Apartment 1986

by Lisa Papademetriou

  I think I see something in Cassius’s eye—a gleam that might be a tear. But he tips his head backward, and I guess the tears kind of sink back into his eyeballs, because they don’t spill out. He breathes for a few minutes, and I breathe, too. I imagine a cloud. It’s fat and soft, and lovely. One edge of it curls out, a bit like an arm . . .

  “I might need a cane now,” Cassius says after a moment.

  “Wait! Could you get a dog?”

  “It’s not like getting a pet dog, Callie.” He turns to me and shakes his head. “Don’t sound so excited.”

  “Oh. Will you get to use the handicapped parking spaces?”

  “When I drive, you mean?” His voice is sarcastic, and I suddenly realize, Oh. Of course. Cassius won’t drive. Ever. And, as if he’s hearing my thoughts, he adds, “There’s just so much.”

  He doesn’t explain, but I know that he means that there’s so much that he’ll won’t see anymore. The clouds or the ocean. Rainbows. So much art. Or just, faces that make you happy. It makes my chest feel heavy to think about that.

  “I think I was maybe having a panic attack,” he says.

  “It’s that kind of day.”

  Cassius’s hands are palms-up on his knees. “Whatever that means.”

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  “I don’t know if I can deal with going home,” Cassius says.

  “Do you want to just hang out? We could go—we could visit my grandmother and get some cookies, or something.”

  Cassius nods. Something in the station drips. A man comes down the stairs, walks through the turnstile, and stands at the edge of the platform. Nothing else in the station moves.

  “You’re a surprisingly cool girl, Callie.”

  “I know,” I say. “And please stop acting like it’s so surprising.”

  But we don’t get up right away. Instead, we sit there, on that stupid wooden bench, with both of our arms on the same armrest, touching. It’s an okay subway station, actually, with not too many people and no really noticeable odors.

  It’s nice to just sit there with Cassius, and while we are sitting there, I forgive him for not thanking me for coming to his rescue and all because I think that it is very important to be able to just sit with someone and not do anything.

  That’s how you know you’re real friends.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  In which everything goes bananas

  WHEN WE GET OFF of the subway, we head over to Grandma Hildy’s apartment, and Robert gives me this weird look in the lobby. But I don’t think much of it, and Cassius and I head on up.

  I sort of stumble into the apartment, because the sun is shining through the window in a way that nearly blinds me, and I trip over the cat. Cassius bumps into me because I have stopped in my tracks.

  “Dad?”

  “Who’s this?” my father demands, looking at Cassius.

  “This is Callie’s friend, Cassius,” my grandmother says. She is sitting on the wing chair across from the couch, cool as a cucumber. She takes a sip from her yellow coffee mug.

  “This is the friend who has been convincing Callie to skip school?” my dad demands.

  “Dad! How do you know about that?”

  “Did you think we’d never find out?” Dad asks, and his voice is supersarcastic, which just sounds kind of awkward and dumb coming from my dad. “Your school called me. Placement testing is today, but they said you’ve been out all week?”

  “It’s not as bad as it—”

  “I was scared, Callie! I didn’t know where you were! I tried to call, but—”

  I pull out my phone. Sure enough, there are messages on it. He must have left them when I was in the subway out in the Bronx. And, after that, I wasn’t really checking.

  “Maybe I should go,” Cassius murmurs, but I grab his hand because I cannot be left alone with these people right now.

  “When were you going to tell me about school?” Dad demands.

  “Um . . .” Hm. That’s an interesting question. “Never?”

  “Never?” he repeats. “Never?”

  “Well, of course, you’re such a model of full disclosure,” my grandmother snaps, and my dad turns to her, but he stops. He stares at the wall. For a moment, he is speechless.

  “What happened to the painting of Uncle Larry?” I ask.

  Grandma Hildy places her cup on the coffee table, and she doesn’t use a coaster, so I know that things are getting serious. “I took it down,” she says slowly.

