Holding Out for a Zero

by Wardell, Heather

  “Hey, are you still there?”

  I clear my throat, then dig my nails into my palm until the pain forces away the awful memories. I usually only let myself, make myself, remember once a year, on the anniversary of Anthony’s death, but talking to Andy about naming that stupid kitten has stirred everything up too soon. I clear my throat again. “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. Just— never mind. Look, it’s Mom and Dad’s anniversary at the end of May, and we need to plan their party.”

  A pause. “Really? You want to have that party? This year? Twenty years after… well, you know.”

  “It’s their fortieth anniversary,” I say, surprised she remembers how long ago Anthony died, “so yes. Obviously. You know Mom wants a ruby anniversary party because she loves rubies.”

  She clears her throat. “Okay, fine. She did always say that.”

  “Exactly, so we have to.”

  “Okay,” she says, sounding like it’s not. “What are you thinking of?”

  “I can’t talk about it now,” I say, “I’m at work. We need to meet.”

  “I’m having dinner with my friend Leah tonight, but I could meet you after if that works.”

  “I’ve got to work after.”

  “At like nine? You’ll be working then?”

  “Of course. I’m getting my weekly manicure at five and then I’m going to a friend’s wedding-food tasting, so I need to put in more time later.” I grimace, though she can’t see me, thinking of all the calories I’ll take in at the tasting. At least Andy won’t be there, since it’s just the happy couple and me and the best man. I don’t want the drama of seeing him.

  “Okay, how about tomorrow? We could have lunch.”

  “No can do,” I say. Whether or not I eat lunch, I always work through it. Somehow she never seems to remember that.

  “Oh, right. Breakfast? I lost five pounds and I’d like to celebrate. We could meet at nine or so.”

  Gloria has been gaining and losing that same five pounds forever, probably because she keeps celebrating with food whenever she loses weight. She’s got to be a size eight or maybe even a ten by now. Whatever she is, she can’t fit Elle’s clothes, and she complains about that when I see her at Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving. Complains, of course, while eating enough to keep a mid-sized elephant alive. She claims she wants to get to size zero, to see what it feels like to be that thin, and since she’s built small like me she probably could, but either she doesn’t have the willpower or she doesn’t really care. Not that it matters to me. “I have to be at work at eight. Seven?”

  “Ick. Since I quit that stupid coffee shop job I haven’t even been up before eight. That’s the only good thing about working the lunch rush at the restaurant, sleeping in. But… tomorrow night?”

  “Work,” I say, “and the rest of the week’s no good either. It’s month-end so I have insane amounts of stuff to do.”

  She sighs. “Fine. I will meet you at seven tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” I say quickly, realizing I should have set my terms earlier, “but not at—”

  “Yes at Union Square,” she says, that laughter back in her voice. “My reward for being up so early. Either that or you come out to my place here in Brooklyn, and I know you don’t want to do that. Union Square’s my favorite place in the city and I’m going to make you like it some day too. Meet me by the main subway exit. We can grab some street bagels and smoothies then sit and talk.”

  I shudder. I don’t eat “street bagels and smoothies” or anything else from sidewalk food carts, I eat things from restaurants that have posters in their windows showing they’ve passed their health inspections. But I can bring an approved smoothie with me, and that’s easier than arguing with Gloria and also easier than carting myself to Brooklyn, so I say, “Fine, see you then. And have fun with Leah.”

  “What— oh, right. Yeah, I will. You have a good evening too.”

  I hang up wondering whether Gloria was lying about meeting a friend. There’s no reason for her to bother; I don’t care what she’s doing. We’re tied together by blood but that’s it. Her life is her own business, like it’s been since she was sixteen and moved out to Brooklyn the day after Anthony’s funeral leaving me and our parents in Queens. We didn’t see her for over a year, until the second Christmas after Anthony’s death, and had no contact except her brief phone calls to reassure our panicked mother she was all right. She didn’t care about fourteen-year-old me, didn’t care that she was leaving me alone with my guilt and our grieving parents, and I don’t particularly care about her either. But I will make sure we do this party right for our parents. Though we haven’t been a real family for twenty years, it’s the least they deserve, after everything.

