I sit down and skim the headlines on a newspaper someone had abandoned here while I wait for Natasha. A home invasion in the North East. The President of the United States to attend a charity ball hosted by George Clooney to support Hurricane victims. Carter Clinton loses major fraud case.
The second chair at the table is pulled back and Natasha sits. She places a steaming mug in front of me and the second one she keeps.
Even the mugs are unique. Not your average coffee-to-go cup made of paper with a plastic lid, these ones are glass. They have maps on one side and mine has a picture of the Sistine Chapel and Natasha’s is of Buckingham Palace.
“This is a really cute café,” I note and take a sip of the scaling liquid. Delicious.
“Yes, I spend way too much money coming here every day,” Natasha admits. “They make the most succulent chicken wraps every Tuesday and I have become a complete addict." She leans back and continues. “So, thank you for coming to meet with me on such short notice. We’ve been tossing around the idea of adding an additional counsel for some time, and the position was recently approved by my boss so I figured I should hurry up and get on it.”
I listen, making inconsequential noises and nodding along. I take another sip of my coffee and she carries on.
“So I was about to post the position on our web site when I ran into Josh. We got talking and he mentioned you, said you are an outstanding lawyer who stumbled into a bit of bad luck recently. I told him I’d think about it and he forwarded me your CV. I have to admit, I am highly impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want to tell me about what happened at your last law firm?” Natasha’s eyes are kind and after the disaster at Jameson and Jameson with my last interview, I decide to tell the truth right off the bat. If I get this job, I don’t want to hide my past forever and have it come back and bite me one day.
“It’s a bit of a long story, but when it comes down to it, I made a mistake.” For once I’ve decided to own up to it. It was my mistake, I know this deep down. Whether or not Grace was out to get me, I still should have double checked the brief after it was bound.
I continue. Without giving away any confidential details relating to the firm, I tell her the basics. Brief to opposing counsel, bound by my assistant, that included Brad Pitt, an email and a highly classified draft prospectus on a future deal. I should have checked, but I didn’t. I assumed that my assistant wouldn’t do something like that, whether by accident or on purpose, it didn’t matter. I was fired and I probably deserved it.
I swallow. I have played the victim for too long, especially where, when I think about it long and hard, I know the situation was on me.
&
nbsp; “You don’t deserve to be fired over a mistake so small,” Natasha frowns. “I would have expected to receive a warning or maybe not be given a bonus that year, but firing seems harsh, especially for a brand new associate.”
“That’s what Josh said.”
“Well, he’s right. They must have suffered some collateral damage to have gone all the way and fired you. That really is rough, I’m sorry.” I appreciate her compassion and decide to tell the rest.
“There is a little more to the story. They have now taken the situation to the Law Society of Alberta and a hearing is going to be scheduled. They are pushing for disbarment, although I don’t think it will go that far. But I need to let you be aware of the situation in case that were to happen.”
Natasha waves it off. “Honestly, we need someone young, compassionate and driven to work with our at risk youth. If you were to be disbarred, although I agree with you that it would be a very unlikely outcome, then we would simply change your job title to Paralegal and one of us would handle your court appearances. Your position itself would not change.”
I am touched. “So, you guys don’t mind?” Professionalism is out the window and I can feel the tingling in my nose and throat that signals the waterworks are about to begin.
“I was friends with Josh’s older sister in high school after my family moved from England. I go a long way back with the Mahoney’s and I came to learn a long time ago to trust Josh’s judgment more than anything else. I have never seen a more dedicated, hardworking and honest individual than Josh. If he gives you the gold stamp of approval, then that’s all I need to know.”
I am in shock. “So,” I begin shakily. “So are you offering me the job? This isn’t just an initial interview?”