  “You took it down?” my dad repeats. “Where is it?”

  “Hudson, New York.”

  “What?” My dad’s face is turning red, and one blue vein looks like it is about to burst out of his forehead.

  “Don’t get hysterical, George. Callie pointed out to me that I have been seeing it wrong all these years. I thought it was a self-portrait, but it isn’t—”

  “So what? So you sold it? Did it ever occur to you that I might want it?”

  “George, I sent the painting to Stephen.”

  And they stand there like that: Grandma Hildy looking trim in her slacks and kitten heels, and Dad grabbing the back of a chair like he’s going to strangle it as the silence falls down around us like snow.

  There is a moment when I picture what would happen if I just ran away, screaming. It seems like an idea with some plausibliciousness. Like, maybe I could get away with it.

  But where would I run?

  Cassius’s hand tightens on mine, and we are having a telepathological moment through our fingers because I know he wants me to say something. The clock on the wall click, click, clicks, marking each passing moment, pushing it from the present and into the past and going around, around, around the numbers.

  Not one drop, Althea Orris says, but these drops have already fallen, and how can I possibly separate them from the ocean now?

  These thoughts are deep. They’re so deep they won’t even fit on a tote bag, so deep I can hardly breathe, I can hardly see the light rippling across the surface above me.

  “Well, wasn’t that a good idea?” I ask finally.

  Grandma Hildy’s and Dad’s eyes are locked on each other, like they are having a wrestling match. “Why would you send the painting to Stephen?” he asks. He sounds as if his mind is working, shifting slowly, like a fog is clearing moment by moment. “Why now?”

  “As I was trying to tell you, Callie showed me that it wasn’t a self-portrait. It was a painting of Larry looking at Stephen. And I realized that Stephen should have the painting. So I called him.” She pauses. “He’s lovely.”

  “I know.”

  “He was very kind to me, considering.”

  “He’s a kind man.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure he would want the painting, after all of these years. But he appreciated it very much, and said that he did. He said even though he’s married now, that Larry”—Grandma Hildy’s eyes drop to her lap—“Larry changed his life.”

  My dad looks at the blank wall. He just stands there like someone staring into a crystal ball, until finally he takes off his glasses and covers his eyes with his hand. He stands there, making this hissy breathing sound through his nose.

  “Is your dad crying?” Cassius whispers. I say, “No,” but I think that maybe he is.

  Finally, Dad wipes his eyes. He puts his glasses back on. Then he walks over to my grandmother and stands facing her. She looks up at him. I can see her throat working as she swallows, then swallows again.

  Cassius says, “I’ll go get some water,” and hurries to the kitchen. I’m not sure he’ll be able to find the glasses, but I don’t want to leave my grandmother, who is standing there with tears streaking down her cheeks, creating two streams at once that separate and then rejoin to drip from her jaw, like rain against a window. “I . . . miss . . . my son.” I look over at Cassius, who has just walked into the room with the “World’s Best Grandmother” mug.

  “It’s all I could find.” He sounds like he is apologizing, but my grand
mother takes the mug and sips the water.

  She places it on her knee, and looks down into the cup, and I wonder if she can see herself reflected there. “I just wish . . . I had been a better mother.” Her voice is a whisper and she sounds sick, like all of the crying has made her ill, or maybe it’s all the remembering.

  “It’s not too late, Grandma,” I say gently.

  Behind me, the clock on the mantel ticks. Grandma Hildy blinks once, and then again. She sways a little, and the whole moment feels like a dream. “You can still be a good mother. You still have a son,” I say, pointing to my father. “He’s right here.”

  For a moment, the silence is so profound that I feel like I can hear the daylight crashing through the window.

  And then everyone is like WOW, CALLIE, you are SO DEEP, and we all gather around for this totally magical group hug, and sparks and a rainbow float through the room and Cyndi Lauper appears from behind the couch to sing True Colors and it’s this enchanted moment that I know I’ll remember all my life.

  Well, actually, not that.

