Call Me Maybe by Cara Bastone

Author:Cara Bastone [Bastone, Cara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Headline Eternal
Published: 2000-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Wednesday Late Afternoon

Vera

I hang up the phone and set it on my kitchen counter face down. I stare at its case for a moment, a bright blue brick that blurs at the edges as tears fill my eyes.

Ugh.

Why did he have to say that to me?

I might have gone my whole life without thinking of myself from that perspective. It’s such a lovely, generous way of thinking about something that I’ve only ever viewed as a shortcoming.

I turn away from my phone and leave it sitting in my kitchen. I put my boots on and grab my raincoat just in case May decides to get cute again today. I almost never leave the house without my phone but right now it feels necessary to be on my own. Truly on my own.

I wander my neighborhood on the cool, gray day, considering Cal’s words. Maybe I’m not a quitter. Maybe I’m a trier.

The concept is nice. It’s like I’ve been wearing a too-tight pair of jeans for years and I’m only now sliding into a pair that fits me well. It’s like I can breathe. Finally. But it’s too much air all at once and I feel dizzy. I should double back to my apartment, but instead I buy a cup of tea at a coffee shop I’ve never gone into before and sit in the window. It’s an almost empty side street so I don’t watch anything but the building across from me.

The word try rewrites my past. Everything looks different now.

I frown.

It’s not just me who looks different. It’s my family too.

I’ve had two phone conversations today, my mother and Cal. Quitter and trier. Ugh. Whiplash.

You can’t quit everything, Vera.

What’s the league’s refund policy? You know you’re not going to go to more than one game.

Don’t tell me you’re quitting nursing. Oh, Vera.

Are you sure you want to invest your money into this business? That doesn’t feel like a waste to you?

Angry tears tighten my eyes. They come from an old place. A young place. I remember leafing through the rec and ed pamphlet as a middle-schooler, trying so hard to figure out which after-school sport I’d like the best, knowing that if I didn’t like it, my folks would hang it over my head. I think about my first day of nursing school, sitting in class and wondering if all the other students felt some sort of calling to the profession. I had wondered if I was deficient. If being unsure would mean I wouldn’t be as good of a nurse as the rest of them. If I would put people in danger if I practiced nursing without it being the one, true passion of my life.

I press my sleeve into my eyes and when I pull it away, there’s a damp pattern left behind that looks like two smiling mouths.

I finish my tea and head back toward my apartment. I kind of can’t believe I’m having such an intense reaction to this. It’s such a simple adjustment to my way of looking at things.

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