I pull up in front of Lonny’s office. “Please come in, Frannie,” Shelly begs. I shake my head. “It will only take a second. I have a lot of books to carry.”
Grudgingly, I park the car in a lot and follow her up. When we walk into Lonny’s office, a crowd of people are in the reception area. The second Shelly walks through the door, they start clapping. I hear “Hi, Shelly” and “You look so good” about a million times.
“What are you? A fucking conquistador?” I mutter, hating them.
“Hi, everyone,” Shelly says cheerfully. “How did you know I was coming?”
A woman wearing thick glasses pipes up. “Lonny told us. And what is this I hear about you going to grad school for psychology?”
“It’s true. I hate to say it, but New York will have one less neurotic lawyer. This is my sister, Frannie.” She nudges me, but I hang back, suddenly feeling too large to move.
“Hi, Frannie,” Goggle-glasses says. “I’m Pamela Seaver.” She holds out her hand.
“Hey, Frannie,” Shelly tells me, “wait here. I want to say goodbye to Lonny.”
“You must be so proud of Shelly,” Pamela says as Shelly walks away. “Are you older than Shelly or younger?”
“Younger,” I say. “Five years younger. I’m sorry. I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
When I get back, Lonny and Shelly are standing together. Lonny is holding a box of books. My sister is beaming up at him. You’d think he just fucked her, she looks so goddamn happy. I could never figure out how Abby got to be so pretty when Lonny’s so homely. He has big jowls like a Saint Bernard and a pear-shaped body with an ass that could double as a billboard. But Shelly worships him like he’s Don Juan DeMarco. And he worships her. They have this mutual admiration, MENSA, mind-fuck relationship that makes me feel like an idiot when I’m around them.
“You can always change your mind,” Lonny says. “I shouldn’t say this, but I hope you do.”
“You never know. God knows I change my mind all the time.” Shelly starts to well up.
“Shelly, don’t cry. You know you can always come back. No matter where I am, you’ll have a job.” He turns to me. “Take care of her, Fran. By the way, how are you?”
I shrug. “Okay, I guess. Nothing new.”
“Good, good.” He rubs his stomach. “That’s what I like to hear.”
I grab the box of books and walk a step behind her onto the elevator. We ride down in silence. “Why are you crying?” I ask, feeling like I should say something. “Are you upset?”
“No,” she says, crying harder. “I’m just really happy.”
As we pass a garbage can on Fifth Avenue, Shelly tells me to hold up. She digs into her purse, takes out a notebook that I recognize as her journal, and tosses it in. “There.” She wipes her eyes. “It’s over. I finally feel free.”
Even though I know, when we’re almost home, I ask what she threw out. “My journal,” she says solemnly. “The last vestige of the old me.” I know I should feel happy for her, but instead, I have this nagging sensation that she’s rubbing it in.
“Don’t stand in front of the microwave, dear,” my mother says to Abby. “You never know about those things.” Abby moves to the left. Her boyfriend is out of town so she’s graced us with her presence. “The table looks so nice, Marsha,” she says to my mother.
My mother beams like she’s Martha Stewart. “Thank you. But tell my husband. He did all the cooking.”
My father looks around. “Frannie,” he commands, “please go tell your sister and grandfather that we’re about to eat.”
When I get up to Shelly’s room, she and my grandfather are talking on her bed.
“It’s so weird to be here,” she says as I walk in. “I feel like I’m back at the scene of the crime. I can’t believe you guys talked me into moving home.”
“It’s only for a few weeks, Shelly. Then we’ll get our own place. Make believe you’re visiting another ward at St. Mary’s.”
“I just don’t belong here anymore, Frannie. Things are different now. I’m different now.”
“But I belong here?” I turn to my grandfather. “Grandpa, aren’t you glad Shelly’s home?”
“Why shouldn’t I be happy? But I will tell you something. I’d go to my grave smiling like a goose if I could sing ‘Here Comes the Bride’ just once.” Chuckling, he hums the tune as we move down the stairs.
When we reach the bottom, I whisper to Shelly, “Has he said anything to you about where you’ve been or anything?”
