Your loving daughter,
Jane
The same sadness envelops me again. I hate knowing the end to Jane’s story. The jeep accident happens on July 13, 1945, so she’s got only about five weeks to live after this letter was written. She and Dorothy will be in the jeep when it crashes in France after the 6888th is transferred there. The girls will be killed in a town called Rouen, the same town where Joan of Arc was killed.
There’s another emotion in addition to my sadness. I’m pissed. How could those assholes in the pub treat them that way? Weren’t we all supposed to be on the same side?
All through Ms. Stinkov’s class, I simmer.
Amy might be returning to group. That’s what Sandy has just dropped on us this Friday afternoon with only a half hour left to go. “I’d like to see how you all feel about that,” Sandy says. “Anyone want to share?”
“I don’t want her here,” Alexis says curtly. “It’s better without her.”
Lil’ Tommy nods. “Yeah. I don’t think she’s right for this group. She kills the mojo. We’ve got our own thing going now.”
Sandy looks at me. “Um, I can see what Alexis and Tommy are saying,” I say slowly. “It definitely feels a little more relaxed without her here.”
“What?” Kristal bursts out, looking at me like I’m an idiot. “Really?”
Where the freak did that come from?
“Here’s my two cents,” Garrett says. He’s going Rasta, his long blond hair now a mass of dreadlocks. “I don’t think we should block her from coming. If she wants to come, that’s fine with me. If she acts like a bitch, you guys should just tell her that.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Alexis says sharply. “She was always flirting with you.”
“Sorry, guys, but I’ve got to agree with Garrett,” John says, his mental state stable again if his full-body Red Sox attire means anything. “It’s not right to exclude her.”
“This is an IOP, people! An intensive outpatient program,” Kristal bristles at Alexis and Tommy. And me. “Right? People with issues are supposed to come here. You can’t turn this into a clique and exclude her. That’s just wrong. And mean.” Kristal’s eyes travel around the room to land on me beside her. She sniffs scornfully. “Just because it’s more relaxed? Get over yourselves.”
“It wasn’t just that she wasn’t friendly,” I say, irritated at Kristal’s righteousness, at her overreaction. It’s not like we’re saying no to Kristal. “She does change the group dynamic.”
“Cat, she’s got serious issues.” Kristal gives me a long look.
Did she just imply that I don’t have serious issues?
“You don’t get it, Kristal,” Alexis joins in, really pissed now. She leans forward, eyes wide, hands squeezing the sofa edge. “Me and Amy, we were a ‘team.’ ” Alexis makes air quotes. “You know, me and her were in this IOP long before you got here. And we bonded.” Sarcasm drips from Alexis’s words. “In the beginning, we did all our fucked-up eating shit together. We shopped for broth and yogurt and cereal. We kept track of how many hours we’d exercise. And we’d binge together. And puke together.” Alexis’s voice cracks. “I already have to see her in school. I don’t want to see her here. She’s gonna get into my head again.”
“But we can’t just shut her out,” Kristal says obstinately. “She needs help too. It is not cool what you guys are saying.”
“Jesus!” Alexis shouts. “What don’t you get? I’m glad for you, Kristal. That you’re cured. That you’re totally over it. I’m jealous to be completely freaking honest. Because even though I haven’t done anything in forty-two days, I still want to. I am still tempted every fucking day. Have you forgotten what that feels like? Can’t you try to understand that it’s bad for me to have Amy here?”
I’m waiting for Kristal to admit that she isn’t cured. The opportunity is right here, right now. Perfect open door. But she says, “I still think it’s wrong not to let her come back. I just do.”
Alexis rolls her eyes. “I’m leaving if Amy comes back.”
Sandy reaches forward to take Alexis’s hand. “I understand how you feel, Alexis. And I thank everyone here for sharing his or her thoughts. It’s a highly emotional issue and I see everyone’s point. But due to the unique circumstances of this issue, the prior unhealthy relationship between Alexis and Amy, I don’t think it’s wise to have Amy return to this particular group.”
Kristal whispers to me, “I cannot believe you voted her off the island, Cat. That is cold.”
