All I Ever Wanted (2 page)

“Hester? Got a minute?”

“Hey, birthday girl! What's up?” My sister's voice, always on the loud side, boomed out of my phone, and I held it away from my ear.

“Hester,” I bleated, “he's seeing someone! He gave me
a beautiful bracelet and kissed me and then he told me he's seeing someone! For a couple of months and it's fairly serious, but I still love him!”

“Jesus, lady, get a grip,” muttered the man behind me. Without thinking, I whirled around and glared. He raised a contemptuous eyebrow—jerk—but okay, yes, heads were starting to turn. Miraculously, no one I knew was here today…the DMV was in Kettering, the town next to Georgebury, so at least there was that.

“Is this Mark we're talking about?” Hester asked, as if I'd discussed any other man for the past year. Or two. Or four. Ah, shit!

“Yes! Mark is dating Muriel from California! Muriel, the daughter of our biggest client! Isn't that lovely?”

The man behind me cleared his throat in a very phony and noticeable way.

“Well, I always thought Mark was a smug bastard,” Hester said.

“You're not helping!” I bit out. Why hadn't Annie answered her phone? She was so much better at this sort of thing. She was normal, not like Hester.

“Well, what should I say? He's a prince? Where are you, anyway?” Hester asked.

“At the DMV. In Kettering.”

“Why are you at the DMV?”

“Because my license is about to expire! It was on my calendar—
renew license.
And I had to get out of there…I just didn't know what else to do.” A sob caught in my throat. “Hester…I always thought…” I took a shuddering breath and tried to lower my voice. “He said it was just timing. He's never been serious with anyone before. And they've been together for
months.
” The betrayal, the
shock
of those words made my chest actually hurt, and
I pressed one hand against my swollen heart, feeling hot tears slice down my face.

The woman in front of me turned around. She had the leathery, lined face and broad shoulders of a dairy farmer. “You a'right, theah, deah?” she asked, her Vermont accent as thick as overboiled maple syrup.

“I'm fine,” I answered in a shaky and rather unconvincing voice, attempting a brave smile.

“I ovahheard you, you poah thing,” she said. “Men can be such ahssholes. My husband, Nahman we're talkin' about, he sits down to dinnah one day and says he wants a d'vorce on account a' he's been banging the secretary down at the creamery. And this when we've been married fahty-two yeahs.”

“Oh, my gosh, I'm so sorry,” I said, reaching out to hold her hand. She was right. Men
were
assholes.
Mark
was an asshole. I shouldn't be heartbroken over him. Except I loved the rat bastard. Oh, blerk!

“Hello? I'm still here, Callie,” my sister reminded me sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don't know, Hes… What do you think I should do?” I asked.

“Step outside?” suggested the man behind me.

“Damned if I know, Callie,” she sighed. “The longest relationship I've ever had lasted thirty-six hours. Which you know,” she said, her voice turning thoughtful, “has worked really well for me.”

“Hes,” I said wetly, “I'll be seeing them together every day.” The notion made my heart clench.

“That's probably gonna suck,” my sister agreed.

“You poah deah,” said the older woman, squeezing my hand.

Work would never be the same. Green Mountain
Media, the company that I helped build, would now be home to Muriel.
Muriel.
That was such a mean name! A rich girl's name! A cold and condemning name! Not like Callie, which was so bleeping friendly and cute!

A sob squeaked out, and Mr. Intolerant behind me grumbled. That was it. I whirled around. “Look, mister, I'm sorry if I'm bothering you, but I'm having a really shitty day, okay? Is that okay with you? My heart is breaking, okay, pal?”

“By all means,” he said coolly. “Please continue with your emotional diarrhea.”

Ooh. The bastard! He looked like the stick-up-the-butt type…dressed in a suit (and you know, please—this is Vermont). He had a boring military-style haircut, cold blue eyes and disdainful Slavic cheekbones. I turned back around. Clearly
he
didn't understand what love felt like. Love gone bad. Love rejected. My tender and loyal heart, broken.

