“This is the first I’m hearing of it.” Another family trait, not mentioning events where one was expected to show up.
“It’s the New York City Fights Hunger thing. Oh, Ma, these meatballs.”
“New York should just come here,” Eva said. “No hunger at this table, right, Ma?”
“That’s right, baby.” She smiled and patted Eva’s hand.
“You should come, too, Evie,” Dante said.
Eva gave him a look. “To run?”
“It’s good for you.”
“Have we met?” Eva said.
“You could lose a little—” His comment was cut off by Eva’s hearty smack to his head. “Fine,” he said. “At least my nice sister will be there.”
Go for a run in tight clothes and a sports bra. Oh, dear God. It was on the list.
“I’ll be there,” I said. Georgia could come, too.
We talked and ate some more (thank God I brought salad). Otherwise, it was a nonstop orgy of artery-hardening deliciousness. I always laughed when someone used the phrase Mediterranean diet in terms of health. Clearly not my ancestors’ part of the Mediterranean.
“So, kids,” Dad said after we’d all had thirds and were starting to slow down. “Your mommy and I, we have something to tell you.”
“Is it cancer?” Dante asked. “Who? Which one? Ma, is it you? Daddy?”
“It’s not cancer!” Mom said, crossing herself. “Where do you get these ideas?”
“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” Dante said, crossing himself, which made me cross myself. Louis did the same, then Dad. Eva abstained, but she did knock on the wooden table. You could take the Catholic out of the girl, but not the superstition.
“No one’s sick,” Dad said, which resulted in another round of the signing of the cross, more knocks on the table. “But Mommy and me, we’ve been thinking. We’re not so young anymore.”
“You’re sixty-two, Dad,” Eva said. “You probably have forty years left.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.” Another round of crosses and knocks. A strand of hair got tangled in my necklace, and I tried to separate the two. Stupid hair, always going where it didn’t belong. I’d cut it, but I’d tried that once and ended up looking like a poodle.
“Anyway,” Dad continued, “we’re hoping to be around for a long time, but we’ve been thinking it’s time to sell the house.”
I stopped trying to free my hair. Dante froze, a whole meatball impaled on the end of his fork. Louis’s big brown eyes swiveled toward him. Eva’s mouth dropped open.
Mom wasn’t making eye contact, just staring at her plate.
My eyes went to Frankie’s shrine.
“Well, that’s exciting,” Louis said. “Where will you go?”
“We were thinking somewhere warmer. The winters, you know.”
“How much warmer?” Eva asked. “New Jersey warmer, or Florida warmer?”
“Oh, Florida,” Mom said, waving her hand. “Who wants to go there? The bugs. The alligators.”
“We’ve been thinking Maryland,” Dad said. “We like the Chesapeake Bay. Very pretty. Lots of ducks.”
“Have you even been to Maryland?” Eva asked. “Not that I disapprove, but maybe visiting the state first would be a good plan.”
“We made an offer on a house,” Mom said.
“What?” Dante screeched.
There was something wrong with my chest. I couldn’t look away from the pictures of Frankie. This had been her house, too. For that exact reason, I never, ever would’ve suspected my parents would sell it.
“We won’t go if you don’t want us to,” Mom said.
“No, no, it’s totally up to you,” Eva answered. “Right, guys?”
“We’d visit all the time. Eva, we could stay with you. You have that second bedroom,” Dad said. “A month or two in Maryland, a month with you.”
“Sure,” Eva said. “You can stay as long as you want.”
Dante and I exchanged baffled looks at her equanimity.
“You’re a good girl,” Mom said.
“So you’d still be here a lot,” Dante said. “For birthdays and stuff. Grandchildren.”
“Of course!” Mom said, affronted. “You think we won’t be good grandparents? Get us a baby and you’ll see. It’s just . . . winters. We hate winter now. We’re old.”
I jumped as a sharp pain lanced my shin. Eva, kicking me. “Um . . . yeah! Sure! That sounds really exciting, Mom. Dad. That’s great. Maryland’s so pretty.”