  *****

  “Nice color,” Mara says as we take our seats that night.

  I hold out a freshly manicured hand to give her a better look at my rich gold polish. “Thanks, I like it.”

  “I’d love that for the wedding.”

  I reach into the nail polish pocket of my work bag for the bottle. She holds it against her engagement ring then says, “Yeah, that’s perfect. I’m going to get it.” She snaps a picture of the bottle with her phone, then grins at me. “I’m glad you’re obsessive about never having chips. Means I can always find out what color you’re wearing.”

  “Hardly obsessive. I just want to look good.” I put the nail polish away then unfold my napkin and settle it on my lap. “And I have to, with my job.”

  “I think you look great,” Tim the best man says, his eyes flickering over me. “You were too skinny before but you look awesome now.”

  Mara smacks his arm and I say, “You think that’s a compliment, don’t you, you poor sad clueless loser?”

  Mara’s fiancé Jed says, “It should be, but it’s not.”

  “No, it’s not,” Mara and I echo in unison. I might be a little more forceful, since my size matters so much for my job, but since Mara’s been dieting to look good in her wedding dress she isn’t far behind.

  “Yikes, got it,” Tim says. “I’ll behave. Just don’t tell Andy. He’ll think I was hitting on you.”

  “He wouldn’t care, we broke up,” I say, reaching into the appropriate pocket of my bag under the table to retrieve my notebook and the list of questions I prepared to ensure the wedding food is right.

  I come up to find all three of them staring at me. “What?”

  “When did you plan to tell me?” Mara says.

  I shrug. “Now? It’s no big deal.”

  “No big… you’re both in the wedding party!”

  Jed lays his hand lightly on her shoulder, and I say, “Seriously, it’s nothing. We’re both adults, it’ll be fine.”

  Mara looks unconvinced.

  “Come on, have you ever seen me get upset after a breakup?”

  She gives a surprised laugh. “Hardly.”

  “So there you go. No problem. The wedding’s four weeks away anyhow. It’ll all be forgotten by then.”

  She takes a breath to speak but the waiter’s arrival with our bowls of tomato-tarragon soup cuts her off.

  “Nice,” Jed says after taking a spoonful of his. “I like it.”

  Mara and Tim agree, but I say, “The soup’s fine. The presentation, though… those big tarragon leaves on top?” I scribble in my notebook.

  Jed laughs. “As long as it tastes good, I don’t care.”

  I look up from the notebook and raise my eyebrows at Mara. “You care, though, right?”

  She squirms. “I do,” she admits. “Maybe not as much as you, but I do.”

  “Then I’ll make it right,” I say. “I’ll make everything perfect.”

  That’s why she picked me as maid of honor, I know. Her bridesmaids are her younger sister and two friends she’s known longer than me, but all three of them are flakes like Gloria. I’m the only one who can be trusted to make sure Mara’s day goes exactly as she wants it to, and I will do just that.

  Thinking of Mara’s wants reminds
me of her upcoming bachelorette and I said, “Everything’s set for next Saturday, by the way.”

  She grinned. “You got the others to agree?”

  I gave her a ‘you know it’ smile. Mara’s bridesmaids had been pushing for a spa weekend but Mara had always expected to go see strippers for the first time right before she got married and I simply informed the others that we would be doing things Mara’s way and they’d backed down. The fact that I’m not opposed to seeing hot naked men myself had nothing to do with my insistence on taking care of ‘our bride’, of course.

  She shakes her head, still grinning. “You’re a monster, Valerie. A maid of honor monster. You’re just in control every second, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” I say, grinning back. I can’t remember the last time someone said something so nice to me.

