Free Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe by Shelley Coriell

what pushes our buttons, what soothes our souls. We’ll talk about our dreams and fears. We’ll go deep, to heart-level stuff.”
    A hush fell over the newsroom. Everyone focused on me. A nice fluttery feeling expanded my chest, but my smile faded when I saw Clementine staring at me from one of the glass rooms, her glare like Brie’s: so icy, it burned.
    As I pulled into my driveway that night, my house stared at me with dark, lifeless eyes. I fiddled with my keys but didn’t turn off the ignition. I’d forgotten Dad was at the university teaching alate class, Mom had a full day of surgery, and Grams had some kind of appointment. On nights like this I usually called Brie and Mercedes, and we went to Dos Hermanas for dinner.
    I tried to picture Clementine and me sharing chips and salsa. Oh my gawwwwwd. No, the GM and I weren’t destined to swap friendship bracelets, especially after the latest frosty look. However, I wouldn’t mind getting to know Duncan better. Again, I wondered where he’d been all day. KDRS was a much warmer place with him around.
    Just the way my home was a warmer place with people in it. My youngest brother, Zach, had left for med school in August, leaving me the sole inhabitant of the second floor. The black hole loomed before me, ready to suck me in.
    I jammed my car in reverse and backed out of the driveway.
    By now, Mom should be out of surgery and finishing her notes. Like me, she probably felt tired but accomplished. Today my surgeon mother mended a few hearts while I worked on creating the best talk-radio show on planet earth.
    I drove to the hospital and found Mom in the CICU. She stood in front of a large window that framed a gray-haired, gray-faced man hooked to beeping and buzzing machines. Mom’s forehead rested on the window.
    “Looks like you could use a red chili chimi,” I said.
    Mom opened her eyes and offered me a tired smile. “Sounds good, but not tonight.” She jutted her chin toward the man. “I can’t leave Mr. Dominguez for another hour or so.”
    I frowned. If I didn’t hate hospitals so much, I’d wait with her.
    “Why don’t you stop by the Tuna Can?” Mom suggested. “Grams could use a pick-me-up. She spent the afternoon visiting senior assisted-living facilities.”
    I lunged for Mom and frantically patted her arms and back.
    Mom’s weary face wrinkled. “What are you doing?”
    “Looking for bullet holes.”
    My mother rumpled my hair. “A woman who specializes in helping people like your grandmother transition into assisted-living facilities took her out today.”
    “And they both survived?”
    “Last I heard.” Mom rested her forehead on the window. “But your grandmother isn’t happy. She was in such a state this afternoon that she lost her keys and couldn’t get in the Tuna Can, so she broke a window and tried to crawl in. Noreen next door found her stuck in the bathroom window.”
    I sunk onto the chair outside Mr. Dominguez’s CICU room. I refused to look at the man whose heart my mother touched today, but not because of my fear of blood and general dislike of hospitals. In his pasty skin and bandaged chest I saw Grams, whose heart was breaking at the idea of giving up the Tuna Can, her teeny tiny corner of the universe.
    This had been the root cause of World War III. Six months ago Grams’s doctors told her that because of her progressing Parkinson’s disease, she needed to think about new living arraignments, something where she wasn’t alone all the time. Grams, being Grams, had refused to consider it. But the night of the Mistletoe Ball everything changed. That evening Grams tooka walk on the beach, became disoriented, and couldn’t find her way back. When her neighbor Noreen noticed that Grams had not returned home, she called my mom, who called the police. The beach patrol found Grams after three in the morning, shivering under a lifeguard tower with a near case of hypothermia.
    “She’s a danger to herself,” Grams’s doctor