“We have other programs for Amy, so, Kristal, you don’t have to be concerned about that,” Sandy continues. “We’ve only got two more weeks left. Our final meeting is on the last Wednesday in November, right before Thanksgiving. The following week, the first week of December, you will all be starting the step-down program in the new group room. We’re calling it Group Room B. As I told you, we have another group starting around that time using this room. You’ll enter the same way, use the same door and foyer area, but instead of heading to this room, you’ll be turning left.”
After group, Kristal and I walk out together as usual. There’s an awkwardness between us that I’ve never felt before. The first cracks in my first post-diagnosis friendship. Is this the start of another Riley-and-Olivia situation? I’m so glad that I didn’t tell Kristal I was bipolar.
I spot the Accord a couple of rows away and start to walk toward it.
“Cat.” Kristal grabs my arm on the concrete sidewalk outside the door. “Wait a sec.” We say good-bye to Garrett and John. And then Alexis walks out. Kristal spontaneously hugs her. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Al. I get what you said.”
“Al” is stiff and barely returns the gesture. “Have a good weekend, Catherine,” she says, and gives me a wan smile.
“Shit,” Kristal says. “I…I really fucked up. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth.”
She’s waiting for me to say it’s okay, but I don’t. I can’t. She was wrong.
“Are you mad at me too?” she asks.
The question hangs in the chilly air. I could just say no and blow the whole thing off. She’s already kind of apologized. But I can’t. “Why did you say that? About some people having serious issues? Were you hinting that I don’t?”
“No, Cat,” she says. “Not at all. Having your grandma die in your arms, I can’t think of anything worse. Of course anybody would be totally messed up from something like that. It’s just that…well.” Kristal stops.
I don’t fill in her gaps of knowledge about my other “issues.” Instead I ask, “What? It’s what?”
“Sometimes you don’t seem that sympathetic to the stuff other people are going through.”
“What?” I force myself not to shout. “How can you say that to me after what you just did to Alexis in there? Saying that Amy should come back when it’s so obvious she’s bad news for Alexis?”
“I wasn’t thinking about Alexis. I was thinking about Amy, about her wanting to come back to group and not being able to. I felt bad for her. And I told you, I was wrong. I should have been more clued in to what Alexis was saying. But, Cat…Never mind. This probably isn’t the right time.”
“No. Tell me.”
“Sometimes I get the feeling you think your shit is, like, the worst and no matter what any of us go through, it will never compare to yours. Does that make sense?”
I’m stunned. “How can you think that?”
“Please don’t be mad. It’s just…you keep your distance. Like that time when Alexis was crying about Amy and it took you forever to come over to the sofa just to sit next to her as she basically hyperventilated. And when Tommy or Garrett say stuff, I get the feeling that you don’t think it’s really a problem for them. The only time you got involved was when John’s wrestling accident happened. It was great that you…I don’t know…engaged, shared what had happened to you. It really helped him. But usually…” She trails off.
I’m on the verge of asking her why she didn
’t “engage” with Alexis today about not being cured of bulimia, but I can’t. Because it suddenly slaps me that I brought two dozen doughnuts to a girl with bulimia. My God, what was I thinking? Not about Kristal, that’s for sure. I was thinking about how the Walkers would perceive the gift. And me. And worrying that maybe it was a little low-class for them. Kristal’s eating disorder never even crossed my mind. What kind of friend am I? I should’ve told Aunt D no.
Kristal places a hand on my arm. She has the most open expression on her face. “You’re my best friend, Cat. I always want us to be totally honest with each other. I’m so sorry if I hurt you because of my diarrhea mouth.”
Best friend. Best. Friend. The words twinkle inside me like Christmas lights under snow. I move in and we hug. “You’re the best thing to come out of this IOP,” I say to her.
