Calling California

by J. P. Grider

  "I'm sorry I overwhelmed you."

  A few remnant tears slip from Cali's eyes onto my shoulder, and I splay my hand across the side of her face to keep her tight against me.

  "That wasn't my intention."

  She looks up at me with weary eyes. "You opened my heart. I'm glad about that. I just don't like knowing it's now out there... with no protection."

  "Can you tell me what, exactly, was on your mind when you pushed me away before?"

  Again, Cali lifts her head and looks up at me. "You made me realize what I had been missing all my life." Her voice is strained and weak.

  "And what is that?"

  "I don't know. Someone to tell me it's all going to be okay, I guess. Not that you said that, but...that's how you made me feel. Stupid, right?"

  "Stupid? Not at all. Calista, no one's ever told you everything would be all right?"

  After nipping at her lip a bit, she says, "Maybe they've said it, but they've never meant it. How could they really? My parents never knew where our next meal was coming from. They didn't believe everything was going to be okay. How could they make me believe?"

  "But I make you believe that?" I ask, needing to hear the words again.

  "You do. You make me trust you, Griffin."

  36

  Cali

  I sneak into class ten minutes late. Right in the middle of some girl's speech. Professor Anderson, standing in the corner of the room, meets my eyes and nods in acknowledgment, but he doesn't look upset.

  "Morning," I whisper to Griffin as I sit in my regular seat.

  "Morning. What happened?" He whispers back.

  "My car. Keeps stalling."

  "I can look at it, if you want."

  "Ahem." Professor Anderson shuts us up with the clearing of his throat.

  "Sorry," I mumble beneath my breath, not that Anderson could hear me anyway.

  While my fellow classmate, whose name escapes me at the moment, finishes her speech, I surreptitiously fumble with the contents of my backpack to pull out my Oral Comm folder, where I pull out my essay. Without any time to mentally prepare, I am called up to speak.

  "Hello." My opening line is not the wittiest of starts, but it's all my nerves can muster at the moment. I flatten out my paper in front of me and stare at it as it lays in place on the podium.

  "When I first wrote my essay, only the facts were considered. Each literal detail was written in black and white. Nothing more." I pause to take a calming breath. "But when I looked over my paper this morning... between every written line was an invisible emotion... that I hadn't been cognizant of when I first wrote it. Fascination. Envy. Fear. Panic. Joy. Acceptance. Astonishment... Awe. Even a little adoration and enchantment." A pathetic titter escapes my throat. "So in rereading my story about that very existential moment in my life, I learned something completely new...about myself. I really did not want to talk about emotions at all. Kindness was the only emotion that came into play in my story, and it was not my own kindness, but that of another person. A child actually." I take another breath and wish to God I brought a bottle of water up to the podium like Griffin had.

  "One Christmas Eve, when I was just about seven, my mother brought me to work with her. She was waitressing at a party that took place at her boss's house. It was huge. I mean, it was the biggest house I'd ever seen at that point in my life. And fancy." I let another quiet laugh slip from my throat. "I remember thinking that I thought I was walking into a castle. It was amazing." For a tenth of a second I reflect on the image of that house.

  "Anyway. While my mother maneuvered her way around the industrial-sized kitchen, I was instructed to sit at a table that sat in the corner, out of the way of where my mother was working. Which I did.

  “After I'm not sure how long, two boys, one older than the other, came into the kitchen, grabbing whatever desserts that were on the counter that they wanted. Shoving into their mouths, one cookie after the other." When I take my eyes off my paper, which I am not doing frequently enough, I look straight at Griffin and realize that he's the one that's making me this nervous. I don't want to mess up in front of him. I shake it off and get back to my speech.

