Chapter 4
CALLIOPE
“Can I help, Mommy?” Nick stands at my side, craning his neck to try and see the array of vegetables laid out on the counter beneath my hands.
“Have you finished watching your movie with Grandma?”
“Grandma fell asleep.” Nick pouts. “But I wanna help you!”
“That’s sweet, baby, but I’m in the middle of doing some very grown-up things that could hurt your little fingers.”
“Please,” Nick whines, clutching at my leg. He holds one hand up and wiggles his fingers back and forth. “I have strong fingers, please.”
It’s impossible to say no to a face that adorable, so after quickly peeling the last carrot, I nod. “Okay, you really want to help me?”
“Yes.” He beams up at me, showing every single tooth from how wide his lips stretch.
“Okay, I need you to do a very important job.”
Nick stands up very straight.
“I need you to take all of these peelings in this basin here and take them out to the compost heap. Can you do that for me?” I move the basin filled with all the peelings down onto the floor, and Nick gazes over my shoulder, his lips twisting in thought.
“That will help you?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Okay!”
Just as he reaches for some of the peelings, I catch his wrist in my hand. “Coat and hat first, okay? It’s super-duper cold outside.”
“Yes.” Nick turns suddenly and sprints out of the kitchen.
While he’s gone, I unlock the door to the back porch and move my chopping board to the counter by the window so I can keep an eye on Nick.
It’s a cheeky way to keep him out of my way while I cook New Year’s Day dinner, but it makes him feel useful and that’s most important.
Five minutes later, Nick returns in his puffer coat while cramming a red knit cap down over his curls. “Ready!”
“Ah, Mister. Come here.” Motioning him closer with one finger, I crouch and quickly zip his coat all the way up to the top. “Now I want you to promise me you won’t run. I don’t want you falling in the snow.”
“I promise,” Nick says, panting slightly from his run around the house. “Can I go now?”
“Yes, you can.”
The gust of cold air rushing in through the back door is a small price to pay for keeping Nick occupied.
He grabs handfuls of the vegetable peels and hurries outside, down the two steps to the snow-covered grass, and then all the way to the back of the garden.
There, he throws the peels into the compost heap that’s just as frozen as the rest of the garden.
I keep my attention split between him and cooking, covering the carrots and parsnips in my own honey glaze, sprinkling salt into the potatoes and setting them to boil, peeling the outer leaves off the sprouts and laying them out on their own tray.
As I cook, the basin of peels gradually reduces while the kitchen fills with the mouthwatering aroma wafting from the small roast chicken in the oven.
Last year, Dad cooked. He roasted a ham with all the trimmings, spent all morning and afternoon in the kitchen.
It was his job since Mom was always in charge of Christmas.
This year, it’s been me. I roasted a small turkey at Christmas and now I’m here, roasting a chicken because the thought of eating a ham not prepared by my father was too painful.
We had our differences, but his absence is like an alarm constantly blaring in the back of my mind, refusing to let me forget that he’s no longer here.
His funeral cleaned me out, as did adjusting my accounts to accommodate the bills in this house and my parents’ debt since Mom hasn’t worked since Dad’s heart attack. Balancing this by myself is a strain, and as much as I try to put it out of my mind, I just can’t.
Not after the call I overheard last night.
If Angelic Jewels is in trouble, I have a right to know. I’m a manager. I take care of an entire department that’s mostly separate from the rest of the business, so if there’s an issue regarding the survival of the company, then I should be the first to know.
The sheer volume of pre-orders I take through the website should be proof enough, but of course, Jimmy keeps everything to himself. I could confront him. Knowing my luck, he’d use that as an excuse to fire me and I’d end up in an even worse situation.
Mulling it all over in my mind helps me create the smoothest mashed potatoes I’ve ever made in my entire life. By the time I’m finished, my shoulder throbs and my mind isn’t any clearer about what the hell I’m supposed to do.
“I’m finished!” Nick’s breathless words bring me crashing back to reality.
Glancing down, the basin is completely empty and Nick stands proudly over it with his hands waving at his sides and his cheeks glowing pink from the cold. “What’s next?”
“Thank you.” I laugh. “Next, I need you to take off your coat and hat, and then wash your hands. Can you do that for me?”
“Okay!” Nick puffs out his cheeks and toddles away with a soft groan. “Such hard work.”
Laughing to myself, I set the mash aside and quickly close the back door, sealing the heat back into the kitchen. After rinsing out the basin and checking on the chicken, I set Nick’s stool up near the table and lay three plates out. He returns, grinning, and immediately climbs onto his stool.
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Yep!” He thrusts his pink, slightly floral-scented hands in my face and then gazes at the plates. “What do you want me to do?”
“You see these sauces?” Three small bowls sit in front of him, one with ketchup, one with gravy, and one with cranberry. “I want you to decorate the plates so they look nice for when I put the chicken on them. Can you do that?”
“Yes!” Nick eagerly claps his hands together and reaches for the first spoon. “Can we do this for my birthday too?”
My heart stalls ever so slightly in my chest. “Your birthday?”
“Mmhmm. Can I paint the plates?”
“With real paint or for food?”
“For food, duh,” Nicky groans. “Lots and lots and lots of icing!”
His birthday isn’t until February but at this rate, it’ll be here before I know it. More money I don’t have. Everything set aside to give him a birthday party went on creating a decent Christmas for us all. I’ll need to get creative for his birthday.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” I say, unwilling to squash his dreams just yet.