“He did tell me he thinks something might be going on that no one is telling him.”
I smile. “He’s pretty observant for a blind guy, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” She laughs. “He’s upset no one will tell him why you act so strange. He’s afraid there’s something wrong with you, and if there is, he wants to know about it.”
“I’m so excited to have both my girls home.” My mother hands Abby a serving platter. “Abby, honey, pass this to my father. Daddy, have some more potatoes.” Abby spoons potatoes onto my grandfather’s plate. His head is bent. If he were any closer, his face would be in his food. “Well,” my mother continues, “I just want to congratulate Shelly. We’re all really proud of her.”
“It’s no big deal, Mom. Please don’t talk about it. Let’s just eat.”
“But it is a big deal, Shelly. It’s a very big deal. We’re so happy you’re coming home.” Shelly groans. “I just think you look beautiful. Doesn’t she look pretty, Abby?”
Abby nods. I feel her kick Shelly under the table. “Shelly looks absolutely ravishing. And I’d date her if she’d only give me the chance.”
“But Abby’s got a new guy,” I announce.
“Oh?” my mother asks. She loves to hear stories of people hooking up.
“He’s an attorney,” Abby said. “His name is Randy. We work together. We’ve been out a few times. He’s really nice.”
“If you discount the fact that he’s a skinhead,” I interrupt. “And the hours he spends online in Courtney Love’s chat room, and the pictures of naked children he has in a shoebox underneath his bed.” I pause. “He also happens to be a midget. Although I wouldn’t know for sure since I’ve never met him.”
“You’ve had many opportunities to meet him, Frannie, and he’s not a midget. He’s just very short for his age.”
“How old is he?” my mother asks.
“I don’t know,” Abby replies. “Thirty-one or something. A lot of boys have sudden growth spurts.”
“All I know,” I offer, “is the second Abby found out that his father was a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills, he graduated from ‘this loser midget guy who keeps bothering me’ to ‘I think I’ll die if he doesn’t call me.’” I turn to her. “No offense, Abiggirl. I mean, we all want to get married and drive Range Rovers, but you really need to take this one down a notch.”
“I think you’re jealous, Frannie,” my mother says, smiling at Abby.
“I am not!” I yelp, my mouth full. I gulp my food so fast, I hiccup loudly.
“That’s a lovely sound, Frannie. You’re going to choke. And stop eating so fast.”
“And so much. You can say it, Mom. I know it’s what you’re thinking.”
“Frannie.” She sighs. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”
I get up from the table to get more ice. At the counter, I pick at the crumby topping of a coffee cake. Without thinking, I jam my fingers into the dough to get at the cherry filling.
“Must you do that, Frannie?” Shelly calls to me. “You could use a plate.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were on the coffee cake patrol. I just wanted a taste.”
“We all have to eat it, you know.”
“Like you’ll be eating it,” I mutter.
Everyone looks at me as I slide back into my seat. Feeling piggish, I wipe my hands on my pants. Shelly sips her water, and I feel the table reverberate with the rhythm of her foot bouncing underneath. She
’s wearing a denim workshirt with an open neck. Her collarbones jut out and the thin gold chain she’s wearing accentuates the fragility of her neck. In the glow of the kitchen light, she looks like a shadow of the Shelly I grew up with. She picks at her food, lifts a string bean, inspects it, and puts it down. Just eat it, I want to say. Put it in your mouth and chew. I look over at the coffee cake, suddenly wanting to inhale the whole thing.
The phone rings and my mother jumps up, but I get there first. “It’s for me,” she says breathlessly. “I’ll take it in the other room.” I listen, but all I hear is someone breathing. “I got it!” she screams. “Frannie! Hang up!!” Slowly, I put the phone down.
My father tries to hold my gaze but I look away. “Who was that?” he asks quietly.
“AT&T. It’s a conversion call,” I mutter.
“I hate when they call during dinner,” Abby says too quickly. “It’s so rude.”
My father calmly sips his coffee. Shelly has no discernible expression on her face. I want to scream. Doesn’t anyone see what is going on here?
