Page 26 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
“If you do, a guy in my lab does custodial work to make a few bucks. They’re always hiring. It’s after hours so it might fit your schedule. It’s not glamorous work, though.”
“I’m not expecting glamour.” I take a moment to imagine it,mopping floors and cleaning toilets while Aggie spends more time home alone. The work can’t be that much less inspiring than my pizzeria job, but even considering it is like taking one more step away from the life I thought I’d be living at this point, the one I dreamed about when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and when I played doctor with my stuffed animals. It makes the questionWill it all be worth it?flash in hot pink neon, bolder and brighter than ever.
Khalil must read something of my thoughts in my face, because he taps my elbow with his and tells me there’s no rush. I can let him know anytime if I’m interested. We swap numbers while the elevator’s still creeping toward our floor, and leave the conversation there.
When I enter my apartment to Aggie’s eager, tail-wagging greeting from her bed, my mood is instantly buoyed. How I ever thought I could live without a dog is beyond me. All that unbridled joy. It’s contagious, and a surefire protection against wallowing. I get her outside for a little exercise, and feed her, and play ball, which she’s really getting into now. I make off-brand mac ’n’ cheese I try to fool my brain into thinking is gourmet by sprinkling pepper on top. Then I force myself to go through my mail. All of it. Sorting student loan statements into a pile I don’t have to deal with yet, and outstanding bills and credit statements into a pile I do have to deal with, plugging the information into a spreadsheet so I can plan out a rough monthly budget, something that feels more essential now that I’m not just taking care of myself.
It’s daunting, the bottom line, both what I owe now and what I’ll need to bring in each month to cover expenses beyond what my loans afford. I consider the custodial possibility, or waiting tables ifanyone’s hiring, but Aggie’ssohappy to have me home in the evenings, and finding times to keep up her exercise routine will get harder as the weather gets worse. She’s my priority right now, and I don’t want to abandon her all hours. It’s unthinkable after how she spent her first seven years. So, after considerable thought, and a sharp pang of regret that I can’t afford to hit a liquor store first, I brace myself and call my parents.
“Cameron, hi!” my mom says when she answers, as chipper as ever, with a musical lilt to her voice that serves her well in her receptionist role at a local medical center, where she makes everyone feel welcome. For all my complaints about her incessant bright-siding, her warmth is genuine, and my nerves loosen a little at the sound of her voice. “How are you?”
“Good. Fine. Well, um, more like okay, but sort of dealing with some stuff.” I grimace at my verbal clumsiness, and how I always autopilot to sayingI’m goodand have to course correct.
“Whatever it is, you’ll work it out,” she says. “But classes are going well?”
“Mostly. It’s a lot of studying. My immunology professor is a really hard grader. And my pathology prof must think we’re all speed readers with how much reading she assigns.”
“They wouldn’t set high standards if they didn’t think you could live up to them. And you’ve never been afraid of hard work.”
“I know.” My teeth clench the way they always do when she willfully misses the point. “What I mean is that I’m having a hard time keeping up with everything. And not just classes.”
She tsks and I try to convince myself I didn’t hear it.
“Give it time, sweetie, and keep your chin up. It’ll be the end of the term before you know it.”
I take a deep breath and let my annoyance out in a slow exhale while Aggie shifts her head on my lap and I bury my fingers in her soft fur, more for my benefit than for hers. We’re on the futon, where she already has a favorite side and I always let her have it, along with her favorite blanket, favorite pillow, and the stuffed monkey she’s starting to like.
“Have you given any more thought to Christmas?” my mom asks. “Your dad and I can’t imagine the holidays without you. And we’re still happy to cover your ticket.”
“Actually, is he around?” I ask. “I’d love to talk to both of you for a minute.”
She sighs, barely, but enough for me to pick up on a hint of frustration that often slips out when my dad comes up in conversation, though she’s always quick to suppress it.
“You know your father,” she says brightly. “Straight from work to the gym to the television, but I can go see if he’ll step away for a minute, if it’s important.”
“It is. At least, I think it is. It’s a conversation for both of you, anyway.”
A beat of silence follows, and I can picture my mom rallying to tamp down the worry I’ve sparked. A swallow. A brow flicker that’s quickly smoothed. A smile that snaps into place.
“Okay, sure,” she says without a jot of concern in her voice. “Give me a sec.”
She steps away from the call to retrieve my dad while I replay her comment about his routine. When I was a kid, the three of us did a lot of things together: watching movies, playing board games, taking summer vacations on the coast, going out for ice cream, hiking nearby trails, swimming with Marmie in the river that weavesthrough Roseburg, and eating most of our meals together. My dad was pretty hands-off as far as parenting went, busy with his work managing a network of school buses for several regional public-school systems, a job he got by starting as a driver and working his way up. But he made time for my mom and me. I always felt that.
Has this changed since I left for college? Would either of them tell me if it has?
Eventually my dad joins the call, and before we can return to the topic of the holidays, I ask my parents to switch to video. Then I show them the face resting on my lap.
My dad blinks in confusion while my mom gasps and presses a hand to her mouth.
“Oh, Cameron!” she says. “Look at that beautiful dog!”
“Her name’s Aggie,” I say. “Short for Agatha.”
“Look at those ears!” my mom continues to gush. “And those sweet, gentle eyes.”
I hold out the camera to take in more of Aggie as I pet her head.
“She’s pretty perfect, isn’t she?” I ask.