That being said, maybe he had a point.

“I'd better go,” I whispered to my sister. “I'll call you later, Hes.”

“Okay. Sucks that it's your birthday today. But listen, if it's having babies you're worried about, don't bother. I can get you pregnant in a New York minute. I know all the best sperm donors.”

“I don't want you to get me pregnant,” I blurted.

“For God's sake,” muttered Mr. Slavic Cheekbones. The older woman who'd been cuckolded looked questioningly at me.

“My sister's a fertility doctor,” I explained. I closed my phone and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “She's very successful.”

“Oh, that's nice,” my dairy farmer friend replied.
“My daughter did in vitro. She's gawt twins now. Foah yeahs old.”

“That's wonderful,” I said wetly.

“Next,” droned the robot.
Shuffle shuffle shuffle.
The man behind me sighed again.

Images of Mark flooded my mind—our first kiss when I was only fourteen. Years later at work, him bending over my computer, his hand companionably on my shoulder. Getting nearly drunk on maple syrup just last week at a farm we were pitching. Our first kiss. The fateful airplane ride to Santa Fe. Did I mention our first kiss?

Hot tears leaked out of my eyes, and I sucked in a shuddering breath.

Suddenly, a neatly folded handkerchief appeared at the side of my head. I turned. Mr. Intolerance of the Cruel Cheekbones was offering me his handkerchief. “Here,” he said, and I took it. It was ironed. It may have been starched. Who did that anymore? I blew my nose heartily, then looked at him again.

“Keep it,” he suggested, looking over my head.

“Thank you,” I squeaked.

“Next,” one of the drones called from behind the counter. We shuffled forward once more.

An eternity later, I finally had a new license. Insult to injury…for however many years, I would look like an escaped lunatic…mascara puddled, face blotchy, smile wobbly and insincere. So much for my spiffy outfit.

As I fished my keys out of my bag, I saw the older woman standing near the exit, putting on those vast black sunglasses old folks wear after cataract surgery. My heart went out to her…at least my husband didn't cheat on me. Leave me after forty-two years. Crikey.

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” I asked.

“Who, me?” she asked. “No, sweethaht, I've gawt work to do. Good luck with everything, though.”

On impulse, I gave her a hug. “Norman's an idiot,” I told her.

“I think you're one smaht cookie,” she said, patting my back. “That boyfriend of yaws doesn't know what he's missin'.”

“Thanks,” I answered, tears threatening again. My new friend gave me a wave and went out to her car.

My phone bleated. Mom. Great. “Happy birthday, Calliope!” she sang.

“Hi, Mom,” I answered, wondering if she'd pick up anything from my leaden tone. She didn't.

“Listen, I have news. Dave just called. Elements burst a pipe and flooded.”

Being housed in a 150-year-old industrial building, Elements was somewhat prone to this type of thing. “That's fine,” I said. “I'm not really in the mood anyway.” At least I wouldn't have to endure a birthday party. I could just go home and eat cake batter.

“Don't be silly,” Mom trilled. “I've already called everyone. We're having your party here.”

My heart sank. “Here? Where do you mean, here?”

“At the funeral home, honey. Where else?”

“H
ARD TO BELIEVE
you're thirty,” my mother said that evening, giving my hand a little squeeze. “Mr. Paulson's family is receiving visitors in the Tranquility Room,” she added as a well-dressed couple halted in confusion upon seeing my birthday balloons.

“How can our little girl be thirty, Eleanor, when you don't look a day over twenty-five?” my father murmured from my other side, giving me a bear hug and nearly causing me to spill my second cosmo. Mom ignored him, as was her custom lo these many years since their divorce. Dad took it like a man. “Callie, I fell in love with you at first sight. You were such a beautiful baby! Still are! So beautiful!”

“Has…
your father
…been drinking, Callie?” my mother asked, not deigning to look at dear old Dad. “If so, please ask him to leave.” In this house,
your father
was synonymous with
that shithead.

