CHAPTER 20
Marley
Hold hands with a cute guy in public. (Or not.)
Three remarkable things happened the week after my colon was violated.
Eva called me.
Camden asked me out. He called me.
Will Harding and I had a conversation, and then, shockingly, a fight.
Let’s start with number one. A little history is required. Until that day, Eva had never called me. Hand to God, she never once called first, or texted, or e-mailed. She always responded, never initiated.
Georgia and I had decided to soothe our “inner glows” with a trip to the huge HomeGoods in White Plains. I was fondling throw pillows, certain that I needed at least two more. Georgia was exclaiming over the fake orchids and how real they looked. (Sometimes she sounded just like my nonny in Boca.) My phone rang. Eva.
Since such a thing had never happened before, my completely justified greeting was, “Is it Mom or Dad?”
My eyes filled with tears as I prepared to hear about the death of a parent, or both, probably during a run to Walgreens in Tarrytown because Folgers was on sale. I reached out for Georgia, who dropped the fake plant and grabbed my hand.
“Hello?” Eva said. “Marley? Is that you?”
“Who’s dead?” I asked.
“Um . . . no one.” I heard two thunks as she undoubtedly knocked on some wood.
“Are they in the hospital?”
“Who?”
“Mom and Dad!”
“No! Not that I know of.” Thunk thunk.
I let go of Georgia and crossed myself. “You better be right.” I paused. “Do you have cancer?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Knock, knock, another sign of the cross. Georgia looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I adjusted the phone. “Everyone’s fine,” I whispered, crossing myself again.
“You sure?” she asked.
“Positive,” I said. Crossed myself again to be sure.
“Are you talking to me?” my sister asked. “Jesus, Marley, if this isn’t a good time, say so.”
“I’m here! I’m just surprised, since you’ve never ever called me first, even once.” Now that I knew no one was dead or dying, I resumed gazing at the shelves. Ooh. Pretty iridescent globe thingies on copper sticks. Might be a nice accent in the garden between the basil plants. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Eva heaved the big-sister sigh of tolerance. “Ma wants us to go to the house and tell her what we want so she can make a list.”
“What do you mean?”
“Furniture, pictures, the little crappy knickknacks made in China.”
I winced and put down the globe-on-a-stick. Definitely made in China. “Why is she giving us her stuff?”
“Because, stupid. They’re getting all new stuff for Maryland.”
What? The last time my parents had bought a new anything had been before I was born. Their once-white towels were gray and frayed, the sheets so thin they were translucent. Now they were getting all new stuff? It sounded very much like someone had a brain tumor. I crossed myself again.
“Eva, before we start divvying up the china, are you . . . have you talked to them about this? Because it seems like this move came completely out of the blue.”
“So? They’re adults, they’re not senile, not yet, anyway, and they want a change. What’s the big deal?”
My mouth opened and shut. Frankie, I wanted to say, and my whole soul seemed to pull at her name. But Eva and I never talked about Frankie.
“Also, do you really want to open up your apartment to our parents every other month and have Mom rearranging your bathroom drawers?”
“Why wouldn’t I? My drawers are a wreck.”
“It’s weird. You’re thirty-eight. You shouldn’t be living with your parents.”
“Bite me. They’d be living with me. But that’s beside the point. You and Dante need to come to the house. Can you come on Sunday?”
No. I wasn’t ready for this. “I’m very busy this weekend,” I said. Not completely untrue; we had the fun run on Saturday.
“Well, get unbusy,” Eva said. “Mom said I was in charge.”
“You should be in charge. You live to be in charge.”
“You’re right. Speaking of, I have to go, because I’m in charge of this whole department.”
“Hacking the White House, are you?” Her work was classified. Yes, she was that cool.
“That’s so two years ago.” She paused. “Everything good with you?”
Again, she surprised me. I could not recall her ever before asking how I was. “Everything’s fine. You?”
“Fine. Okay. Bye.” She clicked off.
I stared at the phone for another moment, wishing Eva and I were the type of sisters who talked. I mean, we talked. Just never about anything meaningful. Frankie, parents, when Dante came out, being fat, being in love, if she was an android. Nope. All those topics bounced right off of Eva’s sturdy heart.
Oh, crap, was that the time? I always spent more time in this store than I meant to.
“Georgia,” I said, “I have to run, okay? Time to make deliveries.”
She emerged from an aisle, staggering under a faux-antique birdcage, dog-head bookends and a red and yellow vase. “I’m gonna fill this birdcage with pink glass balls and Christmas lights,” she said proudly. “I saw it on Pinterest.”
“Ooh! It’ll be beautiful. Here, take the cart and buy me that pillow, okay? Sorry I have to go.”
“No worries.” She smiled, awash in the bliss of retail therapy. “See you later.”
As I drove home, I thought about trying to ask Mom and Dad about the move. On the one hand, yes, good for them. What if I asked them about Frankie and they changed their minds and then Dad died shoveling snow next winter? Huh? That could happen! “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,” I muttered, making the sign of the cross as fast and tight as I could.