Inside the Accord, on the way to celebrate Aunt D’s birthday at Casa de Amigos, something sharp pokes into my happy. It’s Kristal’s observation that I’m some kind of mental-health illness elitist. The Judith Swenson of St. Anne’s. I think of Garrett with just his kids-will-be-kids addiction issues that have already garnered him a juvenile rap sheet that jeopardizes his future. And Kristal and Alexis and John with their eating disorders, which I know can last a lifetime. Going into a restaurant for them is no leisure activity. It is an obsessive calorie-counting, exercise-planning nightmare that sometimes ends with the meal winding up in the toilet later. And my roommate in the hospital, and poor Tommy. I admit thinking his OCD is kind of cute, but what happens when he gets out of high school, when he’s a fully grown man with a beard and chafed, red, raw hands that can’t touch anyone? How could I have never acknowledged their pain, when pain is the one thing I understand? I carry the unbearable weight of secrets.
Just like they do.
My throat tightens. Amy. That sick, sick girl. The one who was basically starving and shitting herself. To death. Right in front of my eyes.
Where the fuck is my heart? Do I still have one? God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, anybody up there, help me.
—
All day Saturday, I do penance. To Mom, to Amy, to Garrett and Alexis and all my IOP comrades. I clean my room, empty the dishwasher, and dust and vacuum the downstairs.
Mom feels my forehead twice and then finally blurts out the worry that’s been creasing her brow all morning: do I have any racing thoughts? Because a four-day cleaning binge was the prelude to my “Highlights of the Mediterranean” episode. I tell her the truth, no racing thoughts, but then modify it: I feel a little guilty, I say. I feel like I ought to be doing my share around here. You shouldn’t have to do everything. I don’t tell her that the chores relieve the shock of last night’s revelation in the Accord.
After the house is clean, Mom and I watch three episodes of House Hunters International. Each show, we agree on the same place to buy: the one-hundred-year-old Tuscan villa, the grand Prague apartment with the brick kitchen, and the impossibly tiny apartment in Tokyo with the washer-dryer unit on the balcony. Duh, we said. The washer-dryer trumps everything.
In a lighter mood, I begin my body prep for tonight’s anniversary surprise that Michael has been planning. In the shower I take my sweet time shaving. In the moist mugginess of our tiny bathroom, I slather on moisturizer and add perfume to my wrists, cleavage and the back of my neck. Finally, I step into my one-dollar Silkeez Intimates and snap on my nude lace bra. Tonight’s outfit: a strategically chosen button-down flannel shirtdress and leggings. Slightly sloppy but easy to move if Michael’s hands feel like exploring. I’m ready for my anniversary surprise.
The Pitoscia house is quiet as I pass through the fragrant wall of warmth and garlic in their foyer. Lorraine, Tony and Anthony are all out and only Nonny is patrolling the kitchen. She says she didn’t cook tonight, but there are two steaming plates of ravioli and sausage on the table that she must’ve ladled out just as I rang the doorbell. She’s adorable in black leggings (which look scarily similar to mine) and an oversized sweatshirt that comes down to her knees. Aside from the Crocs with sweat socks, Nonny is definitely amping up her style game.
“So your mom, she a good cook,” Nonny says as she plants herself down opposite me and Michael and our plates. So much for an intimate dinner with Michael. “You cook too?”
“Uh…not really,” I say.
“Michael say she make chicken and mushrooms,” Nonny continues. “You bring me the recipe, okay, Michael’s friend?”
After twenty more minutes of chitchat/interrogation and an appearance by a leashed and muzzled six-pound Mitzi, Nonny finally leaves us alone. I help Michael clear the table, and after we rinse the dishes, he asks in a husky voice, “Ready for your surprise?”
He looks especially cute tonight in a white T-shirt and jeans and thick, gray flannel socks that he uses to slide around on the tiled kitchen floor. I think there’s even pomade in his hair, and he’s shaved his chin. The skin there is smooth and clean, and I fight the urge to kiss it.
“Sure,” I say, smiling back.
“Let’s go in here,” he says, and takes my hand in his warm one. Our fingers are so comfortable together, greeting each other in only the way hands can, I am learning. Saying things that we can’t.
Michael leads me to a room right off the kitchen that’s dominated by a huge TV and a U-shaped leather sofa. He sits me down in the center of the sofa, and I can’t help it—I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss.
