“You have. I’m just like all the girls you grew up with. We both were. Me and Shelly. But Shelly was really special. She was going to do great things with her life.” I pause to see if Charlie’s listening and when I realize that he is, that he’s really listening to me, I keep talking. And the things I talk about surprise the hell out of me because I’ve never told them to anyone, much less a guy. I tell him about Camp Galaxy. I tell him about diet days and guava jelly and the first time I caught Shelly making herself throw up. I even tell him about Rat Boy, well not everything, but enough to give him a general picture. I also tell him about how I’ve been searching for reasons why Shelly died, how I dream about her and how the pain eats at me, how it hits me at work when I’m supposed to be concentrating and I can’t do anything but go into the ladies’ room, sit on the toilet, and cry.
“The thing that I’m the most ashamed about,” I whisper, “is that I didn’t pay attention to her when she was alive, but now that she’s dead, she’s like everything. Maybe if I’d made her more important to me, all this could be different.”
I look at Charlie. Tears run down his face, but he doesn’t make any noise. “You did the best you could,” he says. “We all do. You have to say that to yourself every day.” I feel like he means it. And for a few wonderful minutes, there’s no shame.
He tells me about his childhood, about growing up with an overbearing mother and his father who was always angry, and his older brother Eric, the doctor, who has a life complete with wife and son, something he’s always wanted. We keep saying over and over how easy this is. And it is Charlie who says how lucky he feels to have finally met me. “I’ve always wondered where you were.” He sighs. Then he’s serious for a second. “I have to ask you something, Frannie.”
“What?” I sit up, suddenly anxious.
“It’s really embarrassing. I mean, really embarrassing, like the most embarrassing thing I could ever ask a girl.” I don’t say anything. “Okay,” he says. “I can do this. Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “When we first met, you told me that you thought I had a fat ass. Do you really think that?”
“I’d never say anything like—” Then I remember my Richard Gere comment. “All I said was that Richard Gere had a better ass,” I tell him, trying to reassure him. “I’d never say you had a fat ass because you don’t. You have a great body, I swear.”
He laughs. “I’m being ridiculous. It’s just something my brother used to tease me about. I knew you were just kidding.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” I say, hugging him.
We talk until the sun shines into the room. And when I try to hide my face because I know my makeup is dry and cakey and my mascara is smeared like raccoon rings under my eyes, Charlie tells me that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. And then he kisses me; a warm hopeful kiss that’s shared between us like a secret, and wrapped around each other, we finally sleep.
“So how was it?” Abby asks Monday morning. “Tell me everything.”
“How was what?” I’m packing my things in a box so I can move into my own office.
“Saturday. You didn’t call me at all this weekend and I called you four times! Randy and I decided to work things out. I’ve been dying to talk to you. You shacked with Charlie, didn’t you? You are suuuuuch a slut. Did you have sex?”
I smile. “No, Deep Throat.” She sighs like she doesn’t believe me. “I swear, Abby. We stayed up all night and talked and he kissed me. Well, actually, if we’re going to get technical, I kissed him first.”
“So? Do you like him?”
“Yeah. I do, I guess. I like him.” I say it again. “I like Charlie.” It never dawned on me to think about that. If a guy wanted me, then of course I wanted him; I never questioned whether I actually liked him. “He asked me to go out Friday night. A week in advance. Can you believe?”
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. I’m already sick of his name. I can’t believe you have plans already! I hate this guy. I bet he called you this morning to tell you what a great time he had this weekend.”
“Twice.” I can’t stop smiling.
“So what are you guys doing Friday?” Abby asks.
“Drinks after work. Actually, I’d like you to come. I want you to meet him.”
“Does he have friends?”
“What about Randy?”
“He’s not invited. He’s suddenly getting on my nerves.”
“I met a guy,” I tell my mother as we walk toward the baggage claim. She’s holding a sombrero and a new straw purse.
“I know. I spoke to Grandpa. When were you planning to tell me?” She hands me her luggage stubs and starts looking for her bags.
