Of course, that was all before my sister changed my life with a beta fish.
CHAPTER THREE
Whenever my sister’s name popped up on my phone, I shuddered. For a long time, Lucy’s calls involved homework emergencies and other assorted drama, so I dreaded them. Answering meant either coaching her through it over the phone or driving to her dorm to build a bridge out of straws and tape while she ate Cheetos on her futon and critiqued my methods. All in all, saving my sister from her education was not a pleasurable experience. I felt like I was completing school all over again, four years later.
The cries for help lessened once she finally eked by with grades good enough to graduate Lucy’s preference for “handy” women who could solve plumbing problems and cook chicken curry blindfolded might have also been a factor for the pseudo self-reliance. All the same, phone calls from her were more conversational, even if we mostly just commiserated about our mother. At least it was more interesting than geometric arts and crafts projects.
“Hey, Luce,” I tried to sound cheery and not at all distracted.
She exhaled a long breath. A bad sign. “Hey… loving sister.” Another bad sign. “Are you—um—busy later tonight?”
I closed my eyes and sighed as silently, and as far away from the receiver, as possible. Goodbye, luxurious night of television and pajamas. Lucy’s got another problem her big sister needs to solve. “What’s up?”
“It’s Meg. She’s a tangled mess and we need to perform a hair-ectomy.”
“Again? Didn’t we just do that last month?”
“My dumbass neighbor planted bushes out front and Meg’s been hiding under them, scaring chipmunks. There’s twigs stuck in her butt hair, Tess. It’s
bad.
”
“All right, okay. Seven o’clock? But you need to feed me. I’ll come straight from work and I’ll be hungry enough to
eat
your damn cat. Got it?”
My sister knew better than to take her chances, so she left a plate of homemade hummus and pita bread waiting for me when I arrived, as harried and starving as predicted.
“Sarita left some food behind,” Lucy explained, a slight blush tinting her cheeks. “She cooks at that little Mediterranean restaurant down the street. It’s delicious.”
My mouth full of pita, I nodded, thankful for my sister’s diverse taste in women. So she got around, but she definitely knew how to pick them. I devoured several pita triangles smothered in hummus and a handful of fresh cherry tomatoes from her fridge. Add to that the delicious scent of roasting lamb kebabs wafting from the oven and I was officially convinced the trip hadn’t been wasted after all. Then, of course, I caught a glimpse of our patient.
Meg was the oldest of my sister’s four kitty-cat children, named for the sisters in her favorite book
Little Women.
She was a giant Persian with the tawny mane of a lion and the personality of a docile old lady—who just happened to have a weakness for eating small rodents. Meg was calm and cuddly, provided there weren’t any small beasts in sight. Indeed, she required a surgical rescue from the giant knot adorning her backside, where it would possibly interrupt certain—ahem—bodily functions.
“Oh Lord,” I groaned. “How am I supposed to help with this? Shouldn’t you bring her to a professional?”
“Sorry, Tess.” Lucy thrust her squirmy baby into my arms. “’I want to date my vet, not gross her out, so it’s just you and me.”
“She’s a vet, for crying out loud. You think she’s never shaved an ass before?”
“I didn’t feel sexy asking for something gross, okay? So just hold Meg still and I’ll—um—shave the area.”
Several paws to the face and muttered swear words later, Meg’s hair-ectomy was deemed a success. She was set loose to enjoy her litter box without obstruction once again, albeit with one embarrassingly bare bottom. We’d certainly come a long way from late-night straw-and-tape bridges.
With a glance at the clock, I began my departure. A pile of unfinished work and a tub of New York Super Fudge Chunk were calling my name, lonely and abandoned, from my own apartment. I also needed to tend to the stinging claw marks on my neck and chest. Anytime I thought I wanted a pet for my lonely apartment, I just had to visit Lucy’s apartment to cure myself of the urge.