“Have you been drinking, Dad?” I asked amiably.

“Not too much,” he answered with equanimity. “Not enough, I should say,” he added in a lower voice.

“Hear, hear,” I murmured, taking a slug of my pink cocktail. Given that (A) the man I loved, etc., etc.; (B) Verdi's
Requiem
was playing in the background, and (C) my party was being held at a funeral home, I'd decided
to (D) ring in my special day in the company of Grey Goose and cranberry juice.

Irritated that she'd failed to insult my dad, Mom shot me an evil look. I snapped to attention. “This party is lovely, Mom,” I lied, giving her a big smile.

Mollified, she gave me a little smile. “I've always thought this was the most beautiful building in town,” she said. “Well, better go check on Mr. Paulson.” With that, she bustled off to check on the wake in the next room.

Misinski's Funeral Home
was
an impressive building, a large Victorian with the first floor serving as the business end, the second and third floors as living quarters for Mom and, recently, my brother, Freddie. I'd grown up here. The basement, of course, was where all the yucky work was done. To my mother, there was absolutely nothing odd about having a birthday party next door to a wake; this funeral home had been in her family for three generations, and the whole
death is a part of life
philosophy was indelibly tattooed on her soul. So what if at age three, Freddie wouldn't take his nap anywhere but in a casket? So what if Mom used to store the Thanksgiving turkey in the same fridge that kept the clients fresh?

Outside, the sun was shining, as Vermont was enjoying her two weeks of summer. The sky was rich and blue, the air fresh with the scent of pine. In here…not so much. The funeral home was like a time bubble in which nothing ever changed. The smell of lilies, the sounds of sad, classical music, the sight of the heavy, dark furniture…the caskets…the dead people. I sighed.

“So how's my pretty girl?” Dad asked. “You got my check, right?”

“I did, Dad. Thank you so much! And I'm doing
great.” It was always my habit to be cheerful around my parents, even when that meant lying through my pearly whites.

“Can I tell you a secret, Poodle?” Dad asked, waving at someone on the far side of the Serenity Room.

“Sure, Daddy,” I answered, putting my head on his shoulder.

“Now that I've retired, I'm going to get your mother back,” he said.

“Get her back for what?” I asked, assuming this was a revenge thing.

“Get her back as in woo her. Court her. Seduce her.”

I straightened abruptly. “Oh. Yeah, um…no. In case you forgot, she…uh…she hates you, Dad.”

“No!” He grinned. “Well, she might think she does. But your mother is the only woman I ever loved.” He gave me the wink that served him so well. Dad was a good-looking guy, silvery hair, dark eyes, dimples. I looked a lot like him, minus the gray. (
Which is just around the corner!
Betty Boop sobbed.
And Mark's with someone else!)

“That's not a good idea, Daddy,” I said, taking another sip of my drink.

“Why isn't it a good idea?” Dad asked, unsettled by my lack of enthusiasm.

“Maybe because you cheated on her when she was pregnant with Freddie. I'm just throwing that out there, of course.”

He nodded. “Not my best moment, I'll admit. The cheating, I mean.” He paused and finished off his drink. “But you understand, Callie, sweetheart. It was a mistake, I've spent twenty-two years paying for it, and it's all water under the bridge. She'll forgive me. Hopefully.”

“You really still love her, Dad?”

“Of course I do! I never stopped.” He gave me a squeeze. “You'll help me, right?”

“Ooh. Not sure about that. The wrath of Mom…you know.” Having Mom mad at you was the emotional equivalent of standing in the path of a category five tornado…lots of big things flying around ripping great chunks out of you.

“Oh, come on, Poodle,” Dad cajoled. “I thought we were the same. We're romantics, aren't we? God knows I can't ask Hester.”

“True, true.” After all, Dad's bad example was the reason my sister specialized in getting women pregnant without benefit of the physical presence of a man. “But, Dad…really? Do you really think you can get past all that…stuff?”