  What happens is that my grandmother stares at my dad like he’s someone she maybe only vaguely recognizes. The clock ticks on.

  “Why did I listen to him?” my grandmother whispers. “I couldn’t argue with Constantine. I never could.”

  “I know, Mom.” My dad wipes a tear from her cheek.

  “I thought there would be more time . . .”

  “I think Larry did, too,” my father says gently. “It happened really quickly, at the end.”

  My grandmother’s eyes are bright. Isn’t it strange how tears can look like glass, or even diamonds? “He can never forgive me . . .” Grandma Hildy takes a shuddering breath.

  My father doesn’t say anything, because what could he say? Time only travels in one direction. Each second we’re alive carries us further from the past. We can visit in our dreams and memories, but we can’t stay there. Even Mr. Johnson has to leave apartment 1986 to get his coffee.

  My mother says that we have to live without regrets, but I don’t think that’s possible. The trick, I think, is to learn to live with them, because regrets are the moments in life that teach us the most. You can’t change the past, but you can try to learn from it. That’s not the kind of thought that looks good on a coffee mug, but it’s true.

  “If I could do it over, I’d do things differently,” Grandma Hildy says.

  Cassius clears his throat. “Muhammad Ali said, ‘A man who sees the world the same way at fifty as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life,’” he says.

  Grandma Hildy nods slowly. “Thank you, Cassius.” And I think about how I should go home and read some books by Muhammad Ali because he is truly an amazing philosopher.

  Finally, my dad says, “You did the right thing, Mom. Sending the painting to Stephen. I’m glad you did.”

  Her delicate eyebrows lift in surprise. “Thank you, George.”

  He leans down and gives her a hug. She squeezes back, and this is officially the first time that I have seen them do that. It looks kind of awkward, but I think they will get better, with practice. Finally, my dad straightens up. “Come on, Callie. It’s time to go.”

  My grandmother looks at me, and when she reaches out, I give her hand a squeeze. I am proud that she sent Uncle Larry’s painting to Stephen, and I am remembering this thought I had a few days ago, that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, but it also ends with one. I think that actually does make sense, after all. “Everything’s going to be okay,” I say, and I really mean it.

  Dad places a hand on my grandmother’s shoulder. “Try to rest, Mom,” he says.

  I give her a good-bye kiss, and then I follow Dad out the door. I kind of forgot about Cassius, but he trails after us.

  We stand in silence while we wait for the elevator. When it comes, we get in. We are silent for almost the entire trip down, but somewhere around the seventh floor, my dad asks, “Are you named after Muhammad Ali, by any chance?”

  “Dad, his name is Cassius,” I say just as Cassius says, “Yes.”

  And I think, That does not make any sense, but really nothing does today, so I just leave it alone.

  “I’ll be very interested to hear what you and Callie have been up to,” my dad says, and when I start to speak, my father says, “You can tell me at home, Callie.”

  “Okay,” I say. And I think that he really will be interested when I tell him the story. I think he might even like the educational museum-y parts. Because here is one thing I have learned this week: life is way more educational than school. Muhammad Ali even said so.

  Anyone who doesn’t agree probably just hasn’t done enough living yet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  In which: soup

  WE HAVE JUST STEPPED out of the lobby of my grandmother’s apartment building and started toward Madison Avenue when someone shouts, “Ohmygosh, Callie!”

  Min is running up behind us, holding up a paper bag with one hand and waving with the other. “Callie! Are you okay? I was coming over to your place!” She stops and smiles at my dad. “Hi, Mr. Vitalis. I’m so glad you’re better. I made you guys more of that Taylor Swift soup!”

  “When did you make it?” I ask. “School just got out.”

  “I made it last night and brought it to Haverton! I thought you could have it for lunch.”

  Cassius is looking at me with his nostrils, as always. His look says, Are you going to trust this friend?

  I shoot a glance at my dad, and say, “Um, Min—I—I wasn’t sick today.”

  “I know.”

