Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 13

“There She Goes”—Sixpence None the Richer

“And then what happened?”

Mom chased her vodka shot with a pickle and some herring to take the bite off the alcohol. We were cocooned in our kitchen. I brought my shot of vodka to my lips and knocked it back with a pained groan. Semus, aka my sociopathic cat, was sitting in my lap, doing his best rumbling engine impression, purring his life away. He’d been peeing inside my sneakers ever since I’d moved back home, putting the message across that he hadn’t appreciated my five-year absence.

“Then he said I was hired.” I hiccupped. “Well, actually, he might’ve said I was fired. It was hard to tell, seeing as he looked like he was going to kill me.”

“Row was always the dark and moody type.” Mom let out a dreamy giggle. “It’s part of his charm. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

“What, murder-y?” I squeezed one eye shut, scrunching my nose.

“Alpha-y. It’s all about cinnamon rolls and consent these days.”

“Yeah. Consent. So gross, right?” I pinned her with a pointed look.

Mom laughed. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

I didn’t, but I had bigger fish to fry. “Why does everyone hate him around here? What did he do?” I sank my nails into the seam between Semus’s tail and back. He lifted his butt, eyeing the herring longingly while I massaged him.

“Oh, that nonsense. He’s a scapegoat. I actually think he is trying to be helpful.” Mom nibbled on a piece of raw onion. “Small-town folks really know how to blow things out of proportion.”

“Blow what out of proportion?” Extracting information from my mother was like milking a shark. I moved to rub Semus behind the ear, knowing full well he would try to bite off my finger whenever he decided he was done with my ass. Every pet had its own theme. Cats’ trope was enemies to lovers, hands down.

“Cal, gossip is the lowest form of conversation. I don’t engage in it.” Mom kicked back in her chair, staring up at the kitchen ceiling. “Especially about someone so—”

“Don’t you dare say nice, Mamushka.”

“I was going to say brilliant. Nice is such a mediocre thing to be. Row is extraordinary. Your father cared deeply about him.”

This was news to me. When I found out that Dad and Row knew each other and cared about one another at the funeral, it gave me an unexplainable fuzzy feeling. Like returning to a home-cooked meal after a shitty day at work.

“Anyway, I’m so happy you got a job.” She reached to pat my knee.

Semus slapped her away.

“So am I,” I murmured into a bite of my shuba salad. Happy wasn’t a word I would use to describe my upcoming employment at Descartes, though. Terrified? Sure. I could also get behind worried, nervous, and vomit-y. Now that I grew out of my awkward kid phase and was just awkward, period, I was going to get the undiluted version of him. And judging by what I’d seen on TV, I was in for a world of pain.

“But enough about my glamorous career. Mental health check. How are you feeling, Mamushka?”

“It comes and goes. One moment I feel fine. Normal, even. The next, I can’t breathe.” She paused pensively, before adding, “This morning I found a note Dad left me in my nightstand drawer.”

Nightstand drawers had been Dad’s favorite format of communication. He had left us notes there frequently. He’d liked the surprise element of it.

“What did it say?” I licked the shuba from my fork.

“He asked me for a favor, the cheeky man!” She burst out laughing.

“Are we buying a yacht and cruising the Mediterranean?” I asked hopefully. We could really use a vacation.

“Let me amend—he asked me for something that won’t devastate me financially.” Mom poured herself a third shot of homemade vodka with garlic. Babushka’s recipe. “Something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time anyway.”

“Sell your mittens?” My eyes widened, my fingers finding Semus’s chin and neck for a little rub. Mom had made hundreds of pairs of mittens over the years, gifting them to anyone: NICU babies, friends of the family, and anyone else who was willing to take them.

She nodded sheepishly. “People like mittens, right?”

“Mamushka! Of course. What’s not to like about mittens? They keep you warm, they’re stylish, they rhyme with kittens. Can it get any better? I think not. Mittens are proof that God exists and that we’re His children.”

She laughed. “All right. I’ll think about it. How do I even go about it?”

“You open an Etsy shop and sell them online. Super easy. I can set it up for you.”

A beat of silence passed between us. “He might’ve left you something too,” she said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on it with my luck.”

“What are you talking about?” She gasped. “Honey, your luck is fin—”

Halfway through her sentence, Semus bit my finger, drawing blood. I was just bringing a pickle to my mouth and jerked back, the pickle juice squirting into my eye.

“Motherfluffer!” I fell flat on my ass, causing the disloyal cat to jump for safety but not before sinking his claws into my thighs to remind me who was the boss. I rolled on the floor, screaming, “My eyes! My eyes!”

“Never mind. Go rest, Callichka. I’ll do the dishes.”