  Chapter Four

  Promptly at seven the next morning I stand at the Union Square subway station main exit, away from the stairs to avoid the raging river of commuters, waiting for Gloria.

  And I still stand there, alone and ignored, at seven thirty.

  I’ve used the time well, of course, answering some emails and checking my task list on my phone, but still. Why couldn’t she just once do what she promised? I didn’t grab a smoothie on the way, since I wanted to be early so if by some amazing coincidence she was on time she wouldn’t get to lord her punctuality over me, and if she doesn’t hurry up I won’t have time to get one before my staff meeting at nine and I’m starving.

  Aggravated, I call her but it goes straight to voicemail. As I start to put the phone away without leaving a message, it rings, and I answer with, “About time, where are—”

  “Valerie, Valerie, oh, God…”

  It’s too early in the morning to deal with my mother’s hysterics. “What’s going on?” I say, craning my neck to look down the stairs for Gloria.

  “Your sister’s—” Mom gulps. “Gloria’s in the hospital. We’re on our way but you’re closer. Hurry over, please. I don’t really understand what’s going on, but…”

  She breaks down, and I hear Dad in the background calling, “We’ll see you there, Valerie. Go now.”

  “Okay, I’m on my way,” I say, because I know I have to, and Mom manages to get out the hospital’s address then hangs up.

  I give myself a moment to be annoyed then I fire off a quick text to Jaimi to have her inform the office I’ll be late before heading back down the stairs into the subway. There is no way this is anything important. Gloria’s probably got a splinter or something equally ridiculous. Mom’s been unable to handle anything of significance since Anthony died, and Gloria was a drama queen long before then and she still is, so of course this is nothing.

  *****

  I truly believe that. So when I finally arrive at the hospital and am directed to the intensive care unit where a hushed doctor informs me that my sister took such a severe blow to the head that she is now in a coma, I can do nothing but stare at him.

  “We’re doing our best for her, of course, but the first twenty-four hours are critical. She did survive the night, which is a good sign. I’ll be back to you as soon as I can. And unfortunately I cannot let you see her right now.”

  I don’t want to see her at all. Gloria half-dead in a hospital bed? How would I ever get those images out of my mind? I can barely remember how Anthony looked when he was alive and happy, but I can far too easily recall the panic and pain in his tiny twisted face as he lay on the living room floor clutching his throat and—

  I force that memory away and thank the doctor, who nods then hurries off.

  My mind stunned silent, I drop into an uncomfortable waiting room chair, and it isn’t until I notice my hand cramping that I realize how tightly I’m clutching the paper bag I brought.

  The bag containing a bagel.

  I stopped at a coffee shop, while my sister lay in a coma, to get myself a bagel.

  I first looked around for a branch of my usual smoothie place, then a smoothie place that at least felt like they understood basic hygiene, and when I couldn’t find either of those I found a health-department-approved coffee shop with small bagels instead of those ridiculously huge monstrosities and I waited while the slowest worker ever toasted and buttered one for me, then I insisted she make me a new one because she used too much butter. I spent all that time feeding myself, while Gloria was…

  Self-hatred floods me and I let go of the bag like it’s burning me. Yet again I focused on food and did the wrong thing by a sibling. If fourteen-year-old me hadn’t been rushing out to have lunch with her first boyfriend she would have been more careful with the balloons, and Anthony would have had a wonderful third birthday party instead of a sudden terrifying death.

  At least this time it won’t be my fault if—

  “No,” I think, refusing to allow the thought to take root. “She can’t. I won’t lose another— I can’t let her die. I have to do something.”

  But what? I have no control here.

  That thought manages to root itself in an instant, wrapping itself around my heart and choking me like a strangling vine.

  I try to fight it off, fight off the panic it brings with it. No. I cannot have zero control. Not again. Not ever again. I always have control, and I need it now too. I have to do something. Something, anything. But what? I’m not a doctor, not even close, so I can’t help Gloria medically. I have to think. There has to be something I can do.

