“I doodle a bit,” I said, “but I’m nowhere as good as you.”
“I’m sure you’re better than you think.”
I laughed. “Not really, but I’m kick-ass at origami. I’ve been doing it since I was little.”
She perked up. “Wow. You’ll have to show me one day.”
“For sure.”
Just then, the doorbell clanged, and I knew I’d have to leave her and attend to my customers; a young couple. I stood from the table. “I need to go, but I’ll be right back.”
“Sure.”
I was so afraid she’d leave -- I didn’t want to lose her. I was leaving shortly for RAMS, and I wouldn’t be working at the coffee shop for much longer. “Can we keep in touch?” I asked. “Like, on social media or something?”
She winced. “Well, I’m kind of off social media right now. My therapist says it’s best to stay away for the time being,” she explained.
My heart sank. “Oh, okay.”
She perked up. “But I can give you my email if you’d like.”
My whole body swelled. “Yes, that would be great,” I said and eyed the couple at the counter. They were all lovey-dovey and not too much in a hurry, thankfully.
She pulled a small notepad from her purse and scribbled her address. She handed it to me with a smile. “You’re probably wondering what my story is,” she said, and a long uncomfortable silence filled the air. “I’d like to tell you,” she added quietly.
My throat went dry. I wondered if she could possibly be a mind reader, too, because she had me down pat. “Well, I… I did wonder. I just think it’d be nice if we were friends.”
She smiled again. “I think so, too.”
I didn’t want to walk away but I had to. “I’ll be back if I have a chance. It sometimes gets busy this time of day.”
She held her cup to her lips. “No worries, Anna.”
I grinned and waved bye, and turned to my customers. The doorbell clanged again.
As predicted, the afternoon rush swept me away and I didn’t have a chance to sit with Calista again. She left quietly with a wave and a smile.
And a promise to share her story.
Two weeks later,I officially turned sixteen. My sweet sixteenth was a pretty small event since I didn’t have many friends. It was me and my family, and my friend Brooke.
I wore a special outfit for the occasion; a vintage polka-dot skirt and white blouse. My mother and I like vintage wear. I love it because sometimes when I wear or touch an old item of clothing, I can see past owners; faces of women who’ve worn the pieces before. Some of the faces are faint, barely seen, and others are strong presences. Some pieces evoke almost nothing, and others fill my mind with images. I like the red skirt with the white polka dots because there’s a pretty brown haired girl named Gilda who wore it in the sixties, 1968 to be precise, the summer she fell in love with a beautiful boy. The emotions of that summer make the skirt speak to me so strongly – most clothes don’t have that much to say. My t-shirts and faded jeans certainly don’t.
We had burgers (my favorite) and strawberry shortcake, topped with sixteen pink candles. My mother gave me a beautiful jewelry box, one of her prized collectibles. She’s been collecting decorative boxes all of her life, and she must have over a hundred.
She was full of emotion when she handed it to me. “You can have this one. It has a lock. You can keep your things in it; your watch, daddy’s necklace, anything you want. Keep your things safe, and wear the key on your neck. Kids these days… they steal.”
Where the heck does she think I’m going? A juvenile center?
I stroked the blue velvet lining inside of the box. “Thanks, Mom.”
Daddy’s necklace. It always hangs on my neck. I fingered the cool glass stone between my fingers as I often do, feeling his presence in my heart. Jake, my ‘real’ dad. Over the years, I’ve come to think of Nelson as my dad. He’s been there since I was seven. But my biological father is Jake; a handsome disheveled man with a scruffy face and long dark hair. Jake was not like Nelson at all; he was ‘complicated’ as my mother likes to say. I’m not really sure what that means. Maybe it’s the fact that he was like me – he could read people. In other words, he was a weirdo, too.
I sadly don’t have too many memories of him, save for the yummy macaroni n’ cheese he used to make me, the two of us playing cards, and tickling fests that made me laugh so hard, I cried.
I loved him. And he loved me.
And he loved my mother too. I’ll always remember the day he gave us both matching necklaces; glass hearts on long silver chains. Hearts whose colors change with our moods. I’ve worn that necklace ever since.
