by Amy Hatvany
Tyler stayed silent, shuffling his feet and avoiding eye contact, as though he, too, was unsure exactly how to behave after the fight we’d both swept under the rug.
I yawned, and then slapped a hand over my mouth. “Sorry,” I said through my fingers. “Long day.” I knew we needed to talk things out, but I was too tired to do it now.
“I should let you get some sleep. We’ve got the tree farm field trip in the morning.”
“Oh god,” I groaned. “What time?” Each year, both our families went to pick out our Christmas trees together, sipping tongue-scalding hot cocoa and eating slightly stale spritz cookies. It was something my parents had done with me since I was born, and we invited Liz and Tyler to join us after her ex-husband, Jason, left them and moved across town to a condo in Fairhaven. Only a lost limb or the threat of deathly illness could excuse me from participating, and even then it was possible my mother would rent a wheelchair and pop a morphine drip in my arm so I wouldn’t miss out. Traditions were kind of her thing.
“We’re meeting here at ten.” Tyler smiled. “I’m glad you’re home.” He grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch and then, as suddenly as his head had popped up from the couch, he was gone.
• • •
My mother had roused me from sleep the same way for as long as I could remember. I’d be curled up beneath the weight of my blankets and she would sneak into my bed, tucking herself around me. “Good morning, sunshine,” she’d whisper, her mouth resting near my ear. “Time to wake up, sweet girl.” She would rest her hand on my hip, which she’d pat a few times, then shake gently if I didn’t respond, then more vigorously if I ignored her.
When I was little, I adored feeling her body against mine, the smell of the vanilla bean lotion she applied religiously after she got out of the shower. The mornings I woke on my own, I would feign sleep until she arrived, craving her warmth—the absolute sense of security I felt in her arms. It wasn’t until middle school that I began setting an alarm so I would be sure to already be out of bed before she came to get me. I wanted to be responsible for myself, to take control of the choices I made, even something as insignificant as when and how I started my day.
So now, at twenty-four, a small part of me squirmed in rebellion when I felt her climb into my bed the morning after I’d come home. “Good morning, sunshine,” she murmured. “Time to wake up, sweet girl.”
“Mom . . . it’s too early,” I moaned, pulling my comforter up tight beneath my chin. Despite how tired I’d been the night before, I was also wired from the surprise of finding Tyler waiting for me, so it had taken me longer than I thought it would to fall asleep. The last thing I felt like doing this morning was get out of bed in order to trek through the woods.
“It’s almost ten, honey,” my mom said. She threw her right leg over mine and pinned me to her. “I let you sleep in a little when Tyler told us how late you got home. He and Liz are already downstairs having coffee.” She paused. “I made cinnamon rolls.”
I stifled a sigh, unable to ignore what her deliberate mention of the baked goods meant. There was no doubt I’d have to eat my mother’s cooking while I was here, or else risk her hovering over me, policing every bite I did or didn’t put in my mouth. Normally, I precooked all of my meals for the week on Sunday nights—four-ounce portions of baked chicken breast or salmon, brown rice, and two-cup containers of kale salad, snack bags of toasted almonds and one-inch cubes of low-fat cheese—but I couldn’t do that here. I’d simply have to eat controlled amounts of whatever she prepared, and get in as much exercise as I could to counteract the onslaught of excess calories.
I rolled over onto my back and peered at my mother, blinking to bring her into focus. She was already dressed in black boots, jeans, and a thick, blue wool sweater. Her auburn hair was pulled into a messy bun atop her head and I noticed a few streaks of silver running through it that hadn’t been there when I last was home. “Don’t we usually go in the afternoon?”
“We’ve always gone in the morning, but nice try. You still have to get up.” She threw her arms around me and squeezed, hard.
I grunted, but also hugged her back with just as much strength, letting myself give in to the old sense of safety I felt in her embrace. Whatever my problems with my parents over the years, how much we loved each other had never been an issue. She kissed my forehead and stood up, then yanked back my comforter, exposing my body.