  “And Taylor Swift didn’t give me that recipe.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did Zelda tell you?”

  “Yeah, but I wasn’t really surprised.”

  “You—?”

  “Callie—” my dad prompts.

  “Dad, could I have just—just five minutes?”

  He nods, and I turn back to my friend. My head is swirling, and I’m not really sure what to say.

  “Why did you lie?” Min asks.

  “I just—” I don’t really know the answer to this. “The truth just seemed . . . too . . .” My voice trails off, like steam rising into the air.

  Min looks over at Cassius. “Is this your cousin?”

  “Hi! I’m from Cleveland, Nevada,” Cassius says, and my dad is all, “What?”

  “Min, no—this is my friend, Cassius.”

  “The one in the subway?” She points surreptitiously to her eyes, and I nod. “Nice to meet you.” Then she turns back to me. “Look, we’ll find someone to buy your ticket. Don’t worry. Lots of people like Lucas Zev.”

  “You got tickets to the Lucas Zev concert?” Cassius says. “Wow.”

  “Do you want to come? The ticket’s expensive—two hundred and fifty—but we’re in the first row.”

  “I’m there,” Cassius says. “Definitely.”

  “See?” Min turns to me with a brilliant smile. “Problem solved!”

  I open my mouth to speak. Fail. Finally, I sputter, “You don’t even know Cassius!”

  “He’s your friend, isn’t he?” Min says. “It’s not a big deal, Callie. It’s all fixed now.” She takes a deep breath. “Zelda’s kind of mad, but she’ll get over it.”

  “Will she?”

  “It’s not like Zelda always tells the truth, you know? I mean, we all have secrets, right?” Min’s eyes lock on mine.

  “Yeah,” I say at last. “I guess . . . I guess everyone does.” And I wonder what Min’s secret is, and if we will ever be good enough friends for her to tell me.

  Min nods, then hands me the bag. “Take the soup,” she says. “You’ll need it. You have to tell your mom everything?”

  “Yeah . . .” I think this over a moment. “But—you know what? I don’t think it’ll be that bad. In this weird way, I’m actually kind of looking forward to it.” I look her in the eye and smile. “It’s good to tell the truth. Live without regrets.”


  “That’s what my mom always says.”

  “Really? Mine, too!”

  Min smiles, and I think that right there, right in that moment, we came one millimeter closer to being real friends. “And you—” She turns to Cassius. “Can Callie text me your info? We can pick you up at seven.”

  “Great. Call me, though. I’m not so great with texts.”

  “Sure.” Then Min gives me a little kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Mr. Vitalis.”

  “Good-bye, Min. Thanks for the soup.”

  It’s funny—I never really considered Min my friend. I mean, she’s my texting friend, and my nice friend, but not, like, a good friend. I always thought she was kind of shallow. And maybe a little . . . um, dumb. Like my history teacher thought I was dumb, I guess.

  But Cassius is right. You can’t really know what someone is like until you trust them enough to show them what you’re like. And sometimes they let you down.

  But sometimes they don’t.

  And those are the times that you find out who someone really is. And you might even get some soup out of it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  In which my dad comes clean

  MY FATHER PUTS CASSIUS in a cab and gives the driver a twenty-dollar bill, even though Cassius insists that he is fine and could easily walk home.

  “This is the least I can do,” my dad assures him. “You know all of our family secrets now.”

  “That’s okay.” Cassius’s fingers hang over the edge of the window. “Callie knows all of mine. Hey—Studio Museum tomorrow? It’s Saturday.”

  “If I’m not grounded,” I tell him.

  “She’ll be grounded,” my dad says. “But maybe you guys can meet after school one day.”

  “Sounds good. Maybe it’ll be Callie’s one and only extracurricular!” Cassius’s laugh trails after the cab pulls away, and my father and I begin walking downtown, toward home.

  Up the block is the Metropolitan Museum. It’s enormous. That could easily be an extracurricular, I think. I’d happily go there every week, with Cassius.