It feels great—warm and soft—and I breathe in his delicious shampoo-and-soap boy scent. But he kisses back for only a few seconds before pulling my hands from his hot neck and straightening up.
“Hold on a sec, Cath,” he says, backpedaling out of the room. He returns beaming and holding a small box giftwrapped in dark blue glossy paper and topped with an elaborate white bow.
Shit. I didn’t get him anything. Not even a card. I’m sensing a theme with me.
Memo to self: Withdraw head from asshole. Start thinking of others.
Michael looks proud and excited when he hands me the present, which makes me feel even worse.
“I feel awful for not getting you anything,” I say. “Can’t you hold on to it until I can get something for you?”
“Didn’t your mother tell you that’s not the way gifts work?” He sits down next to me. “Go ahead.” He rests his hand on the small of my back and I can feel its heat through my dress, warming my skin. I hesitate and he says, “Please, Cath. I wanted to get this for you.”
I feel awkward. I’ve never been good with presents. With Riley, I always worried if my gift choices were Swenson-worthy.
“C’mon, Cath,” he says. “Open it.” He rubs his hand up my back and neck and caresses my earlobe with his thumb.
I raise the little, lightweight package to eye level. The wrapping is perfect. “Did you wrap this yourself?” I ask.
“No way. My mom saw what I had done, ripped off the paper and started from scratch.”
I’m careful not to tear the paper, and once I gently peel off the tape, I smooth out the sheet and fold it like Grandma used to do. The small white box screams jewelry.
Michael sighs impatiently. “Cath, if you don’t open it, I’m going to do it for you!”
I lift the lid. Resting on the stiff white cotton square is a pair of small silver snowflake earrings. They’re kind of modern with a high shine, and they’re beautiful—exactly what I would pick out.
My fingers graze the cool smoothness. “I absolutely love them,” I breathe. “How did you know?”
“Seriously? You really like them?” Michael asks, joy raising his voice a notch or two. “Anthony was with me and said I should’ve gotten this other pair, with these tiny little fake diamonds. But these seemed more you. More Catherine.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I say.
“It’s a guy’s prerogative if he wants to buy his girlfriend something,” Michael says, reaching for the earrings on their little plastic card. “Put them on.”
&n
bsp; He hands me the first earring. I haven’t worn earrings in two years and four months, and I’m worried that my holes have closed up, but the post slides right through, pain-free. I click the back in place and then put on the other earring.
Michael whistles. “They’re even better on. Go look!” He grabs my hand and we head to the foyer, where a mirror hangs next to the front door. He’s right. They are spectacular. Perfect size, maybe two-thirds the size of a dime and just right with my short hair. The shiny silver catches the light.
“Oh my God, I love them. I really do.” I turn around and hug him. “You are the best.”
Michael pulls away to look at me. “You know why I got you snowflakes?”
Uh-oh. I’m sure I’m forgetting something of importance to Michael. Something he confided in an earlier conversation when I would sometimes zone out.
I search and come up blank. I shrug.
“Because it snowed the first time I saw you,” he says. “Remember? The night of the holiday talent show? Everybody was worried it was going to be canceled and there wasn’t a snow date because it was too close to midterms and break.”
Of course, I have minimal recollection of that freshman-year event. But the fact that Michael remembers that night because of me—me—makes me want to cry a little.
I matter to someone besides my mother.
“Your hair was long then and you had it in a ponytail with a red ribbon, and you were wearing a really short red skirt. You were so beautiful,” Michael continues, his voice almost hushed. “That one girl, Riley, and the other one, I forgot her name, brown hair, they were always moving to the front, but you stayed in the back. Even though you were the best one on the stage.”
I feel my throat tighten. I guess perception is everything. Michael only saw this: a girl with a long chestnut-brown ponytail wrapped with a red ribbon. And he liked her. Liked the way she looked, the way she danced. If only he knew that that girl was zoned out from a desperate prescription roulette to fend off Zero. He never suspected that for that girl, life as she knew it had ended along with her grandmother’s.
The Weight of Zero Page 20