“Want to see?” Dad asked. “It’s real nice. Plus, two extra bedrooms for when you kids come to visit. It’s the Dogwood model. Awfully pretty. Almost as big as this place, but one-floor living, you know? I have pictures on the computer.”
We left the decimated table and trooped into the den, where Dad pulled up pictures of what looked like a very posh park surrounded by lovely, newly built cottages on wooded lots.
My mother still wasn’t making eye contact.
“Can you afford this?” Dante asked.
“This house here is worth a lot,” Eva said. “Close to the city, good school district. They’ll get close to a million for it.”
My parents were always the most solid of the middle class. Dad had his own plumbing business, which had always been a good living, putting food on the table and a roof over our heads. They’d loaned me ten grand when I started Salt & Pepper, and Dante and Louis’s wedding had been gorgeous. Mom had been a stay-at-home mama and then, when Dante graduated high school, she’d gotten a part-time job shelving books at the library.
But what Eva said was probably true. A nice enough house in a decent neighborhood within spitting distance of the city . . .
Well, shit.
“See the kitchen?” Mom said now. “Isn’t that nice? And the closet space! You wouldn’t think there’d be so much in a little house, but there is.”
“Beautiful,” I said. My voice sounded a little strange.
“Who wants dessert?” Mom announced when she felt we’d seen enough. “I made a cake. Two, actually, because Louis, honey, I know you love chocolate.”
“You’re good to me, Patty,” he said, putting a brawny arm around her shoulder. “You’ll come back and bake me a cake every now and again, won’t you?”
“Of course! You kids come visit, we come up here . . .”
“Eva, you have no problem with the parents living with you?” Dante asked once Louis was in the other room with our parents.
“No. Why would I?”
I told you she was odd.
They wandered back into the dining room. I followed, but didn’t dare look over at Frankie’s shrine. As always, my tiny twin was the elephant in the room. How could they leave the place where her short life had taken place? It felt wrong. It felt horrible.
But I didn’t say anything. I just sat back down with the family and ate a slab of orange polenta cake.
CHAPTER 14
Dear Other Emerson,
I’m going to let you in on some Fatty Top Secrets.
1. Sometimes, I go through the fast-food drive-through and I pretend to be talking on the phone when I order so the cashier will think I’m buying food for an entire family, not just myself. I always laugh and say, “I just wanted a coffee! This is turning into a huge deal! Fine, you can get a Big Mac. What does Daddy want?” Then I drive to the window. “Kids,” I tell the pimply teenager. “They’re like locusts.”
2. The clothes made for people my size are craptastic. Try finding a decently made pair of pants in a size 34, Other Emerson. I dare you. Guess what? Designers want nothing to do with us. You can buy a dress by Isaac Mizrahi or Armani or Donna Karan, OE. Not me! Most clothes are basically polyester sacks with holes cut for arms. Burkas or tents, usually in black or ugly-ass floral prints my grandmother wouldn’t have been caught d
ead wearing. Plastic buttons and tacky sparkles so no one will notice you’re three hundred pounds overweight. Yo, Fat Acceptance People! Get on this!
3. I smile at everyone because I’m afraid they hate me on sight, so I try to be extra sweet. Though I don’t do it on purpose, I even talk in a softer, higher-pitched voice than I use when I’m talking to myself, or with Marley or Georgia. (I need to call them, by the way. It’s been a while. I just worry that they’re doing better than I am, that they’ll leave me behind. I’m embarrassed at where I am in life. I mean, Georgia graduated from Yale Law, for the love of God. Marley has that family and always sounds so happy. Anyway. I’ll call them soon. If I lose some weight, maybe I’ll invite them down.)
4. People assume I’m stupid because I’m so fat. Like I’m clueless as to how I became this way, so I must have a super-low IQ. People often talk slowly to me, assuming I can’t keep up.
5. I do my grocery shopping at the lowliest stores, and I shop late at night. Can you imagine me at Whole Foods? Please. I wouldn’t fit down their skinny little aisles. I think it was designed to keep people like me out.