“Yay! I wanna have all my friends and show them that I do this the bestest ever. Do you like it, Mommy?”
As I work around the kitchen, I snatch a look at the globs of sauce smeared over one plate. “It’s beautiful!”
“Grandma likes birds, right?”
Squinting my eyes, I fail to see the bird shape, but his enthusiasm is enough to draw a noise of agreement from my throat.
I add butter and cream to the mash, check on the roasted veg, open a fresh can of sauce, and I’m in the process of pulling the flan out of the fridge when my phone lights up on top of the fridge. Placing the flan aside, there’s a new message in the midst of several New Year’s wishes.
My best friend, Stacey, has sent a bunch of party emojis followed by several cocktail glasses and question marks to a group chat with old school friends I haven’t spoken to in years.
Stacey’s the only one I’ve remained close with since everyone else backed away when I was pregnant.
Having a kid so young seemed to scare them, or at the very least make them uncomfortable, but they still say hi every now and then.
A flood of agreement comes through from everyone else and I’m about to ignore it when Stacey tags me in the group chat three times, then texts me.
[Stacey]: Drinks??
[Calliope]: I can’t.
[Stacey]: Please. I haven’t seen you in forever.
[Calliope]: I know, I’m sorry, hun. It’s just… difficult.
[Stacey]: Because of Nick?
[Calliope]: And my Mom. It’s hard, y’know.
[Stacey]: Oh, of course. Well, if you change your mind, text me! Love you!
I reply with as many heart emojis as I can while placing my phone back on top of the fridge.
“Watch the chicken doesn’t burn.” Mom stands in the doorway, her dark hair messy on one side and her eyes still weighed down with the lingering remnants of her nap.
“The chicken is fine.”
“What on earth is he doing?” Mom surges forward suddenly, and I catch her arm before she can grab the spoon out of Nick’s hand.
“He’s decorating.”
“It looks terr—”
“Nick!” I say loudly, cutting her off. “Why don’t you go and see if you’ve had any New Year’s messages from your friends?”
“On the iPad?” Nick asks, his eyes wide.
“Yes.”
“Yay!” He immediately abandons his sauce designs, slides from his stool, and charges out of the kitchen like a little man on a mission.
“What is wrong with you?” I hiss as Mom jerks her arm from my grip. “He’s five years old. Let him decorate the plates.”
“That’s not decoration. You’re just letting him play with his food. That’s so irresponsible, Calliope. I raised you better than that!”
My cheeks flare with heat and I turn my back to hide them from her sharp gaze, focusing instead on ensuring the butter melts perfectly through the potatoes. “It’s just a bit of fun.”
“I’m not eating off that,” she mutters in disgust.
“Then I’ll get you a clean plate. It’s not a big deal.”
“Your father would hate it.”
My spoon pauses and I stare hard as the peaks of mash very slowly sink into one another. “I’m not having this fight with you.”
“I’m not looking for a fight.”
“Yes, you are. You stand there and say Dad would have hated that when he was the one who sat with Nick and decorated all those plates at Easter. Or did you forget?” I grit my teeth hard and pain flares through my gums. “If Dad were here, you wouldn’t even be acting like this.”
Plates clatter behind me, making me spin around. Mom’s gathered up all three plates and I can’t stop her from tossing them into the sink and turning on the tap at full blast. “He needs to grow up.”
“He’s five. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me,” Mom snaps. “Life’s too short for this nonsense, that’s all.
” Her words catch in her throat and for a moment, I’m caught between two thoughts.
Sympathy that she’s grieving and it’s a pain we both share, and anger that she’s just ruined what Nick happily spent the past twenty minutes creating.
Anger wins out. “You should leave. I’m not having your sour attitude ruining the first New Year’s he has a chance of remembering,” I hiss.
“I know you’re sad and angry. I am too. But we suck it up because you know as well as I do that Dad would want us to give Nick the best we can. And this is not your best!”
Mom doesn’t look at me. She stares down at the plates and watches the swirling sauce creatures melt away under the rush of water until each plate is perfectly clean. Then she turns to me and we lock eyes.
“Speaking of your father, I’m going to redecorate.”
“What?”
“I can’t live in a house that reminds me of him at every turn. I need a chance. I need separation. I can’t do it, Calliope. I refuse to be haunted in my own home.”
“I—” To an extent, I understand her, but one very glaring issue raises itself immediately. “Mom, we can’t afford that.”
“I have savings.”
“No, you don’t. You barely have anything left, and certainly not enough for a makeover.”
“Then you can help me.”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t have anything either!” It’s a challenge to keep my voice level.
“You have a fancy job,” Mom snaps. “Don’t you stand there and hold out on me, Calliope. That’s unspeakably selfish!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, where do you expect me to pull money from in order to pay for decorating your home?”
“What about the money you have stashed for your apartment? You’re renting it out right now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, to cover the cost of upkeep and nothing more. I don’t make money on it!”
“You’re being cruel, Calliope,” Mom says, and she raises her voice. “This is my home! I am allowed to do what I want in my own home!”
“With what money?” I shoot back, exasperated. Before the argument can ignite further, my phone rings and I leap at the distraction to avoid a screaming match that’ll most likely end with her in tears and Nick afraid. “Hello?”
“Cal.” Jimmy’s voice slithers into my ear and turns my stomach. “Glad I could catch you.”
“What is it?”
“I know you booked the day off, but I need you in tomorrow. Emergency meeting. No exceptions, you hear me? Unless you want to be out of a job.” He wheezes out a short laugh and immediately hangs up.
Shit.