  "The older boy never saw me sitting at the table. At least, I don't think he did, or maybe he did, I really don't remember too much about the older boy," I add, looking up from my paper like the Professor expects us to do. "But the younger boy did see me. And you know what he did?" This I ask while looking at the class. I continue with my eyes on my peers instead of my paper when I say, "And now… this boy didn't look much older than me. So he was only, like, eight or nine... He took a cookie from the counter and walked it over to me. Where I came from when I was young, kids didn't do that. They didn't share. If they came upon a cookie, they either stuffed it in their mouths before anyone asked for a bite, or they hoarded it for later. But the cookie wasn't the only thing this boy gave me." I stop, because this bunch of college-aged adults start snickering like twelve year olds, plus I see a huge grin on Griffin's face. Nice. "In any event," I continue, "that boy not only shared a cookie with me, but I had this crummy old first generation Gameboy, and you know what he did?" I ask again, kicking myself for reusing the same phrase, considering I'm being graded on my speech. "He went and got his brand-new, whatever generation it was at that time, Gameboy and showed it to me. It was beautiful. It was purple and shiny and unused. I thought he was showing it to me to rub it in, but no. This eight or nine year old boy, at least I think he was eight or nine, like I said, put the new Gameboy in my hands and told me I could keep it." Looking at the class for their reaction, and to provide the requisite glance at the audience, I notice an odd expression cross Griffin's face. I disregard it and return to my paper.

  "Now, I know the boy had an interest in my old Gameboy and wanted it. He called it a classic," I add the air quotes along with the word. "But he told me I can have his Gameboy even if I didn't want to give him my old one. He said his mother was rich, and if he told her he'd lost his game, she'd just buy him a new one. He even gave me some awesome new games that went with it. Maybe he was a sweet-talker and knew I'd give him the old Gameboy anyway, but I don't think so. I never got the boy's name, but my gut told me he was giving me something new because I didn't have it. Then, after we already switched Gameboys, he went and filled a plate with cookies, put it on the table in front of us, went and poured us two glasses of milk, and he spent the rest of the evening with me.

  "Maybe it was because until that point, I hadn't come across much kindness in my life - where I came from, my parents aside, adults were cruel and kids were crueler - but I remember that boy with great fondness. He was the first person to ever show me kindness. And because of him, I was able to hope that one day... I'd find a world that I was proud to live in."

  37

  Griffin

  Holy fuck.

  I gave Cali my Gameboy.

  Cali was the girl.

  The girl I've been thinking about for thirteen fucking years.

  "How'd I do?" Cali whispers when she sits back down after her speech.

  "Great," I whisper back, forcing myself to act unaffected. Until I know how my parents know Cali's mother, I do not want to let on that I am the boy from her story. "You did great," I reiterate.

  She grabs my hand and squeezes it. "Thanks." Her smile is big and genuine. She feels good about her speech.

  And I feel like shit. I need to know what this means. Maybe it's nothing, but I don't think so. Every time I'd ask my mother who that girl was from that Christmas Eve, she'd ignore me, or tell me she didn't remember, or change the subject altogether. It's been years since I'd asked about her, but I remember the look on my mother's face every time I brought it up. And now I'm sick to my stomach at the thought of broaching the subject again.

  What if I find out something I don't want to know?

  38

  Cali

  "I don't know what happened, Anna," I whine to my friend and co-worker Friday afternoon. "After my speech,
he acted all distant and all, and then when I asked him if I'd see him tonight, he said he had plans to go home. To his real house. I don't get it. It's Friday night. I was sure we'd be going out tonight." It's the end of the banking day, and Anna and I are counting our drawers. The process is a slow one for me tonight, because I'm so fucking preoccupied with wondering what had Griffin turn so suddenly.

  "Maybe something happened." Anna tried to comfort me, but I wouldn't accept it.

  "No. He would have told me." I knock the cabinet beneath me with my knee. To let out frustration. Not by accident. After just telling him how much I trust him and all that opening my heart shit. I knew I shouldn't have opened up.

  "Cali," Anna says softly. Cautiously. "You only just met him two weeks ago. Maybe there are things he's not ready to share with you. Maybe something happened in his home life and he can't tell you yet."