“Take some lamb with you, okay?” Lucy handed me a plastic container of leftovers, warm to the touch, and I considered that ice cream for dinner wasn’t the healthiest option.
“Thanks,” I said, hugging her. “I’ll see you next weekend?”
“Oh yeah, sure,” she smiled uneasily. “Just….Tess? One last favor, if you don’t mind.” She slid a brown grocery bag across the counter and I doubted it was filled with delicious baklava by the look on her face. “I need someone to take Mr. Finntastic for a while.”
“Mr. Finn—what?”
“Finntastic.”
I peeked into the bag and found a fish bowl with bright pink rocks and a blue plant, drained of water. A zippered sandwich bag held a royal blue beta fish with long, flowing fins, relaxing with his nose pressed against the plastic.
“Jo tried to eat him. He can’t stay here. He’ll die!”
“So flush him. He’ll be free to swim the Quabbin Reservoir. There aren’t any cats there. At least, not any living ones.”
“Tess!” She looked appalled, just like the time I suggested Ken and Barbie have a naked sleepover in the Dream House.
“Fine, fine. I’ll take your stupid fish. But I’m probably just going to kill it.” She followed me out to the car, placing the bag gingerly onto the floor of the passenger side. After making me promise to feed him every day and make sure the water was around seventy degrees and talk to him before and after work and… lots of other unnecessary things, I left my sister’s apartment and drove home as slowly as possible, so as not to kill the fish with the impact of a speed bump.
Eventually, somewhere along the ten-minute drive, my mind drifted back to more human life-and-death scenarios, like exactly how much work I needed to get done before it was acceptable to watch television. I made a checklist, chose my outfit for the next day, and even laid out the bare bones of my monthly newsletter to the shareholders, all in my head while driving. No one multi-tasks like Tessa Monroe. This is a fact.
Back at home, I ate my dinner straight from the container—still warm—while going through lines and lines of copy, until my eyeballs were dry and sore. I’d just cracked the lid off my ice cream carton and plopped onto my big, cushy sofa when I remembered the fish.
Still sitting in my car.
“Holy crap!” I jumped up from the couch, launching a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into the air, and bolted for the door. “Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.
Don’t
be
dead
, fish!”
Mr. Finntastic was not dead and I was relieved I would not have to buy a replacement and lie to my sister. I scooped up the bag and ran back to the house, stepping on several pointy pebbles in my bare feet along the way. Already the fish was causing harm. Super.
I set Finn—I decided to give him a nickname because Mr. Finntastic is, well, huh—on the kitchen table, bagged my hands in Ziplocs, and started spreading the mold-contaminated, bacteria-infested pink rocks along the bottom of his bowl. I took great care to stand the blue plant upright, exactly in the center of the rocks, and stood back to admire my work. A nice home for the little guy.
“Okay, Finn.” Talking to him was one of the rules, and the least I could do for nearly killing him with neglect. Slowly, I released the fish and all of his water into the bowl, careful not to disturb the décor. He swam a lap then settled at the bottom, floating just above the rocks. “Welcome to your new home.”
****
By Wednesday, and still without word from Christian, I was worried about our weekly coffee date. If his calm, cool demeanor over the weekend was an act, what would I find after a few days’ time? On the way to Tosca’s Italian Bakery that day, my mind reeled with possible scenarios, none positive in nature. Shockingly, Christian stood at the ordering counter wearing a wide smile. His sandy brown hair was tousled with just the right amount of purposefulness, his blue eyes sparkled behind his silver-framed glasses, and even his Dockers were neatly creased and ironed. This was not the usual dressing-from-the-laundry-pile technique that was customary after a breakup. It was almost like Marcy never happened.
“Bonjourno, Signore! Il solito, per favore. Un vaso e due tazze di caffé.” Christian ordered our usual in Italian, earning us bonus points—and two free cannoli—from the Antonios. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned slowly, greeting me with a big smile—easy, carefree, just another Coffee Wednesday like every one before it.