Minutes later, my mother walks back into the kitchen, perky and happy. It must have been Daniel on the phone. I haven’t been around the office, so I don’t have any scoop. She and Shelly were talking earlier, but my mother immediately stopped talking when I walked in. I don’t know if she’s told Shelly anything, but I can’t imagine that she would. Shelly’s better, but I know she’s not ready to handle that kind of information.
“So let’s discuss our New Year’s resolutions,” my mother says.
“I’m going to fix up my new apartment.” Shelly glances at me. “Our new apartment.” Still smarting about the coffee cake, I ignore her.
“What about graduate school?” my mother asks. “I thought you were applying to graduate school.”
“I am eventually. I think I’m going to spend a year doing research. Maybe even work at St. Mary’s as a volunteer.”
“But you’re just getting out!” my mother exclaims. “Why do you want to go back?”
“I like St. Mary’s. The girls are my friends. They’re nice people.”
“I’m sure they are, but you should be with people who make you think.”
Shelly shrugs. “Nice people are smart, too, Mom. Anyway, Case Western and Stanford have good post-baccalaureate programs. I could take my sciences, then move into the Ph.D. program.”
“I thought you weren’t getting a Ph.D.,” I interrupt.
“I said I might not. I just don’t want to make any major plans right now.”
My mother smiles at her. “Why don’t you girls go into business together?”
“And do what?” I exclaim. “Open a donut shop?”
“I just think Shelly should keep herself occupied. If she could get into school by fall, it would be perfect. And Stanford would be wonderful. I’ve always wanted to live in a big beach house in California. To me, that would be the perfect life.” She smirks. “Okay, so now that that’s decided, maybe Shelly can help her big sister figure out what to do with her life.” She pats my arm and turns to my dad. “Don’t you think Shelly should go back to school?”
“We should let Shelly breathe,” my father says quietly. “She just left the hospital.”
“I thought Shelly was Wonder Woman.” The words fly out of my mouth and I cringe at myself. I try to catch my sister’s eye to apologize, but she won’t look at me.
She lays down her fork. “Well,” she says, sighing, “if Shelly—I mean if I”—she laughs self-consciously—“do commit myself, I want it to be the right thing. This time, I won’t just jump into something.”
“Well put.” My mother turns to me. “And my dear Francine, what are your New Year’s resolutions?”
“Since none of my suits fit me anymore, it wouldn’t kill me to lose a few pounds.”
“You and me both,” my mother agrees. “Why don’t we go on Weight Watchers together?” She looks at Shelly. “You can teach us how to eat healthy. They must have given you menus we could follow, no?”
“I’ll go, too,” Abby chimes in. “We’ll have a contest.”
I point my fork at Abby. “Girl, if I were you, I’d go on Jenny Jones: ‘I Saved My Boyfriend From a Circus Freak Show.’”
“Yeah?” She laughs. “You could go on: ‘I Dated a Vampire and Lived to Tell About It.’”
“Have you ever noticed how many fat people are on Jenny Jones?” my mother muses. “It’s a very fat-friendly show.” She looks at me. “What’s she talking about, Frannie? What’s this vampire thing?”
“Nothing, Marsha,” Abby cuts in. “Frannie had a date with a guy that just about took everything out of her. Although, I don’t think a pint of blood is too much to ask for a free meal. Do you, Frannie?” she asks sweetly.
“Shut up,” I mutter. “Midget lover. Rat Boy’s girlfriend.”
“You shut up,” Abby taunts me. “And don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.”
“Girls, please.” My mother looks at Shelly. “Do you know what they’re talking about?” Shelly nods, but keeps her head bent.
“I don’t have to tell you everything, Mom,” I interrupt. “It’s not like you don’t have secrets.”
“That’s for sure,” my father mumbles. He looks down at his food as if expecting it to jump up at him. As he tugs on his tie, it dawns on me: it’s true about Daniel. And he knows about it. He knows everything. I suddenly can’t stop staring at him.
“Please don’t mumble,” my mother says to him, annoyed. He clears his throat and there’s a long moment of awkward silence.
“No more food,” my grandfather says sleepily. “I am too filled up.”