On the other hand, I should be allowed to ask, right? I mean . . . I was the twin who didn’t die. Everything—everything—related to Frankie was tied up in that house. Would they take the shrine? Would I have to drive down to Maryland to see Ebbers the Penguin?
I called my mother. We would have this talk like a normal family.
“What’s the matter?” she said by way of answering. Like mother, like daughter. “Are you sick, baby? Do you have a fever? Tummy ache?”
Whenever I’d been sick as a kid, my mother would bring me cinnamon toast cut into triangles and give me weak tea to drink. It must’ve been terrifying for her to have us suffer even the smallest virus, but she hid it well . . . at least, back then she did. As I’d gotten older, I picked up on her fear and tried to keep any health issues to myself. Not that I’d had anything worse than a bad cold in all those years.
Sorry for having the world’s best immune system, Frankie.
“Marley? Sweetheart, are you there?”
“I’m here, Mom. I . . . I just wanted to say hi,” I said. “And I love you.”
“Oh, sweetheart. I love you, too.”
I couldn’t tell them not to go. They deserved a new house near the water. Maybe—just maybe—they wanted to get away from Frankie and all the sad memories.
My throat tightened, anyway.
“You sure you’re not sick?” Mom asked.
“Nope. Just thinking of you.”
There was a slightly suspicious pause. “Do you have cancer?” she asked.
I couldn’t help but laugh (and cross myself). “Nope. Strong as an ox.”
“Good. I have to go, sweetie. I have a hair appointment.”
“Enjoy. Tell Silvana I said hi.” Mom had had her hair done by the same woman for thirty years. “Talk to you soon.”
Then I crossed myself again. You know. Just in case.
&nb
sp; When I got home, I packed up the evening’s meals. Tuesday was my lightest day, just Mrs. Ames and Will Harding.
Next Tuesday, however, I’d be eating with Will, the Mongolian beef dinner he wanted. Maybe that would be the day he added me to the bodies in his freezer.
As I was loading my delivery box, my phone rang again.
Camden.
Will’s meal—steak with a balsamic reduction, cooked medium rare, along with beet and goat cheese spinach salad—almost dropped to the floor, as my hands were suddenly numb. Like my sister, Camden never initiated a phone call. Once or twice, he’d texted first, though. (Once. It was once.)
Like a well-trained singleton, I waited four rings before answering, pounding heart or not. “Hello?”
“Hey, Marley! How’s it going?”
“Good! How are you, Cam?”
“Excellent. I was wondering if you might want to grab a drink tonight.”
Oh, my sweet, sweet baby Jesus. With great care, I set Will’s meal safely on the counter. It was all I could do not to shout Yes! into the phone right then and there.
“Um, let’s see. What time? I have a thing this evening, but it shouldn’t last too long.” See? Well-trained singleton.
“How about around six?”
I glanced at the clock (from Target, red, cream and blue, super adorable). My pulse was racing. “I think I can make it,” I said, hoping I sounded casual. “Where did you have in mind?”
“At the place in Tarrytown? Down near the bridge?”
A really nice place. My breath caught. “Okay. I might be a little bit late, but I’ll see you there.”
“Awesome!”
I hung up the phone, double-checked to make sure it was truly off, then let out a screech of joy so loud that Admiral barked from upstairs.
And Admiral never barked.
“I’m going on a date, Ad!” I called to the ceiling. I imagined he was very happy for me in his dignified way.
That list was working. Putting Camden to bed the other night had not been a wasted, pathetic way to spend my time. And tonight, I’d tell him I wanted to be a regular girlfriend. No more of this “don’t tell your brother” thing. We’d hold hands. Oh, Lordy, we’d hold hands in public tonight!
I had to get moving, change, emotionally prepare for this date, hell’s to the yes! Couldn’t show up in my chef uniform. I zipped into the bedroom.
“Frankie, I have a date with the man of my dreams, wish me luck, pull some strings, do your thing, okay?” I said to her picture, then glanced in the mirror, pulling the elastic out of my hair and running my fingers through the frizzy, curly mess.
Should I put it up, or down? Did I have any miracle mist left? I did! “Thank you, Frankie!”
I squirted some on and scrunched it through my hair. Now, makeup. I’d do a smoky eye, because you did eyes or lips, but not both, and I didn’t want to smear a wineglass with red lipstick. Not a cat eye . . . let’s see, just a little dark purple, a little gray, that champagne color, lots of mascara. Some blush, a little clear lip gloss, perfume in my cleavage, boom!
On to clothes. Something low cut, obviously. Camden was a breast man. Heels, extra slutty, with skinny jeans to make me look taller. Sure, my ass was, er, significant, but in all the right ways.
“See that, Emerson? Me appreciating my body for what it is.” I probably should stop talking to dead people, but hey. Better than talking to myself.
I changed, tugging up the jeans, then put on the red and white blouse—it wasn’t too tight, since the jeans were, thank you, Tim Gunn. Adjusted the girls so they looked their best. Added a necklace that stopped just short of my cleavage to attract the eye there, added some gold hoop earrings for that gypsy look. Brushed my eyebrows into place, since they’d take over a small country if I let them.