For a second, the expression on my father's eternally smiling face flickered. “If I could do it all again,” he said quietly, looking at his drink, “things would be so different, Callie. We were happy once, and I…well.” His eyes went dark, like a light was turned off.

“Oh, Daddy,” I whispered, unable to stanch the sympathy that swelled in my heart. I was eight when my parents divorced, aware only that my world was falling apart. Years later, when Hester illuminated me as to the why, I was shocked and dismayed with my father…but he'd already been punished for so long. Hester had barely spoken to him for years, and my mother kept the emotional knives sharpened, as was her right. But for whatever reason, it wasn't in me to hate my father. His infidelity was a mystery best left unexplored. To the best of my knowledge, and despite his Cary Grant charm and crinkly eyes, Dad had been alone ever since he left my
mother. Certainly, I had never met a girlfriend or heard a tale of even a dinner companion. Indeed, it seemed as if Dad had been atoning since before Freddie was even born.

“She loved me once,” Dad said quietly, almost to himself. “I can make her remember why.”

Yes. Squirreled away, separated from the memories of Mom sobbing on the couch or spewing curses at my father as my infant brother screamed his way through five months of colic, were a few little gems. Mom sitting on Dad's lap. The two of them dancing in the living room without benefit of music when Dad returned from a long business trip. The sound of their laughter drifting out from behind their bedroom door, as comforting as the smell of vanilla cake, fresh from the oven.

“Will you help me, Poodle?” Dad asked. “Please, baby?”

I took a deep breath. “You know what? Sure. It'll be an uphill battle, but sure.”

Dad's expression changed, and he once again became a sparkly George Clooney. “That's my girl! You'll see. I'll get her back.” He smooched my cheek, and I couldn't help smiling. Twenty-two years should be enough time served, right? Dad deserved another chance at love.

And so did I. Dammit, so did I! Betty Boop stopped crying and seemed to look up at me.
Really? Honest and true?

“Want another drink?” my father asked, and without waiting for an answer, trotted to the makeshift bar in the back.

Suddenly, I felt better. My father was going to try again to reclaim the love of his life. I should try, too. Mark had chosen me once…maybe I'd been too…sappy or clingy or whatever during those five weeks. I'd been
mooning after him ever since Santa Fe. Maybe, just by going back to myself, that cheerful, smart, likable person I was, Mark would see that I was the one for him, not Muriel. And if he saw me with someone else, maybe that would be the kick in the butt he needed.

The—what had the man at the DMV called it?—ah, yes, the
emotional diarrhea
had been purifying. Life was good, as the T-shirts said. Or it could become good, right? I could find someone else. Even if Mark didn't want me—I winced, but kept going—if that was true, then I'd find someone else who did. I would! No more Debbie Downer, no more Bitter Betty. I was Callie Grey, after all. Former prom queen, I'll have you know. Everyone liked me. They really did.

“Doesn't it look so pretty, Auntie?” asked Josephine grabbing my hand. Today, my five-year-old niece was dressed like a tiny, trashy pop star, fishnet vest over leopard leotard, ruffled pink skirt and flip-flops.

“So pretty,” I answered, smiling down at her. “Almost as pretty as you.” She beamed up at me, showing me her adorable, tiny teeth, and I touched her button nose.

The Serenity Room was strewn with pink and yellow streamers. Matching balloons drifted lazily past the stained-glass window depicting Lazarus coming forth from the tomb, and a table holding my birthday cake sat up in front, where the casket usually went. Bronte had made a big sign that said, “Happy 30th, Callie!”

The room was filled with an array of friends and relatives, as well as a couple of rather confused-looking people who were probably here for the wake in the Tranquility Room. There was Freddie, my brother, who was taking a year off from Tufts University, where he seemed to be majoring in skipping classes and drinking. He
raised a glass to me and I waved fondly. My sister, built like a strong rhino, towered over him in full lecture mode, judging from the glazed look in his eyes. Pete and Leila, my fused-at-the-hip coworkers, surveyed the cheese tray (thank God for Cabot's!).

