7

Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting ∙ July 12

Tweeps! Settle an argument—how many pillows is 2 many pillows? Also, anyone wanna loan me a pillow? & maybe a bed? &, like, an apartment? #surprise #familydrama #imseriousaboutthatpillow

Izzy dropped her self-defense wand, and Aunt Melanie rocked backward. Seeing that she was about to lose her balance, I rushed past the kitchen island and helped steady my aunt, noticing for the first time that one of her feet was encased in a chunky walking boot. Once she was no longer in any danger of toppling over, I helped her hobble over to the couch.

She slid down onto the couch cushions and rested the crutches on the armrest where my pillow lay. When Izzy moved in, I’d decided to take the couch and gave her the bedroom. She’d offered to swap out every week, but it had seemed like too much of a hassle. Besides, Aunt Melanie’s couch was comfortable.

And now that Aunt Melanie was here, in the flesh, sitting on her couch in her apartment, I realized that I had no idea where me or Izzy would be sleeping tonight.

But there was a more pressing problem I needed to deal with first. “I’ll be right back,” I said to the room in general. I dashed out to the hallway after Rufus the cat. I needn’t have worried.

The hallway to my aunt’s floor was long and lined with doors on both sides. It stretched down the length of a city block before doubling back to access the apartments on the other side of the narrow courtyard. It continued past two sets of emergency stairs before winding back to the elevator. My aunt’s cat, officially Rufus, but more often Rufie, was sitting in the middle of the hallway just a few doors down. He was industriously licking his paws, occasionally looking up to glare at me as if it was my fault that he was reduced to the indignity of being “outside” like a common, well, cat.

Rufus was on the small side for a cat. Half of his face had brown fur and the other half orange with a patch of white fur running up over his chin, nose, and forehead. His multicolored hair had a hint of curl as if he’d stuck one of his adorable toe beans in a light socket. He was a quiet cat and the absolute perfect pet for a New Yorker, even if sometimes a little switch flipped in his kitty brain that made him momentarily act like a dog.

“Come on, little buddy,” I said, scooping him up into my arms. Sometimes he wanted to be picked up, and loved cuddling. Other times, he would hiss if I so much as looked in his direction. When he was in one of his doggy phases, he would follow at my heels as well as any puppy on a leash. Today, he was all about the snuggle, despite the drama that had forced him out into the hall. Or maybe because of it.

I cradled him as I carried him back to the apartment, and nudged the door shut behind me with my foot. Rufus immediately sprang out of my arms and launched himself at my aunt, who was as happy to see him as he was to be seen.

“Aunt Melanie, I guess you’ve met Izzy Wilson.”

“Yes, dear,” my aunt said. “We were introducing ourselves while you went to fetch the cat. He looks amazing, by the way. I was afraid he would refuse to eat while I was gone. He’s such a picky eater and gets depressed when I’m away.”

“Actually, I’ve been making him some of my own blend,” Izzy said, looking proud of herself.

The bodega on the corner stocked Rufus’s normal cat food. That wasn’t good enough for Izzy, or her creativity in the kitchen. This week, Rufus got fresh chicken mixed with celery and carrots. Last week was beef, eggs, and spinach. For a vegan, Izzy really enjoyed experimenting with meaty cat food recipes. She was a pretty good cook for human food, too, but it leaned more toward tofu and quinoa—two foods I had never even tried before leaving Louisiana but I was now firmly pro.

Aunt Melanie picked Rufie up and blew out a huff as if she strained herself. “He must be liking it. He’s put on a pound.” I hadn’t noticed, but then again, I wasn’t exactly weighing him every day.

“Homemade cat food is a little extra work,” Izzy explained, “but the ingredients are healthier. It’s nice to know what he’s eating, don’t you think?”

“Not to mention he’s using the litter box less,” I added. Not that I was complaining. Cleaning a litter box was a small price to pay for living in a bougie building like this free of charge. The apartment itself was enormous, with wide windows and a floor-to-ceiling glass door that led out to a balcony large enough to hold a small table and two chairs, overlooking a narrow courtyard. The inside was decorated with enormous bookshelves crammed with more books than an average school library, along with unique knickknacks ranging from the size of a quarter to a seven-foot-tall giraffe statue.

Aunt Melanie collected local art, along with being an artist herself. Not that her apartment displayed any of her paintings, but she had her share of renown in art circles. Personally, I wished I’d inherited even a pinch of her talent. Sure, I could make a gorgeous ball gown out of an old burlap sack, but the last time I tried drawing a stick figure, it was mistaken for a carrot.

I sat on the other end of the couch and studied my aunt. My mother’s sister was only a few years younger than her, but seemed closer to my age than hers at first glance. While my mom’s hair was a short, silver bob, my aunt’s hair was long enough to reach the middle of her back, with a hint of wave as it transitioned from blonde to reddish brown to purple at the tips. Unlike my mother, and myself, Aunt Melanie was rail-thin. She never looked old before today, but there were new thin lines on her forehead and dark bags under her eyes, in addition to the enormous contraption on her foot. “But enough about Rufus. What on earth happened to your leg?”