“You just got here,” I say, but she’s already turned away. Aunt Lillian had called to warn me that my mother was going through changes. She’s very depressed, Aunt Lillian told me, she started again with the pills.
“There’s one,” she says and points to a bag. I pull it off the carousel. “I’ve decided to see Marilyn twice a week for a while.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” I ask.
“Frannie, not now. Don’t start with me now.”
“I was just asking a question.”
She ignores me as we walk through the parking lot. When we put her bags in the trunk, she hands me the sombrero. “This is for you.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” I put it on and shake my hands as if I’m holding maracas. I make a move to hug her, but she inches away. “I thought you’d like it,” she says.
“I do, but am I supposed to wear it or is it just for show?”
“I don’t know. It’s a souvenir. If you don’t want it, don’t take it.”
In her apartment, she immediately goes into the bathroom. I can hear her crying over the sound of running water. I open her pocketbook and take out a plastic bag filled with photographs. There are pictures of my grandparents and my aunt and uncle. There are also pictures of her with my father, looking tanned, happy, and much younger. In the back of the stack, there are pictures of me. I rummage through the bag. Tucked in a small envelope, separate from everything else, are old photographs of Shelly.
“What are you doing!?” she exclaims as she walks out of the bathroom. She snatches the pictures away. “Please don’t go through my things, Frannie.” She tucks the Shelly pictures into a drawer.
She flips on the television and we sit on the couch. Cautiously, I ask how her trip was. “Hard. I mean, it was nice to be out of the office, but being with my sister is enough to put anyone away. I caught Beth going through my pocketbook and Lillian got all
defensive, as if I’m the one who’s crazy. Is that it? Is it me?
Am I the crazy one?”
“Maybe we’re all crazy.”
We both chew on that for a second. “Maybe,” she says finally. “Maybe we are.” She plays with my hair. The feel of her hands on my head makes me shiver. “So nothing’s new?”
“Nope. Can’t complain. In fact, I’ve been looking at apartments.”
She drops her hand. “Have you talked to Daddy? Maybe he doesn’t want to be alone in that big house.”
“A month ago, you were selling it. Mom,” I say softly. “We’ve talked about this for a long time. I want my own place.”
“Who’s telling you not to get your own place? You’re an adult. Live where you want.”
“I thought you’d be thrilled.” I put on the sombrero in a feeble effort to make her laugh. She turns away and gulps a Valium without water. I see her as though watching an old movie.
“Take that thing off,” she insists. “It looks ridiculous and it’s probably filled with bugs.” But I’ve already walked away and am standing in the kitchen where I can turn my back and make believe I can’t hear her.
During the night, I dream about Shelly. She’s in the hospital but she’s in my twin bed. She’s wearing sexy underwear, a bustier and lace garters, and her legs are so heavy, the fat ripples over the tops of her stockings. Curled on
her side, she strokes herself and writhes on the bed, but I can’t tell if she’s feeling pleasure or pain. I walk over to the bed and she laughs in a high-pitched cackle that makes me shiver. When I get close, I realize it isn’t Shelly. It’s my mother.
Friday night, I meet Charlie and his friend Evan at a bar. I keep thinking about my Shelly dreams. They always make me feel empty and depressed the next day. “We don’t have to stay,” Charlie tells me when I explain that I don’t feel well.
“No, I just need a drink.” I signal the bartender and order a margarita.
“I’m nervous about meeting Abby,” Charlie tells me.
“Charlie, she’s going to love you. Oh … there she is. Abby! Over here.” Abby walks toward us wearing a skirt so short, it looks like a scarf. Her hair is shiny, her makeup is perfect, and her boobs are hanging out of her sheer blouse. When I see her, I’m annoyed that she went home and changed when she knew everyone else was coming right from work.
“Frannie!” She kisses my cheek. She turns to Charlie. “Well, you must be the man of the hour.” When she turns to introduce herself to Evan, Charlie asks me if her tits are real. I eye him suspiciously. “What do you think?”