“Happy birthday, Calliope,” came a low and very silken voice behind me. My uterus seemed to shrivel as my blood ran icy cold. “You look very beautiful today. Perfect, in fact.”

“Thanks, Louis,” I murmured, immediately glancing around desperately for a sibling or parent or friend (or priest, just in case it was true and that Louis was a ghoul who needed to be exorcised by an agent of Christ).

Louis Pinser was my mother's mortuarial assistant, and quite beloved by Mom and Mom alone. Since her children had all refused to go into the family business, she'd had to look elsewhere. Elsewhere (somewhere damp and underground, I imagined) yielded Louis, a tall, chubby man with a receding hairline, slightly bulging green eyes and the requisite deep and soothing (and terrifying) voice of a funeral director. Once I'd overheard him in the bathroom reciting, “I'm so sorry for your loss, I'm so sorry for your loss.” Needless to say, he found me
very
attractive. All the weird ones did.

“I'd like to take you out to celebrate properly,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to my breasts. He held up his drink to his mouth, and his tongue darted out, seeking but not finding the straw as he continued to stare at my boobs. Blerk!

“Ah. Well. That's nice of you,” I said. “But I'm so…it's been a crazy…you know. Work. Stuff. What's that?” I pretended to hear something. “Yes, Hester? You need me? Sure!” With that, I bounded out into the foyer,
where my sister had just gone, and took a few deep breaths. Being around Louis always made me want to run out into the sunlight and play with puppies.

“No, you can't straighten your hair,” Hester was saying to her older daughter. “Next question?”

Bronte turned to me. “Don't you think a teenager should be able to do what she wants with her hair?” she asked, hoping for solidarity.

“Um…Mother knows best?” I suggested.

“You try being the only black kid in school,” Bronte muttered. “Let alone having this stupid name.”

“Hey,” I said. “You're talking to Aunt Calliope here, named for Homer's muse. No sympathy on the name.”

“And I was named after the slut in
The Scarlet Letter,”
Hester said. “At least you have a cool author's name. Which, once again, I didn't even pick, as you well know.” Bronte had been seven when Hester adopted her. Though my sister was a fertility doctor and could've had her children the old-fashioned way (artificial insemination, that is), she'd adopted both her children. Bronte's biological father had been African-American, her birth mother was Korean, and the result was a stunningly beautiful girl. But as Vermont is the whitest state in the union, she felt her difference keenly, especially since she'd hit adolescence, when looking like everyone else is so important. Josephine, on the other hand, was white and looked very much like Hester, which was pure coincidence.

“Well, I'm changing my name to Sheniqua when I'm sixteen,” Bronte said, narrowing her eyes at her mother and me.

“I love it,” Hester answered calmly, which caused Bronte to flounce off. My sister glanced at me. “You doing okay?” she asked.

“Oh, sure,” I lied, though the question made my heart squeeze. “Much better. Thanks for listening earlier.”

At that moment, my mother came out of the Tranquility Room. “Did you girls happen to see Mr. Paulson?” she asked, referring to the man whose wake was currently under way. “Gorgeous work. That Louis is so talented.” She bustled off.

“Happy birthday, Callie,” said Pete, emerging from the Serenity Room, his lady love firmly welded to his side. “We'd love to stay…”

“…but we need to go,” finished Leila. She glanced nervously at the other room, where we could just glimpse Mr. Paulson in his casket.

“Thanks for coming, guys.” I smiled gamely.

“Callie, when does Muriel start?” Pete asked.

At the name, my face ignited. “Don't know,” I said, feigning a lack of interest. The young lovers exchanged a look.
Poor Callie. Let's pretend we don't know about her and Mark.

“See you Monday, Callie,” Pete said at the same time Leila murmured, “Have a nice weekend.”