“Long, rambling story,” she said, sitting back and closing her eyes. “It’s good to be home.”

Izzy was busy pulling dishes out of the drying rack and putting them in the cupboards where they belonged. Unlike the rest of the eclectically decorated apartment, the kitchen was bland by comparison with beige cabinets and gray countertops. I wasn’t even sure anyone had ever cooked in it before Izzy moved in, if the collection of takeout menus and standard cookware still in the original packaging was any indication. If it weren’t for the assortment of complementary but unmatched homemade plates, bowls, and glasses, I wouldn’t believe that the kitchen was part of my aunt’s space at all.

Izzy slid a stack of plates onto the shelf and ran a dish towel over the counters. Even knowing she desperately needed a place to stay, I’d been apprehensive about inviting her to move in, and only partially because it wasn’t my apartment. Growing up with no siblings and still living in my parents’ house meant I’d never had to share my personal space before. But it turned out that Izzy was the perfect roommate. She loved to cook, but even more important, she loved to clean. Dishes. Laundry. Vacuuming. Even cleaning litter boxes. She said it was her jam, and I was more than happy to indulge her.

Izzy carefully folded the towel over one of the drawer handles. When she moved in, one of the first things she did was put away the paper towels and napkins, replacing them with colorful reusable towels she made herself with a little help from me and my faithful sewing machine. “Well, I can see you two have a lot of catching up to do. Gimme a sec, and I’ll be outta your hair.” With a curt nod, she disappeared into the bedroom and I could hear the crinkly sound of clothes being hastily shoved into plastic garbage bags.

I followed her and stood in the doorway. I knew this day was coming, but didn’t expect it for another month and a half. When Izzy first showed up on the doorstep, a pile of mismatched boxes, a suitcase held together with hope and duct tape, and laundry bags bursting at the seams with her meager possessions, I’d been reluctant to let her inside. But now I couldn’t bear to see her leave. “Where are you gonna go?”

“I’ll figure something out,” she said brightly. “I’ll probably crash with Vince for a day or two until I come up with something more permanent.”

Izzy didn’t seem concerned, but I was. She hadn’t opened up about what happened in the interrogation room, but if Castillo’s interview with her had been half as uncomfortable as it had been with me, they were in for an awkward evening. Besides, with him working long shifts to solve Vickie’s murder, I doubted that he would be interested in playing house tonight. “At least call him and let him know you’re coming,” I urged her, although I couldn’t think of an alternative place for her to stay off the top of my head.

“Nah. Never give them a chance to say no. Worked for you, didn’t it?” She flashed me a toothy grin. She was right about that much. I never would have agreed to taking on a roomie in my aunt’s apartment if Izzy hadn’t shown up with a bunch of bags and nowhere else to go. “Have you seen my purple hat?”

“It’s in the bathroom,” I told her.

“Thanks!” She slid past me and headed to the bathroom, dragging her makeshift luggage behind her.

“Can I at least call you an Uber?” I offered. I made just a fraction of minimum wage at the café, but between a sunny smile and Untapped’s collection of local craft beer, I earned a decent haul in tips. Even with free rent, I’d barely been able to make ends meet before Izzy moved in and showed me how to stretch every dime even further. As a result, I could afford a few little luxuries in life, like a pair of shoes at the local consignment shop that I had my eyes on, but I’d much rather use my meager savings to help Izzy.

“Odessa, haven’t you learned anything from me?” she asked, shaking her head. “Don’t waste money on silly things.” She stuck out one leg and wiggled her foot. “What’s the point in having feet if you don’t use ’em?” Without missing a beat, she scooped her belongings on the bathroom counter into her hat and crammed it all into the aptly named hobo bag slung across her body.

She leaned in for a quick hug. “See ya at work,” she said. She dropped her set of keys on the counter.

Then she was gone.

“Your friend Izzy seems nice,” Aunt Melanie said, stifling a yawn, as soon as the door shut behind my friend. “It’s such a comfort being back in my own home after so many weeks of hotel rooms and train sleeper cars.”

“I’m sure,” I replied, perching on the low coffee table in front of the couch. “And I’d love to hear all about your adventures. Starting with what happened to your foot.”

“It’s silly. We were walking around Stonehenge right before sunrise, and I took a bad step. The doctor said it’s just a hairline fracture, but I’d rather see my own physician and get a second opinion.”

“Personally, considering England’s socialized health care, I would have stayed there.” Then again, if my aunt could afford this enormous apartment in an upscale building, paying insurance premiums and huge co-pays was probably the least of her worries. “I’m sorry you got hurt. Can I get you anything? Something for the pain maybe?”

“I wouldn’t turn down an aspirin. Oh, and a package arrived for you.” She gestured at a box on the coffee table. It had the familiar logo of a retail giant emblazoned across the cardboard, but I didn’t remember ordering anything.

I jumped up and prepared a glass of water, disappointed in my poor manners for not offering it sooner. I handed it to her, along with a bottle of aspirin. “I wish you’d given me a heads-up that you were coming home early. It would have caused less . . .” I tried to think of the best word for my aunt hobbling around on a walking cast, pinning my best friend to the wall with her crutch. “. . . drama.”