“I think yes.”
“Then it’s obvious how you got into Princeton, isn’t it?”
“I’m excited to meet you,” Abby gushes. “Frannie hasn’t stopped talking about you.”
“Okay, Abby, have a drink or I’m going to get you a muzzle. What do you want?”
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
When Charlie turns to order her a drink, she gives me the thumbs-up sign. “Cute,” she whispers. “Very cute.”
Charlie smiles at her. “Frannie tells me you’re an entertainment lawyer.”
“Yeah, we did work on the O.J. case. Our firm set up the 900 number for people to call in and say whether they thought he was guilty or not. I ran the switchboard.”
“She’s just kidding,” I cut in. “Abby’s a great lawyer. She plans to go into politics.”
“I’d like to,” Abby says, “except I inhaled.” She smiles. “A lot. Actually I hate being a lawyer. You?”
Charlie sips his drink. “I hate being a lawyer, too. I think the only people who actually like to practice law are the ones who write novels about it.”
Evan tells Abby she looks familiar. Abby turns to him. “Fire Island,” she says. “My mother set us up two summers ago. Brunch, remember? Then we went back to your house and spent the entire day in bed. You were terrific.”
“Oh, I’m … sorry, I don’t remember …”
Abby laughs. “We work in the same building. Don’t look so nervous. I’m just kidding.”
“You want another drink?” Charlie asks me. I shake my head. “What’s wrong?”
“You told me you loved being a lawyer,” I hiss.
“I was just being nice.” Abby and Evan are laughing at what must be the funniest joke ever told. “Look at me,” Charlie commands. “You’re smart and beautiful. Don’t you dare be jealous of Abby or anyone else in this bar.”
“That’s such a college thing to say. Like ‘You’re the prettiest girl I’m with right now.’ What about the rest of the world?” I smile and order another drink.
“Well, that might be a problem. The world’s a big place.” He kisses my cheek. His mouth lingers next to my ear. I pick up my margarita and lick the salt off the rim of the glass. Then I drain my drink so there’s nothing left but ice.
I begin to get really buzzed, so buzzed I think I feel better. I run my fingers along his chin. He clenches my finger in his teeth and softly sucks it. I kiss him, openmouthed, feeling the softness of his lips, the sweetness of his tongue. I suck on an ice cube and transfer it from my mouth to his without using my hands.
“Delicious,” he mumbles. “Do it again.”
Hours later, alone in his apartment, Charlie leans over me. His mouth is on my face, his hands are on my hair, on my breasts, between my legs. “You are so special,” he whispers. “I can’t believe I met you.” I love how he whispers to me. I feel like I’m completely with him. As we start to make love, I lose myself in how good it feels, God, he keeps touching me, and I’m so warm and so wet and I ache for him, but when I open my eyes, I see Shelly’s pale face, my mind shuts down, and I panic, feeling like Charlie’s suffocating me.
“Charlie, Charlie, wait.” I push him off me and sit up. “Stop, okay?”
“Is something wrong?” he asks. “What did I do?”
I shake my head. “I promise, cross my heart, that it’s not you. It’s me. I’m not ready. I need more time. I can’t do this yet.”
He lies back and cradles me in his arms. “That’s fine,” he says, kissing my hair. “Just don’t bail on me.”
“I almost did,” I say softly. “But I’m here.”
And during the night, for reasons I can’t explain, I cry in my sleep.
23
I dream about Shelly almost every night. I wake in a cold sweat, my face wet with tears. When I fall back asleep, she always reappears. My dreams are sequences that are completely unconnected, split-second images in vivid colors, but I can always make out my sister’s face, or her arm, or the back of her head. In all my dreams, Shelly is dead.
I wonder if I’m going crazy; if this is how schizophrenia starts. I’m afraid I’m splintering for real this time, that I’ve reached that point of no return. And because I’m so frightened, I don’t tell a soul.