Tosca’s was a little neighborhood secret, owned by an adorable, aging Italian couple who knew all their customers by name. The tables were rickety, but so clean you didn’t need a plate. The coffee was just the way the Italians liked it—hot, strong, and without any of those crazy, trendy names. No demi anything, no non-fat whatever it’s called. Just plain coffee with cream or milk and sugar. The interior was equally as simple: white walls with pictures of famous Roman ruins; a black-and-white checkerboard floor; a shiny chrome counter and display case up front, lined edge to edge with tempting pastries in tiny doilies. They used real ceramic cups with sturdy handles, and when the occasional out-of-towner stopped in for coffee to-go, Mr. Antonio scoffed in that uniquely Italian way. He’d shake his head and say, heavy on the accent, “You sit. You stay. You drink a-coffee from this.” Then he’d expertly brandish a ceramic mug, fill it with coffee, and slide it across the counter. “You see. It taste a-better in here.”
Coffee Wednesdays were our much needed mid-week break. When my brain overflowed with facts and figures, budgets and edits, I found my escape at Tosca’s. Likewise, Christian put down his camera and walked over from his studio. Together, we spent half an hour talking about whatever was on our minds. I couldn’t say how the tradition started, just that it’d been going on so long that my internal alarm clock knew exactly when to leave the office.
Mr. Antonio brought our order to our favorite table in the back and Christian poured my coffee, carefully measuring out the right amount of milk. I inhaled the strong brew as the warmth reached my nose then took that first sip. Too hot, I set the mug down and watched Christian make his own cup and gulp it down, unfazed, before pouring a second. Around us, some members of the usual Wednesday crowd were already in place, typing away on laptops or reading novels. The sounds of these co-inhabitants, together with soft instrumental music and the occasional clattering in the kitchen, created the perfect soundtrack for a nice, easy conversation.
Sitting here in Tosca’s with Christian, sharing a pot of coffee, enjoying the effortless companionship—I was happy and comfortable. Across from me, our knees touching beneath the table, he idly tapped his fingers against his coffee cup. We talked about Kendra’s son Riley and his latest escapade with crayons in the DVD player, a photo shoot for a male client wearing nothing but whipped cream, and some social events on our must-list for the upcoming summer. As our coffee supply dwindled, the conversation turned serious.
“Tessie,” Christian said, as I poured the last cup into my mug. “There’s something you should know about my split with Marcy.”
I hesitated, coffee mug hovering in front of my lips.
“She was jealous.”
“So you said.” I took my delayed sip. “Who was the mistress she dreamed up?”
“No, it wasn’t like that.” His eyes darkened. “She was jealous of us. Of things like this.”
“She was jealous of Coffee Wednesday?” Apparently my surprise was catching, because Mrs. Antonio dropped and shattered a coffee mug at my exclamation. As Mr. Antonio laid into her in broken English, I lowered my voice and leaned in. “Why?”
“She had it in her head this was some kind of standing date.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but in a less innocent way than you think of it.”
I shrugged. “Okay..?”
He gestured back and forth between us. “You know, like you and I are… together.”
Our eyes met across the table, just long enough for me to take a breath, before my laughter exploded. The deadly serious look in Christian’s eye stopped me short.
“Oh, come on.” I exhaled. “She’s totally overreacting, Christian. She’ll come around; you guys will get back together. The whole thing is ridiculous.”
He nodded, still stone-faced. I rolled my eyes. Every girl Christian dated since high school complained about the same thing: me. The concept of a man and a woman engaged in a completely non-sexual friendship seemed to baffle most people, not just women. I'd had my fair share of boyfriends who didn't understand us either, always asking thousands of questions about our relationship, never satisfied that it was as simple as it seemed. At first, I indulged them, answering everything. Of course, I always left out that night back in college—but why get them worried over something so far in the past? Eventually, even the abridged truth was annoying to re-hash, so I just simplified things and said Christian was gay. Problem solved.