“What do you mean? I texted you last night. Or was it today? I’ve never been good with time zones.”

“I didn’t get a text,” I replied.

She dug her phone out of her carry-on bag, which rested beside me on the coffee table, and tapped through the screens. “Huh, look at that, I never pressed send. Sorry. Then again, the painkillers they gave me at the hospital were quite a wonder. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d gotten on the wrong plane and ended up in Queensland or something.”

Aunt Melanie shifted slightly so she was lying across the couch cushions. “A little help, please?”

I got up and helped her arrange the heavy boot on a stack of pillows at the end of the couch. “Can I get you something to eat? We’ve got some leftover vegan pizza on cauliflower crust in the fridge, and I’ve got a flyer for a new Thai place that just opened down the street.” When she didn’t answer, I glanced at my aunt. She was already sound asleep.

At the end of her bed there was an antique wooden trunk that held extra linens. I pulled out a thin blanket and spread it across her, careful not to wake her before turning off the lights and retreating to her bedroom.

Now what was I supposed to do? I wasn’t sure if I should sleep in her bed while my aunt, my elder at that, snored softly on her couch, but if she’d wanted the bedroom she would have crashed there instead. Besides, no matter that my aunt had lived in New York since fleeing Louisiana a few days after high school graduation, she still had Southern manners instilled in her. By that logic, I was a guest and guests don’t sleep on the couch. It was the same reason that Izzy had stayed in the bedroom while she was here.

I grabbed the package off the coffee table and went to the bedroom, closing the door as softly as I could. I kicked off my shoes and sat cross-legged in the middle of her soft mattress, where I could examine the box. The original packing tape had been cut and resealed with clear plastic tape, and the return address was Piney Island, Louisiana.

My mom hadn’t been quite as enthusiastic as I was about me coming to New York. She was afraid the big city would chew me up and spit me out. Or, more likely, she was afraid it would seduce me like it had her sister Melanie and I’d never come home again. We talked on the phone or Skype at least once a week. But even when I’d first arrived, and I was nervous and homesick, she hadn’t sent any care packages.

Until now.

I peeled back the tape and opened the box. Inside a Walmart bag was a disposable food container, which held the broken remains of what looked like a dozen snickerdoodle cookies. I picked up one of the larger crumbs and popped it into my mouth. It was still soft and delicious.

Besides the container of cookies, there was a local Piney Island newspaper. I flipped through it, wondering if there was a story she wanted me to read, or if she just wanted me to get nostalgic. In the back, she’d circled several Help Wanted ads in red. That’s my mom for you, real subtle. She knew as well as I did that my old job at the Crawdad Shack was still waiting for me, but she thought I was wasting my potential. Sure, waiting tables didn’t pay all that well, but I enjoyed it, and shouldn’t that matter, too?

Underneath the paper was a shoebox. It wasn’t any old shoebox, though. It was at least twice as big as a sneaker box, and was well-worn around the edges. I peeled the box open and nearly squealed in delight. Cowboy boots! One of my own pair, black and silver leather, perfectly broken in, and as comfortable as they got.

Ever since I’d lost my boots—the only pair of shoes I’d brought to Brooklyn—in an unfortunate seagull incident a few weeks ago, I’d been trying to convince myself that a pair of secondhand orthopedic loafers was a fair substitute. Sure, they were comfy, but they weren’t my style. Cowboy boots were. I hugged my boots to my chest.

Then a thought struck me. I’d always known that my adventure in the big city had an expiration date, but I’d planned on being in Williamsburg for another six weeks. How would that work now that Aunt Melanie was back early? I couldn’t stay on her sofa indefinitely. She didn’t need an apartment sitter or cat sitter anymore, and sooner or later she was going to want her privacy back.

Unlike Izzy, I didn’t have an alternate place to stay.

How many things had I not done yet, thinking I had plenty of time in Brooklyn? I’d eaten at almost every food truck, but there was a new one every day. I’d spent a day at the Met and had a picnic lunch in Central Park. I’d toured the observation deck of the Empire State Building. I’d eaten real knishes at Katz’s, ordered New York–style pizza by the slice, and even had an authentic Coney Island hot dog on the boardwalk. I got to experience outdoor concerts, went to gallery openings, and spent Saturdays at the Brooklyn Flea. I’d even faced my fears and ridden my aunt’s bike across the Williamsburg Bridge and back.

But that was just the tip of the iceberg that New York had to offer.

Just thinking about leaving my friends at the café, a lump formed in my throat. Sure, I’d been a little homesick when I first arrived. It hadn’t helped that I was a complete fish out of water. But now I had friends and, to my surprise, I didn’t want to leave.

I didn’t want to go back to living with my parents.

I didn’t want to go back to the tiny town I’d grown up in, only to watch my friends move away and start lives elsewhere.

I didn’t want to go back to slinging jambalaya and Coors Light at the Crawdad Shack.

I didn’t want to go back.

Period.