Then I grabbed the boxes of food. Stopped at Mrs. Ames’s house first; she was sleeping in her chair, God bless her, so I fed the cats and left her dinner with a note written in big letters, adding a smiley face.
On to Will’s.
I was running late—it was 5:35, not the usual 5:15, thanks to my date prep. As I went into his house, I noticed his grass needed cutting. Wondered reflexively what Will looked like without his shirt. Then pictured Camden’s rippling abs. Now that was male perfection.
There was Will, watching from the window like Norman Bates.
I went up the stairs and started to knock, but he opened the door first. “You’re twenty-one minutes late,” he said.
“Yes, and I’m really sorry.”
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“Nice to see you, too, Will.” He just stood there. “Can I come in with your dinner?”
“Is it sanitary to cook with all that hair everywhere?” he asked, though he did move aside. “What if you shed?”
I cut him a look. “When I’m cooking, it’s always up, okay? No need to worry. Have you ever found one of my hairs in your food? No.”
“There’s always a first time.” He followed me into the kitchen.
“Well, today is not that day, to quote the mighty Aragorn. My hair was up when I was cooking. I changed because I have plans.”
“Yes. I gathered that.” There was a pause. “It’s nice to see you dressed like a woman, even though you’re fat.” He looked me up and down, then glanced away.
Oh. Oh, boy. He was in trouble now. Fury coiled in my stomach like a rattlesnake.
“What did you just say, Will?”
“It’s nice to see you dressed like a woman.”
I dropped the packages of food on the counter, jammed my fists onto my hips and turned to face him. “Even though I’m fat.”
“Yes. You look . . .” He gestured at my torso. “Nice.”
“You don’t go around calling a woman fat, Will Harding. Are you really that stupid?”
He frowned. “But you are fat.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you screeching?”
“I dress like a professional chef, because I am one. Chef whites are not reserved just for men.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“You don’t have to guess. It just is. Back to your rude comment, Will.”
“What was rude?”
“The word fat! It’s a rude word! Where do you live? Under a rock? You basically said I look like a fat man. In the world of human females, that’s extremely rude.”
“You dress in androgynous clothing. I’ve never seen you in anything else. Your hair is always up, and today it’s down. I’m simply making an observation.”
“So this has nothing to do with you wanting to tell me I’m fat.”
He frowned. “No.”
“Yeah, right.”
“But obviously I know that you are,” he added.
“Jesus! What’s wrong with you?”
He folded his arms. “I don’t understand why you’re mad.”
“You think I haven’t seen you looking at me, judging my weight all these months, Will Harding?”
“I—I’m—I didn’t mean to—”
“You know what?” I snapped. “You’re part of the problem with girls and women everywhere hating their bodies. People come in every shape, in case you haven’t noticed. We’re not all meant to be a size two, and even the size twos have body-image issues, so thanks a lot.”
“What does your boyfriend look like?”
“Do you mean, is he a grotesque fatty like me?”
“Is he?”
I pulled out my phone, jabbed at the photos button and scrolled over to the picture I’d taken of Camden and me. “There. Is he fat? No. Is he ugly? No. He’s kind of perfect, actually. Are you as tall as he is, Will? Are your biceps as gorgeous as his? Are your eyes as blue? Why not? Why haven’t you fixed that, huh? What about your abs? I can tell you t
hat Camden’s are quite ripply and magnificent. And yes, he does find me attractive.”
I took a breath, my cheeks hot.
“Even so, you are showing quite a lot there,” he said, nodding at my chest like a puritanical minister.
“If it bothers you so much, stop looking.” He didn’t. I snapped my fingers, and his head jerked up. “You know what? I quit.”
He looked up at that. “What? Why? You look different. You look nice. I noticed. This is very confusing.”
“Fine. Be confused. I have a date.” I grabbed my purse and left. Slammed the door behind me, too.
How dare Will Harding, who was no cover model himself, criticize what I was wearing, how I was shaped, how I wore my hair (though yes, sure, I could see his concern about my hair in his food, which is why I did always braid it tightly back when I cooked).
Did he think it was easy, keeping a positive self-image in a world obsessed with thigh gap? Did he think I didn’t know how I looked? How much I weighed? I got into my car and slammed the door in case Will was watching, and drove away.
It didn’t matter. I was going out with Camden. That was the thing I should focus on. But my cheeks throbbed with anger.
Had Camden asked me out for dinner, or just a drink? I couldn’t remember. It hardly mattered. I took a deep breath. Camden had never said anything negative about my weight, my looks, my clothes. Camden liked me. Slept with me. Obviously found me attractive.
By the time I got to the restaurant, I was calm. After all, I knew Will Harding lacked social graces. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
I checked my reflection, smiled at myself, took another breath.
I pictured Frankie sitting next to me, the two of us about to go in and have a double date.
What would she have been like as an adult? Would we have been best friends? I thought so. I bet, unlike Eva, Frankie would’ve called me first half of the time, and I would’ve called her first the other half in a mutual lovefest of twinship.
For a second, I saw that ocean of loneliness in my eyes.
No. None of this. I was on a date with Camden Fortuno.
Good Luck with That Page 21