“Are you all right?” I’m in my new office-ette, talking to my mother on the phone. I didn’t get Regina’s office, but I did get a smaller version a few doors down. I christened it with my diplomas from Syracuse and Lindsey High. At the time, I thought it was funny since I don’t have a graduate degree. Now I think it looks ridiculous, as ridiculous as the stuffed bear that Charlie brought to cheer me up. “Frannie,” my mother says, “you seem so depressed lately.”
“You’re the one whose been depressed, Mom. Not me. Why do you always do this?” I rip out pages from People magazine to Xerox so I can read at my desk and look like I’m working. Vicky’s been working on budgets and hasn’t had time to review my projects. I don’t have much going on, which is just as well since I’m not interested in doing anything anyway. “You always make me feel bad.”
“Frannie, I don’t make you feel anything. Marilyn says—”
“Fuck her. If she was so goddamn smart, do you think Shelly would be dead?” The words spew like lyrics lodged in my subconscious. “In fact, did it occur to you that if she had talked Shelly out of leaving the hospital, she might have been okay?”
“Shelly was leaving the hospital because all the doctors—not just Marilyn—felt she was ready. I refuse to have this conversation with you. I’m hanging up now.”
“Oh that’s great. Just cut me off when you can’t deal with something.”
“Don’t you think I have any feelings?” She starts to cry.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” My eyes fill with tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Then make an appointment with Marilyn. Or someone. You need help.”
“I can’t afford it. I’m trying to save money to move into my own place.”
“Then I’ll pay for it. You act like it’s a prison sentence. It’s supposed to be a positive step. Maybe you can figure out why you’re so unhappy.”
“I’M NOT UNHAPPY!” I scream into the phone and start to sob.
At lunchtime, I play with my sandwich. I nibble a crust of bread, then throw the rest of it out. My stomach is in knots. And all my skirts are hanging on me. The image of the skinny girl in the three-way mirror flashes in my head, but I will her away. I like the emptiness in my stomach, how lightheaded I feel. I call Charlie, who has already called me three times and counting. It’s amazing how much can change in six weeks.
“I can’t come over on Friday,” I tell him. “I got a call from this girl Pia, someone Shelly knew at St. Mary’s. She’s giving a poetry reading at the 92nd Stre
et Y.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“I think I should go by myself. I’ll bring my gym clothes. If it’s boring, I’ll just work out. Hey, Charlie,” I ask slowly, “have you noticed anything different about me?”
“Well you’ve been a little depressed and can’t sleep. Is that right?”
“I was wondering if you noticed anything weird about my body.”
“Do you mean your weight? Your shape? What?”
“Do you think I’m fat?” I ask.
“Of course not. You know you’re not fat.”
I sigh. “But if you had to name one part of my body that wasn’t perfect, what would it be?”
“Frannie, why are you doing this?”
“I’m just wondering.” I sip my soda. “We should be honest with each other. If you were getting heavy, I’d want to be able to tell you. It’s part of being in a relationship.”
“Do you think I’m getting fat?” he asks quickly. “Because if I am, just say so. I mean, I’m not eating any more than usual.”
“No, Charlie, for Christ’s sake. And we’re not talking about you, we’re talking about me. So tell me. What part of my body needs work?” He groans. “Charlie, no one is perfect.”
“I think you’re perfect. You’re beautiful. You’re the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Buuut …”
“I don’t know, your legs, I guess. You could tone your legs.” I squeeze them together. I’m silent. “Frannie,” he begs, “please say something. You made me pick something.”
“Did you notice I had fat legs when we first met or is this something new?” When Charlie laughs, I tell him that I’m not kidding.
“Frannie, stop it,” he tells me. “I’m starting to get mad.”
“You’re mad? I’m the one who was just told she has fat legs.”
“I didn’t say you had fat legs, goddammit! I said you were beautiful! And you are! You’re fucking beautiful and you’re fucking crazy! What is wrong with you?”
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