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 werehere, 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’sfive. 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 decoratingyourhome?”
“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 thedistraction 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.