6. I spend way too much time fantasizing about the Skinny Life. Where men will give me piggyback rides and buy me drinks and call me for no reason and ask if I want to have dinner with their parents, because yes, our relationship is that serious. I can kill HOURS with this kind of thinking, OE. Hours.
7. This is a hard one to admit, even to you, Other Emerson, but here goes. These days, I try not to make friends with fat people. It was one thing at Camp Copperbrook. Marley and Georgia are pure gold as friends. But a couple weeks ago, there was a woman at the library who tried to start a conversation about books. I gave her one-word answers. Why? Because she was fat. Not as fat as I am, but I could already imagine the looks we’d get if we dared to go out for coffee. Two obese women, having fun? It’s not allowed! We might be bullied or mocked more than we are individually, and I don’t have Marley’s guts or Georgia’s slashing comebacks (slashing, but she always blushes just the same, because it still hurts).
8. Sometimes kindness is worse than cruelty. The other day, I was trying to get back into the swing of things, back to a healthy lifestyle like they talked about at Camp Copperbrook. So I took a walk. It was harder and slower than the last time I wrote about walking, because I’m heavier now. Always heavier. So I figured I’d push it, do more than I thought I could, and all of a sudden, I fell. I tripped on a tree root that had worked its way through the sidewalk, and then I was down, on my stomach, my arms and legs scraped, my chin against the concrete.
I couldn’t get up.
I’m too fat to get myself up off the ground, Other Emerson. Billy Patterson, the boy I babysat who once loved me, was across the street with his friends, and he laughed in this loud, fake way, and I wondered, tears falling onto the sidewalk, how anyone could be so cruel. Mrs. Eckhart, who was driving past, did a double take, but didn’t stop. I got to my knees, but my foot slipped, and I was back down again. My chin was bleeding.
Then this lady, Natasha, came out and yelled at Billy & Co. to shut up. Natasha and her kids moved into the eyesore house in our neighborhood, the one with the patchy yard and rotting roof. She helped me up (grunting, it was so embarrassing) and asked me if I wanted to come in for a glass of water or a Band-Aid. But I just couldn’t. I was too embarrassed. I thanked her and tried to hurry home, bruised and bleeding, my back killing me, my knees burning, but it was Natasha’s niceness that, for whatever reason, hurt the most.
9. I don’t look in the mirror anymore. I just can’t stand the sight of myself. It makes me too sad, and what do I do when I’m sad, Other Emerson?
I eat.
CHAPTER 15
Georgia
Stop constantly wishing we’d lost more weight.
(That should’ve been on the list.)
“Tickle.”
“Tag.”
“Tank.”
“Tatiana!” said Tatiana, and I smiled at her.
We were doing letter and sound recognition, a component of the language and literacy part of nursery school.
Right now, we were trying to get every kid to name a word that started with T without any other chatter, which would reinforce their focusing skills as well as their literacy. So far, our record was five words in a row, which was pretty good, given that everyone here was only four and had the attention span of a gnat.
“Theater,” said Silvi.
Lissie, my assistant teacher, shot me a glance. Silvi was advanced, already reading. I felt a flash of pride for Clara, followed by the increasingly familiar buzz of nerves whenever anything related to Rafael entered my consciousness. For nearly five years, I’d done a damn good job of keeping him out of my head.
“Turd,” said Geronimo, and the kids dissolved into giggles.
“He said ‘turd’! He said ‘turd’! Turd!” they shrieked. Axel got up and ran in a circle, a victory lap of sorts. Khaleesi started to cry, since she hated all things bowel-related, and Lissie comforted her.
“We got up to six ‘T’ words! That’s a new record, so good work,” I said. “And, Geronimo, you’re very funny, but let’s keep bathroom talk for bathrooms and when you have to go, okay, sweetheart?” I glanced at the clock. “Great job, everyone. And look at the clock! It’s time to clean up.”
“Clean up, clean up, everybody clean up,” the kids sang. We had a song for everything.