  I look at her.

  "It makes sense, right? You said he went home?"

  "Yeah," I say a bit more calmly. "But why wouldn't he just text me? I texted him to ask if everything was all right, but I didn't hear from him."

  "Give him time. He may just have to deal with something."

  Anna's a lot older than me, so hopefully that means she knows what she's talking about. I give it some thought while proofing my work, which isn't such a great idea since I keep entering the same check into the system. "Shoot," I utter.

  "Cali," Anna whispers, since the bank's general manager makes a walk-through behind the teller stations. "Concentrate. Think about Griffin later."

  Easier said than done.

  "He's still not answering your texts?" Tabitha screeches, as if all of Willowbrook Mall needs to hear about my pathetic life. "I don't get it. He was so into you. I mean, everything you said he told you last night. I mean who tells a girl after two weeks that every breath he takes is for her? Or that she's the reason he breathes? And then he just held you the rest of the night? No sex? Cal. Something is not right. Last night's boy and today's don't match," Tabitha wondered before stuffing a huge piece of pizza into her mouth.

  "What if he just said those things to...?”

  "To what, Cal, get you into bed? He didn't do that last night. And besides, he already had you in New York and he still said those things after the fact. Something doesn't add up."

  "So what, Tab, am I supposed to be mad, worried, indifferent? What?" I pick at the crust of my pizza, replaying this morning in my head.

  "Cali, I'm sorry, I can't hang today," Griffin says to me after I ask him if we could grab a quick cup of coffee together.

  "Okay, well then, I'm going back to work today, so..."

  "Good," he interrupts me, shifting his feet back and forth and looking nervous.

  "I mean, so I can see you tonight, since Millicent's feeling better and she's going to stay until ten, so..."

  "Look, Cali, I can't see you tonight. I'm sorry. I...uh...have plans to go home. See my mom. Okay? I'll call you?"

  "Yeah, I guess..."

  Again he interrupts, but this time with his lips on mine. But it's over as soon as it begins. Just a peck goodbye. That's it.

  "Talk to ya later, Cal."

  And don't think the fact that he didn't call me California or Calista is lost on me. No. I noticed. And it did not make me happy.

  "You need to chill, that's what," Tabitha reminds me, pulling me out of my thoughts. "He's a good guy. Give him a chance to explain. I'm sure you'll hear from him this weekend."

  "Yeah. I hope."

  But shopping at the mall with my best friend does nothing for my grumpy mood. By ten, Tabitha drops me off and I walk into my living room alone on a Friday night. Tab is going to Donny's to meet some friends, but I have to relieve Millicent, and I'm not in the mood to go out and drink anyway. I'm in the mood to pout. And recount Griffin's and my conversation over and over until I make sense of it.

  39

  Griffin

  My ears are pounding.

  I'm drunk.

  It's one o'clock in the morning.

  And I'm sitting at the kitchen island waiting for my goddamn father to come home from the restaurant.

  "Griffin," my mother calls sleepily from the couch in the family room. "Please come sit with me, baby. You've been sitting there staring at the clock all night."

  I ignore her. Again.

  She lied to me. She fucking lied to me.

  And now she wants me to lie to Calista.

  40

  Griffin

  "What the hell is going on here, Griffin?" My father's commanding voice resounds through the house from the foyer, followed by the slam of the front door.

  Bracing myself for a face-off, I step off the stool, but stay where I am, gripping the back of the stool next to me.

  "Who do you think you are? Upsetting your mother like that. You should be ashamed of yourself," he scolds, walking into the kitchen, all brooding and intimidating.

  My blood boils. "Ashamed of myself. I don't think so. You're the one who's been keeping this secret for twenty-four years."

  With one quick swipe of his hand across my face, my father knocks me down a peg. "You. Don't. Talk. To. Me. That way. Ever," he rags, his voice firm and demanding. "And besides, what makes you so sure that this girlfriend of yours is even the same girl? Your mother said on the phone that, what, the girl wrote some essay about some Christmas Eve party? You know how many people have Christmas..."