“Gah!” I exclaimed. Still resting on my side, I brought my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them in order to protect my skin from the cool air in the room. I only had on a tank top and underwear, and part of me couldn’t help but wonder if she’d pulled back the covers just so she could check to see—as she used to almost every day after I was released from the hospital—if the xylophone of my rib cage showed through my skin or if the valley between my jutting hip bones had deepened.
She must have been satisfied with what she saw, because she didn’t say a word about my appearance. “No more stalling. We want to be out of the house by eleven, at the latest. Tyler has to be at work by four, so we have to be back before then.”
It was pointless to argue with her, I knew, so after she left, I got up and staggered to the bathroom across the hall. “Be sure to dress warmly!” my mom called out as she made her way down the stairs. “It’s only supposed to get up to thirty-four today!”
Great, I thought as I closed the bathroom door. I jogged in place and did two quick sets of jumping jacks and squats, hoping the exertion would perk me up. If I was lucky, I could fit in a run later this afternoon, and maybe a trip to the gym.
It only took me ten minutes to dress and head downstairs—having such a tight schedule between my classes and work had trained me to whittle my routine down to the barest of necessities: dark hair brushed and put into a ponytail, a swipe of mascara and lip gloss to help brighten my face. I heard voices as I walked through the living room into the kitchen, and before I’d even had a chance to say hello, my dad, who stood at the end of the counter, turned around and swooped me into his arms.
“Hey, Pops,” I said, and the threat of tears stung my eyes. I never realized how much I missed my parents until I came home.
“Hey, yourself.” He pulled back and held me at arm’s length, gripping my shoulders with thick fingers. He searched my face with his dark blue eyes, while I surreptitiously took in the fact that his beer belly had expanded several inches over the last few months. My father wasn’t a tall man—at five-foot-ten, he was only four inches taller than me—but he was burly and strong, and his presence made me feel like all was right with the world. With his black hair and wide smile he was still handsome, but part of me worried about the dangers of this extra weight settling near his heart. Maybe I could get him to head to the gym with me later, and skip the spritz cookies. I often had to hold myself back from scolding my mother for the kinds of meals she typically cooked—things like meat loaf and buttery mashed potatoes, chicken pot pies, and always some kind of rich dessert—but I reminded myself that just as I hated it when she lectured me about what I did or didn’t eat, she didn’t need me to lecture her.
“Beautiful as ever, I see,” my dad said.
“She sure is,” Liz said from across the room, where she sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in hand. “So grown up!” She smiled, revealing ultrawhite teeth that set off what I knew had to be a spray tan. Her stick-straight, highly processed blond hair grazed her shoulders, and her blue eyes were expertly lined in wing-tipped black. Since divorcing Jason, Liz had gone through a succession of boyfriends, most of whom ended up having just as many issues as her ex. My mom tried setting her up a few times with men who would likely have been good to her, but Liz seemed to only be attracted to big personalities and short fuses.
I chuckled internally at her statement about my being “grown up,” since technically, I was an adult, but I also knew that, in Liz’s mind, a part of me would always be the chubby eighth grader she was introduced to, just a
s Tyler would be the younger version of himself to me.
“How are you, honey?” Liz asked.
“She’s anxious to graduate,” my mom said, answering for me as she pushed a plate with a giant glazed cinnamon roll upon it toward me on the counter. We made brief eye contact, and I grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer and used it to break off a good-size hunk. She watched as I put it in my mouth and chewed, trying not to cringe from the cloying cream cheese frosting that attacked my taste buds. When I swallowed and the bite hit the back of my throat, I almost gagged. Outside of fruit, I rarely ate any kind of sugar, and when I did, it was usually just a few squares of dark chocolate, and then only for the antioxidants.
Satisfied, my mom turned toward Tyler. “You sure you don’t want another one, honey?”