  But what?

  I start to stand up, my fear and dread making it impossible to sit still, which nearly knocks my paper bag to the floor. I grab it, then sit back down and stare at it.

  Gloria wants to lose weight. She can’t feed herself in a coma, so she can’t diet either, but I can. That’s something I can do.

  I get up, feeling certainty filling me, and throw the bagel into the garbage can. I bought the stupid food when I should have been here for my sister, so I don’t deserve it anyhow.

  Back in my chair I scoop up a magazine, though I don’t want to be bothered with it, to give myself something to do. When I see the front cover, emblazoned with “Eat less and live longer!” I feel a hint of peace despite my fear for Gloria. I will eat less, and she will live longer. I’m not sure how that’ll work exactly, but I don’t want to think too much about it or I might panic again. Making the decision has calmed me a little, so even if it doesn’t make sense I’m sticking with it.

  Putting the magazine aside, I sit thinking about nothing but my rumbling stomach, taking a strange enjoyment from my refusal to feed it, until my parents rush into the room.

  “Valerie,” Mom cries, throwing herself toward me. “Is she okay? Have you seen her? Is—”

  “Lana,” Dad says, and Mom and I turn to see the doctor at the door again.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Malloy?”

  Mom nods.

  “I’m Doctor Wise.”

  A good sign, I hope.

  Dad shakes the doctor’s hand then said, “How is she?”

  He tips his head to one side and back again. “She’s deeply comatose, but still with us. We had a bit of trouble around the site of her breathing tube, but five minutes ago she bounced back fairly well from that.”

  Dad sighs with relief and pulls Mom close. “Thank God. We’ve been so worried.”

  The doctor nods. “I should tell you, we can provide you access to counseling if you’d like. A lot of people find—”

  He’s cut off by my parents’ emphatic “No” in unison. He looks surprised, but I’m not; they’ve never believed in getting outside help for your problems.

  The doctor recovers and goes on about Gloria’s breathing tube issue and the potential for her to get a life-threatening pneumonia or infection that could kill her within hours, and I take a peek at my watch. Gloria rallied five minutes ago, when I threw out the bagel.

  I’m doing the right thing, not feeding myself. It’s the only thing I can do, so I will do it. Gloria can somehow have the energy I don’t take in, and it w
ill help her stay alive.

  Chapter Five

  An hour later, after seeing Gloria at the hospital, I sit shell-shocked and starving in the police station next to my parents, horrible memories still filling my mind whenever I don’t force them away.

  That hospital stench of somehow angry cleanliness with an undertone of misery and death. Gloria’s ventilator’s rhythmic noises, whooshing to push air into her lungs then clunking off to let the air flow out before starting again, and how those sounds clashed with the beeps and tones of her various monitors. Her bandaged head, hiding who knew what horrors beneath pristine white gauze. The sickly blue-pale of her taped-closed eyelids. How her hands lay on her chest twisted awkwardly inward so the backs of her wrists faced each other. The tubes up her nose and down her throat and disappearing ominously under her blankets.

  And her utter stillness amid it all.

  She didn’t respond to us, not to my dad patting her hand or Mom crying and promising that we’d sit with her every moment we could or my attempt to speak normally to her. I hadn’t expected her to carry on a conversation, of course, but if the monitors hadn’t been beeping I’d have thought she was dead. The five minutes we’d spent with her had felt like five thousand years.

  But I’d have stayed there forever rather than have the moment when we left her room and all three of us flinched in unison as someone went by carrying a bunch of red balloons. They were those foil ones and not latex, but we all had the same reaction to the sight of something none of us could handle.

  Some families might have laughed it off, albeit awkwardly. Us? Mom burst into tears and Dad hugged her hard and I stood on my own and forced everything balloon-related from my mind and waited until they were ready to move on.

  Once they did, a nurse took them to fill out some paperwork while I waited alone, and now we’re waiting together to see the officer in charge of Gloria’s case.