  "It's the same girl, Dad. It was me she was talking about in her story. I know, because I was there." And finally I say what I'd waited here thirteen hours to say, "I'm telling Calista."

  He takes an intimidating step forward and standing nose to nose now, he orders me to do no such thing.

  "I'm not lying to her, Dad. Not for you. Not for Mom. Not for anyone."

  Though a flash of dread in his eyes betrays his aplomb, my father doesn't falter one bit. "You will not. I order you not to. And if you do, I will cut you off." A cocky grin plays on his face.

  "Bucky," my mother chides, finally stepping foot into the war zone.

  Forcefully holding up his hand, my father stops my mother in her tracks without taking his eyes off of me. "All of it, Griffin. I will cut you off from all of it. No more money for your cars. No more money for school. You'll be done. On your own."

  His eyes shoot silver bullets at me, but his scowl does nothing to sway my decision. "I. Do. Not. Care. About. The. Money. I will still tell my girlfriend about you and her fucking mother."

  "Griffin, please," my mother pleads. "I told you before. Let us at least tell Nathan. Your brother deserves to know first. Please."

  "And that's another thing, Dad, you even kept this secret from my own mother for what? Seven years?"

  My father's eyes dart to my mom, but she remains still and quiet, afraid to beard the lion in his own den.

  "Yeah, that's right, she told me. If Calista's mom hadn't brought her daughter, the spitting image of Nate at age seven, along that Christmas Eve, Dad, would you have even told her yet? Would she still be in the dark about Nate's real mother?"

  He reaches to strike me again, but mom realizes her feet were not in fact glued to the floor and stopped him mid-slap.

  "And why would you keep that a secret? Huh? I mean, my mother never kept the truth about my real father from you, so why would you do that to her? Why create this story that Nate's mother was really sick and died during his birth? Why bother, Dad?" I pause for dramatic effect only. "Unless of course you were still fucking her while you were with...

  My father doesn't even wait for me to finish my sentence, nor is he even concerned that my mother's hands are on his forearm. He actually brings her along for the ride when he balls up his fist and punches me right in the side of my face.

  Yeah, it hurt. Yeah, I pissed off my dad. But I don't fucking care. He's the one at fault here. Not me.

  "Bucky, please," Again, my mom pleads, this time with Dad. "He's your son. You can't hit him like that."

  My father strides t
o the liquor bar and pours himself a scotch. Downs it, and pours another. "He can't talk to me that way, Mary." Dad's still angry, but much calmer. I hear throwing a punch is great for calming the nerves.

  The tears on my mother's face also do something to my dad's resolve, so with a sigh, he puts his drink on the island and sits. His face in his hands. "Your mother is all Nathan knows."

  It takes a second to register that my father is talking to me, so I sit and take the pack of ice that my mother hands me. It feels soothing on my pulsing cheek.

  "And your mother loves him so much too," my father continues. "As much as she loves you. That's why she adopted him. Made him her own."

  "And Mrs. Parker allowed that?" I ask, astonished. My mother hadn't gotten around to filling me in on the details earlier. She was too upset by the fact that I insisted on telling Calista no matter what she or my father said. Instead, she poured herself a huge glass of Madeira wine that she'd picked up when she and Dad took a trip to Portugal, and drank away her troubles. Most likely falling asleep on the couch until she remembered I was still sitting in her kitchen drinking away my own fucking problems.

  "Ellie had no money to take care of Nathan," my father explains, still holding his head in his hands. "She had no money at all. She was easily bought off."

  "What?" I find that hard to believe. "She sold her son?"

  He rubs his faces with his hands before looking up at me. "Not like you think, Griffin. She's not a heartless woman." Dad glances at my mother, then returns his gaze toward me. "She was very poor. Came from a horrible family. Her mother was an alcoholic, her father'd abandoned her. There was no way she could afford to take care of Nathan."