“Oh no,” he said, patting his stomach. “It was awesome, but I’m stuffed.” He glanced sidelong at me, and I took another bite of the roll, washing down the sticky dough with a swig of black coffee, then stepped over to the refrigerator and pulled a few slices of roasted turkey from the deli drawer, hoping a quick influx of protein would keep my blood sugar from spiking and making me feel sick.
“I thought Liz could ride with us and you and Tyler could take his truck,” my mom said as she lifted her coat off the hook next to the back door. “I’m sure you kids want to catch up.” She raised her eyebrows, giving me a look laced with meaning, and I instantly regretted having told her about the fight I’d had with Tyler. I often vacillated between telling my mother everything and telling her nothing—if I shared everything, she automatically felt entitled to give me her opinion on what she thought I should do, and if I shared nothing, she poked and prodded for details about what was going on my life—a kind of verbal Chinese water torture—until I was tempted to make things up in order to get her to stop. Regarding the way I’d left things with Tyler in August, she’d said, “You can’t change the fact that he had deeper feelings for you than you had for him, but you two are so important to each other. You worked it out before—you can do it again, as long as you keep the lines of communication open. Don’t shut him out just because it’s easier than having the hard conversations.” She was right, I knew, so I resolved to bring up the argument on our way to the tree farm. I didn’t want the remainder of my two weeks at home to be strained beneath the weight of unspoken words.
“Sounds good,” Tyler said now, and a few minutes later, we were outside, greeting the clear morning. The sky was the bright kind of blue that forced me to squint when I looked up—there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Still, it was cold enough that the lawn was stiff with frost, and each breath we exhaled instantly turned into a puffy white mist. Fortunately, the heat was blasting inside Tyler’s truck. As the engine rumbled, I held my gloved hands up to the vent, my fingers already aching from just a few minutes exposed to the winter air.
“How’s work?” I asked as he backed out of our driveway, thinking this was as good a segue as any into a more meaningful conversation. After graduating high school two years before me, Tyler had decided to forgo attending a four-year university, instead opting to get his associate’s degree as an EMT, then entering the paramedic training program with the Bellingham fire department. He’d been working as an official paramedic for the last year, a career choice—considering his acrimonious relationship with his firefighting father—that I was still surprised he had made.
“It’s good,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Stressful, at times, but I’m learning a lot. My partner is great.”
“Mark, right?” I asked, trying to remember what he’d told me about the man he was working with.
“Mason,” he corrected. “He’s a cool dude. Supersmart. Been on the job for eight years, so he manages to teach me without making me feel like an idiot. His wife, Gia, just had a baby. You should meet them while you’re here.”
“Sure,” I said. “If I have time. You know my mom already has my entire visit planned down to the nanosecond.” I made my voice go high-pitched, in an exaggerated imitation of my mother. “ ‘Cookie dough prep, nine thirty. Stringing popcorn and cranberries, ten forty-five. Watching Love Actually for the twenty-sixth time, twelve thirty-three. Bathroom break, one thirty.’ ”
“If you’re lucky,” Tyler said, laughing.
“No joke. I swear she preps for the holidays the same way a football player gets ready for a new season, only her training camp consists of testing out recipes and browsing for decorating ideas on Pinterest.”
He kept laughing, so I decided to take advantage of this moment of levity between us. “So, are we good?” I said. “After . . . August?”
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was soft, but reassuring. He kept his eyes on the road, his large hands gripping the steering wheel. “Of course. I’ve missed you.”
“Me, too.”
“I was an asshole about you dating that guy,” he said as he drove past the Sunset Square Shopping Center, toward the Mount Baker Highway. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. Even though he referred to Daniel as “that guy” instead of by name, I finally relaxed for the first time since seeing him last night. This was the Tyler I knew—my sweet, kind best friend. The texts he’d sent me over the last few months had been vaguely apologetic—“You know I just want what’s best for you, right?”—to which I’d send him a smiley face emoji in return. He’d never addressed that night in his apartment directly, but then again, neither had I. “I wasn’t exactly nice to you, either,” I said.
“I kind of deserved it. I just worry, you know? I want you to be happy. And safe.”