“One more piece, Dad. Just a few more bites.” My mother hovers over his plate.
“Dad,” my father says, “wouldn’t you like to go into the den and watch television?”
My mother snaps at my dad. “Leave my father alone,” she says. “He’s eating his dinner.”
“Dad”—my father ignores her—“you’ll be more comfortable if you relax in the den.”
My mother raises a fork. “I said to leave him alone. He’s fine.”
“You’re the expert,” my father mutters.
I glance at Shelly, who makes believe she’s not listening. She stabs a tomato half and leaves the fork standing up. She wrenches the fork out and stabs it again. Tomato juice squirts all over. I lean over her plate, grab the fork, and stuff the tomato into my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. She shrugs and shreds her napkin with her knife.
When my mother speaks, her voice is strained. “Turkey, Abby?” she asks, trying to hand Abby the platter.
“Thanks, but I’m totally stuffed. Everything was so good.”
“Shelly?” My sister shakes her head. “Come on, honey,” my mother insists. “It’s only turkey.”
“Mom, I said no.”
“But there’s nothing on it. One more piece?”
“NO!” Shelly barks. “NO.”
“Mom,” I say, noting the pained expression on Shelly’s face, “stop trying to feed her.”
“Frannie, mind your own business.”
“Marsha, leave Frannie alone—and Shelly for that matter,” my father cuts in.
My mother looks at him. “I don’t remember bringing you into this discussion.”
“I’m just tired of you bullying the girls. She’s my daughter, too.”
My mother’s face reddens. “You’re suddenly realizing this?” she snaps. “Where have you been all this time? She’s twenty-four years old.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
My mother’s on a roll. “You sit there and mumble like I’m a stupid idiot who can’t take care of her own family, like I’m a complete moron who does everything wrong. But let me ask you this: how many times did you visit the hospital? And how many times did you call her? Can you even count?” She turns to my sister. “Can you, Shelly? Can you count the number of times your father came to visit?” Shelly pales as my mother stops, wa
iting for an answer.
“I…uh…don’t know,” Shelly chokes out. She looks at me, as if begging me to jump in, but I’m mesmerized by my parents.
“Well I can,” my mother snarls. “THREE!! THREE goddamn times. Don’t you dare tell me what I’m doing wrong because you weren’t even there!”
My father’s eyes narrow. “I was there, Marsha. But who took care of YOUR father while you gallivanted around, doing GOD knows what? I hardly think you can judge me!!” Breathing heavily, they both glare at each other.
Suddenly, Shelly gets up. “I have to call the hospital.” She moves across the kitchen to the phone. “I have to check in and let them know how everything is going.”
“Tell Lucy I say hello,” my mother calls out, but Shelly has already turned away.
Abby looks at her watch and gets up. “I really have to go,” she says.
“Don’t you want coffee?” my mother asks.
Abby shakes her head. “I’ve got so much to do tonight, but thanks for dinner. It was really good.”
“And you can’t beat the free entertainment,” I sneer as I walk Abby to the front door. We say good night and make plans to go to the gym in the morning. On my way back to the table, I notice that Shelly is still on the phone with St. Mary’s. She has the cord wrapped around her fingers so tightly, her knuckles are white.
She isn’t speaking, although she nods occasionally in agreement with whoever is on the other end. She abruptly hangs up and stomps through the kitchen like a caged animal, opening and closing the refrigerator door. I reach out to touch her, to soothe her, but she smacks my hand away.
She glances up at me, but I get the feeling she doesn’t see me. I am struck by the savage look on her face. Her eyes, gleaming in the yellow lights, dart wildly around the room, and her muscles pulsate beneath her clenched jaw. For a split second, she’s the Shelly I hate, the moody Shelly who glares at me like she wants to fucking kill me. I weaken when faced with this Shelly; I weaken because I know she’s going to turn everything I say inside-out. As she paces through the kitchen, I back up to get out of her way. All of a sudden, her very existence annoys the shit out of me. SIT DOWN, I want to scream at her. Just SIT DOWN with everyone else and behave like a normal human being.
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