“Not at all. They’re just afternoon hash browns.”
Studying the deep black pool of dark-roast coffee, in what I’m guessing is one of the same ceramic mugs we have sipped from for the past thirty years, I say in the smallest voice, “He looks good, Quinn.”
“Yeah?” Quinn doesn’t push, but does stop a passing server to order our fries.
“Yeah. He’s an English teacher and football coach at an all-boys’ school called Regis,” I confirm, and rub my sweaty palms on my pants. “Remember how I told you I met Chap?”
“You almost hit him in your fiftieth-birthday tank, if I remember correctly.”
“Yep. I almost did. And that afternoon, I gave Chap my name and phone number. When he saw the name Callie and my 212 area code, which I let him know was from New York, he got a little curious.”
“Yeah, I already know that. I was there for all the ‘Is he or isn’t he interested in me?’ text deliberation.”
“Turns out that interest was not in me per se, but on behalf of his unsuspecting uncle. Apparently, Chap grew up hearing stories about me, particularly when he got into his teen years. Porter wanted to make sure Chap chose the right kind of woman, and when he did, that he didn’t make the same mistake Porter made.”
“Which mistake? Porter made more than a few.”
“The big one. Letting me go.”
“But you go by Kingman, not Steele. And you are far from the only fiftysomething-year-old named Callie from New York.”
“True. But Chap took the little information he had to a woman named Maureen Nickerson, who helped Porter raise Chap. She also happens to lead the Heart and Sole Running Club and is a self-professed busybody. Anyway, Maureen told Chap he had to figure out a way to get me to the running club and then, as the experienced information excavator, she would take it from there. As luck would have it, a few weeks later, Chap found me heaving over a fire hydrant at the end of my first attempt at a run. From there, between his exceptional physique on screen and persuasive texts, I found my way to McKinley Park and to the running club, all in line with Maureen’s master plan.”
“So then you ran a few miles with this Maureen woman, and she pulled your entire life story out of you? That’s not like you, Callie, to share your details so openly, particularly when it comes to Porter. I thought you’d packed all that away.”
“Oh, trust me, I thought I had too, but it turns out there is another woman in the club named Daphne, who is the head nurse at my mom’s memory-care facility. I have been seeing Daphne every Monday for a year straight when I pick up my mom for our weekly outings, but I had never once seen her outside of Mercy until there she is, stretching it outwith the slower runners the first day I show up. Not that Daphne knows much about my past either, but when Chap and Maureen realized that the two of us knew each other, they recruited Daphne to figure out if I was, in fact, ‘Porter’s girl.’” I put in quotes for Quinn how, apparently, my running crew has been referring to me for months behind my back.
“How is your mom doing these days?” Quinn lives for hearing tales of Helen’s demented exploits; she finds them far more entertaining than controlling her own aging-opera-star mother’s addiction to cosmetic surgery and hoarding of Gucci silk scarves, couture handbags, and costume cocktail rings. Quinn’s most recent toe to toe with her mother was over Mrs. Tahiri’s wish to be buried with all her luxury goods à la King Tut.
“Actually, Helen’s the key to this whole orchestrated reunion,” I reveal. Since Helen has become a late-in-life serial snacker, Daphne took to prying open my mom’s past life with bribes of Cheetos and Junior Mints. My mother’s current favorite trash-food treat, Nutter Butter, is also what Daphne and I have come to call my mom. Once she ripped into that red plastic packaging, Helen sang like a canary with mixed-up anecdotes and unsourced insights into the life and times of young Callie Steele.
“How does Daphne know what to believe coming out of your mother’s mouth? What’s the truth and what’s not? Even when Helen was playing with a full deck back in the day, she tried to convince us that Quincy Jones wanted to marry her, and that she was a muse in Halston halters for artists who flocked to Studio 54.”
“There have been a couple of days when I have gone to pick up my mom and Daphne’s informed me she wasn’t really up for an outing. Mom didn’t have the energy, or something like that. When it comes to Helen’s care, I tend not to question Daphne, so instead of going out, the two of us head down the hall to my mom’s room for the afternoon. Daphne tended to linger around a bit, helping Mom and me get comfortable for a couple of hours, chatting about whatever crossed Helen’s mind from the past nine decades of her life. Or didn’t. I’d settle on the bed, and Daphne would go back to supervising the ward. Or soI thought. Often on these afternoons, my mom’s reminiscence of choice was my wedding.”
“Why your wedding?”
“I told her about Alice’s wedding, and she got confused. She has the framedNew York Timesannouncement from my wedding in her room. She loves to caress it and share her memories of the day, which are usually far from accurate. And yes, I know. Of all the things to bring to California with her, this was portable proof of her social status as an Upper East Sider.” Without breaking eye contact, Quinn waves her arm for any server to refill our coffees and bring us more ketchup.
“I would have brought those Halston dresses,” Quinn suggests, and I let out a chuff.
“It’s become common in her recall of my wedding that she confuses Thomas with Porter. Once Helen is speeding down her memory lane of time spent with Porter, I can’t get her to stop. And for people suffering from dementia, clarifying fact from fiction is pointless. It’s easier on everyone to just let them go with whatever is bringing peace to their day, even if it’s hard to hear.” I shrug in surrender to the truth of where my mom and her grip on reality stand. “Turns out one of those times Daphne was on the other side of my mom’s door, listening in. The doors are made of thin plywood, so if a resident so much as drops their hairbrush, a nurse at the front station can hear it and come assist. Daphne got all she needed to confirm to Chap and Maureen that I was indeed ‘Porter’s girl.’” I can’t believe I just called myself that. Porter’s and a girl. I haven’t been either in forever.
“And then?”
“Daphne took that oft-repeated, mixed-up, messed-up wedding tale straight to Maureen and Chap.”
“And my guess is that’s why they plotted to get you together with Porter somewhere public, so your first reaction was not to kill him, right?”
“Strong strategy, but not exactly. Again, Maureen is very protective of Porter and Chap. She wanted to get to know me first to make sure I was worthy of blowing Porter’s life wide open. Her words, not mine. For thepast few months, outside of the Wednesday-night club run, I have also been running a couple of times a week with just Maureen and Daphne.” I’m still in awe of these two women’s abilities to wrangle themselves into my life and then elicit my personal tale out of my mouth. “I thought they were on Team New Year’s Eve Wedding Revenge, helping me get into fighting shape for my forced reunion with Thomas on Alice’s big day. Turns out my rants about Thomas were background noise to them. The whole time, they were only interested in getting to know me for Porter’s sake. Deciding if I was worthy of reentering his life. And by proxy, Chap’s too.”
“And what was Chap’s role in all this intrigue?”
“To keep me coming back to running club. You should see Chap, Quinn. It’s no wonder Heart and Sole has a low attrition rate and is mostly full of women.”
“A young Porter?”
“Very much so.” I can’t help but smile.