“Like any good big brother should.” I lightly punched his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
“You’re sure? You’re doing okay?” He glanced over to me again, letting his eyes travel the length of my body with a fleeting, but clearly assessing gaze. “You look good.”
“Thanks,” I said, through gritted teeth, knowing that “good” actually translated as “not too skinny.” My weight had been a topic of discussion for so many years, I dreaded every time a conversation even hinted at it. I’d worked hard to stay in the low end of a reasonable range, one that all the medical charts and my doctor said was healthy for someone my height, so the fact that my loved ones still seemed like they were still holding their breath, waiting for me to waste away again, was infuriating. The way they held on to the past, judging who I was now against the girl I used to be, made it all that much harder for me to leave her behind.
“You look good, too,” I told Ty, then paused, deciding to go ahead and risk asking about his dating life. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Nope.” The edges of his tone were sharp enough that I knew not to push the subject. “You’re still with Daniel?” he asked, in an entirely different, lighter voice, and I took it as a good sign that he’d actually used my boyfriend’s name.
“Yeah.”
“It’s going well?”
“Yep,” I said, knowing that even though things felt better between us, it still wasn’t a smart idea to go into details of how amazing the relationship was. I certainly wasn’t going to tell Tyler that Daniel and I planned to move to Seattle together next fall. At least, not yet.
“That’s awesome,” Tyler said. “I hope things work out for you guys. Seriously.” He smiled, nodding his head as though lending emphasis to the sincerity of his words.
“Thanks,” I said again, giving him my best smile in return. But even as I did, I couldn’t help but wonder if Tyler truly meant what he said, or if, for the sake of our friendship, he was only telling me what he knew I needed to hear.
Tyler
I met Amber Bryant on a Saturday, the Labor Day weekend before I would start my sophomore year at a new high school in a new city. My parents had moved us from Seattle to Bellingham in late August, after a series of state budget cuts had forced my dad to leave the fire station where he had worked for over a decade.
“Fucking bureaucrats,” my father had mutter
ed when he got the notice of his pending layoff and optional transfer. “I lose my job because bleeding heart liberals decide to use all our tax dollars to support these stupid girls who keep spitting out babies because they don’t know how to close their slutty legs.” He’d looked at me as we sat across from each other at our kitchen table, eating the lasagna my mom had made for us before she left for her shift at the pharmacy, and pointed a thick finger in my direction. “Be careful who you stick it to, Ty. No matter what they say about being on the Pill, don’t forget—no erection without protection.”
I was fourteen at the time, and I’d nodded, uncomfortable with my father’s graphic and casual reference to sex, but also unable to clear the images that suddenly filled my mind at hearing his words: images of slutty girls—girls like the ones in the Victoria’s Secret catalogs I kept hidden under my bed, who wore nothing but spiked high heels, push-up bras, and black lace thongs. Without meaning to, I pictured them spreading their legs, then ended up flushed and squirming in my seat, trying to find a way to change the subject.
Three months after that conversation, my parents and I packed up our house and drove northward, eventually pulling up in front of the yellow, two-bedroom house we’d bought, which turned out to be only four doors down from the Bryants’ place. The movers hadn’t even taken the first box off of the truck when Amber’s mom, Helen, showed up in our front yard holding a plate full of chocolate chip cookies and an invitation to the neighborhood’s yearly end-of-summer party.
“It’s at our place this weekend,” Helen said. “Hopefully the weather will hold out so we can still use the pool!” She smiled at me, and I could immediately tell she was someone I would like. She was shorter and heavier than my mom, but there was something inviting about Helen’s round, soft edges, and the kind light in her eyes. She had long, dark red hair and freckles, reminding me of a teacher I’d had in second grade who told me that someday, with my dedicated interest in dinosaurs and bugs at the time, I might make a good scientist. Helen seemed like the kind of mom who would sit you down after school, feed you a snack, and ask to hear about your day—unlike my mother, who more often sat me down, poured herself a glass of chardonnay, and proceeded to tell me all about hers.