I directed the kids—Khaleesi and Cash could put the stuffed animals away, Silvi and Wren could bring the paintbrushes to the sink, Dash and Roland would put pink reminder slips in everyone’s cubby about bringing in special cuddle friends on Friday. Nash and Primrose reshelved books. I helped kids find their lunch boxes, gave out hugs, checked to see if paintings were dry enough to be taken home.
Then, at 2:00 on the dot, Lissie opened the door to let the parents in to get their kids. Donna, the teacher in room 2, let her kids out early every day . . . she was one year away from retirement and really over teaching. The hallway was mobbed with kids and parents, and for a second, I didn’t see him.
Then Silvi shouted, “Uncle Rafe!” and he knelt down, opening his arms as she ran to him.
My body reacted before my brain—knees softened, my left leg wobbling, the instant heat in my stomach rising through my chest and neck into my face, my hands buzzing with adrenaline.
He was here.
Clara had put him on the authorized-pickup list. I’d known this day was coming, but now that it was upon me, I couldn’t seem to . . . to . . . what was the question again?
Rafe picked up his niece, kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, sweet girl,” he said, smiling.
Then he looked at me, and his eyes . . . I couldn’t believe I’d gone so long without seeing those eyes, so dark and beautiful, either the happiest or saddest eyes in the entire world, depending on his mood.
They were happy right now. Because of Silvi, of course.
He was clean-shaven, and it made him look younger. My heart felt weak and thin.
“Georgia,” he said, and my stomach squeezed. His accent always made my name sound lush and delicious.
“Hello, Rafe,” I managed. “It’s good to see you.”
He was more beautiful than ever. Every one of his features was just a little big—nose, mouth, eyes. Generous. His hair was shorter. No more ponytail, and he looked . . . perfect. But for some reason, his short hair and lack of a beard made me want to cry a little, because . . . well, because I hadn’t known.
“Miss Georgia, Miss Georgia, I can’t find my sock!” said Geronimo, who liked to strip down naked in the bathroom. And thank God, because it gave me an excuse to stop staring at my ex. I took Geronimo by the hand and led him to the bathroom, my heart banging. Never in my life had I been so glad to close a door.
I took in a breath, then picked up the errant sock, which was lying under t
he sink. “Here you go, honey. Remember what we said about keeping your clothes on in here? Just pull down your pants next time, okay?”
“Okay. I love you,” he said, throwing his arms around my neck.
Maybe if I’d been a preschool teacher when Rafe and I were married, we would’ve made it.
Don’t start, my brain said. You blew it. He asked for a divorce and you couldn’t say yes fast enough.
I put on Geronimo’s sock, tied his shoes and had him wash his hands. “That’s my boy,” I said, ruffling his hair.
“We’re best friends,” he told me.
“It’s nice to have so many best friends, isn’t it?” I asked. Couldn’t have him thinking he was my favorite, even if he was in my top five.
When I came out, Geronimo’s dad was waiting. “How was my boy today?”
“He was excellent, as usual,” I said. “And very creative.”
“I said ‘turd,’ Daddy! It starts with ‘T’!”
The dad laughed. “I guess it does. Thanks, Georgia. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye, gentlemen. Have a great afternoon.”
Silvi was giving her uncle the tour. “This is where we paint. This is where we read books. I have this book at home. I have this one, too. Read me this one, Uncle Rafe.”
“Silvi, let me talk to Miss Georgia a moment, sweetheart. We are old friends, did you know that?”
My heart rate tripled.
“You are?” Silvi asked. “That’s a pleasant surprise!”
I couldn’t help a smile. Silvi’s vocabulary was rock ’n’ roll.
“We are.” His hand rested on her head. “Can you look at a book by yourself for a moment, sweet one?”
“Silvi loves books, don’t you, honey?” Which he probably knew, being her uncle and all that.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I can read some by myself.”
My hands were shaking, so I stuck them in the pockets of my denim jumper (which was just as sexy as it sounded).
Rafe came over and stood in front of me, and my heart wasn’t just pounding now, but thrumming. The poker in my stomach twisted again and again.
Good Luck with That Page 16