by Maria Padian
And it was depressingly familiar.
* * *
Standing on the baseline of the pro court, a basket of balls behind me, I try to erase Mark from my sightline as I work my serve. I’d forgotten how much it sucks to play while he’s watching. Luckily, he sits outside the court, peering in between the windbreaks. Missy has invited these two other Chad-pros (that’s what we call them) to join us today: Paul and Scotty. It’s great to have all the attention, but not lost on me that this is intended to impress my father.
The three of them watch and offer suggestions as I concentrate hard on each phase of the serve: the loose, muscle-sleepy moment before you coil; knees bent, racket back with the head dropped behind you; the ball tossed high, hovering in the air; the hurling, whipping motion of the racket face, flung like a baseball; the pock of contact. God, it feels so good to hit something.
Thirty minutes into it, I’m bathed in sweat.
“How ’bout a water break, Henry?” Missy suggests. Paul nods, and the two of them head to the Igloo cooler parked alongside the court.
“You’re a fast learner.” Scotty stands next to the basket of balls.
“You guys are good teachers,” I concede.
“Next thing to work on is your toss,” he says. “You’re twisting your hand at the end of the toss, and the ball spins.” I nod. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that.
“I know. I need to place the ball in the air, and finish the toss with my palm open. Pretend I’m catching raindrops.” Scotty’s eyes widen, and he smiles.
“That’s the same visual my coach at Florida used!” We walk toward the coolers.
“His name wouldn’t happen to be Ray, would it?” I say jokingly. Scotty stops.
“Ray Giordano,” he replies.
Thirty feet away, Missy and Paul sip from little conical paper cups as they chat with Mark. He’s stepped inside the fence and stands with them beneath the umbrella.
“Ray Giordano was your coach at Florida State?” I say quietly.
“Until I was a junior,” Scotty says. “He left because he had some family problems. Sick mom, I think. He moved back to the Northeast, and I heard he was doing some private coaching and helping to take care of her. Do you know Ray?”
“Wavy dark hair? Probably my dad’s age?” I say.
“Green eyes?” Scotty continues, enthusiastically. “Throws his head back when he laughs?” I nod. “Damn!” he exclaims, laughing. “Who says it isn’t a small world?”
“Too small, if you ask me,” I reply nervously. “Listen, Scotty. My dad isn’t a member of Ray’s fan club, if you know what I mean.” Scotty’s eyes register instant comprehension.
“Check,” he says. “But, just out of curiosity, when did you work with Ray?”
“A little over two years ago,” I say quietly. “When I was fourteen.” He does some quick mental calculations, then nods his head.
“Right,” he says. “I heard he stayed up north for a year before joining Philmont.”
Missy is motioning us toward the water, and it’s time to cut this conversation off. Still, I can’t resist one more question.
“What’s Philmont?” I ask. Scotty chuckles.
“That’s like asking, ‘What’s Bechtel?’ ” he says. “It’s some global corporation that makes everything from widgets to bridges. They also sponsor athletics, and that’s the part Ray got involved in. Look for their logo at your next pro baseball game. Or in the Chadwick lobby.”
“Chadwick?” I say.
“Philmont’s one of our sponsors,” Scotty says. “I think we’ve got three Philmont students this summer. What about you? Do you have a sponsor?”
“I have a scholarship,” I explain. He shakes his head.
“There are no scholarships at Chadwick. People either pay full freight, or a sponsor picks up the tab. Make sure you find out who’s covering you, Henry,” he says. “You’ll want to write a thank-you note at the end of the session. Even more important than getting your toss right is making sure to always, and often, thank your sponsors.”
We’ve reached the cooler by now, and Scotty, good as his word, instantly switches the conversation. Mark seems astonishingly relaxed, actually pulling his lips back and revealing his teeth in a canine sort of smile. He obviously likes what he’s seen this morning; Missy and Paul, meanwhile, also wear rather self-satisfied expressions. It’s a freakin’ lovefest under the umbrella, but as I hold my paper cone under the Igloo spout, my hand shakes. And I make a mental note that this afternoon, if I can lose Mark for a little while, I’m going to spend some time in the front office.
I want to know who’s getting my thank-you note.
Chapter Twenty-Four
EVA
Rhonda claims it was ants. A curving, determined line of black ants marching into my bedroom. Plus an odor. Whatever. I’m sure she’s lying. Lying to cover up the fact that without my ballet to obsess over, she’s reduced to rummaging through my stuff.
Paige’s mom drops me off from the swim club at three, even though it’s the heat of the day and prime time for floating in the pool. Paige whined about leaving early, but Rhonda had scheduled a four o’clock appointment with my new shrink, so I had to come home. Not that I explained anything about it. Nor did Paige ask. It’s amazing how little one has to say to be friends with this girl. Just pretend to admire her as she tugs at her bikini and struts repeatedly past the good-looking lifeguards, and you’re in.
I walk into the kitchen, the arctic air-conditioning doing an insta-freeze on my still-damp hair, calling out, “Mom! I’m back,” and from upstairs she replies, “Eva. Could you please come here right now?” There’s that special something in her tone, and I know we’re in for yet another wonderful mother-daughter moment.
I climb the stairs slowly: Doc’s orders. Baby that toe. Of course, I’m not in the mood to get there quickly. And I’m tired. My heart races, as if I’m running bleachers.
Well, what did you expect, whale butt? Three weeks of absolutely no exercise. You are so miserably out of shape that you can’t even walk up the stairs to your own room.
The smell hits me at the door. Rhonda stands in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by boxes, random clothes and whatever else she has disgorged from my closet. She wears gloves, that yellow rubber-chicken kind you put on when you scrub something greasy. She also wears this sick expression. Like she’s going to vomit.
She points to a plastic pail on the floor.
“Would you mind telling me what this is?” she says.
I take two timid steps toward the bucket and peer inside. Brownish liquid, moldy chunks floating in it. There’s a clear plastic bag mixed in with the liquidy ooze, and it reeks. I see a small blue plastic tab poking from the surface, those Ziploc tabs you pull to seal storage bags … and then I know. There are about seven or eight month-old uneaten dinners in that bucket. I had completely forgotten about them.
My mind freezes. I cannot think of a word to say.
“Eva! What is this garbage doing in your closet?”
Garbage. Well, she’s right about that, isn’t she? The garbage they’ve been force-feeding you since the summer began. You were right to not eat it.
“I have no idea what that is! It’s gross. Get it out of here!” I exclaim. She stares at me.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she replies. “Eva, it was in your room. Behind the plastic storage bins. I’ve been noticing ants upstairs, and this morning there was a line of them leading into your closet. I opened the door and the stench practically knocked me over!”
“Well, get it out!” I shriek. I turn and race down the stairs, no thought for my toe. Weird floating sensation. My heart bangs against my ribs again, but somehow my legs feel weightless, like I’m flying. It occurs to me … in a strange detached way, as if I’m watching myself … that maybe I’m falling? But I reach the den, still upright.
She follows. I’ve burrowed deep within her overstuffed couch, my damp head pressing into t
he cushions. For once she doesn’t reprimand me for wet hair on her precious furniture. She chooses her words carefully.
“Tell me what was in the bag in your closet.”
She hates you. You are a pathetic little loser. All she’s ever cared about was bragging to her stupid friends about your dancing. Bragging about all the things she’s too uncoordinated to do herself. And now you’ve gone and injured yourself, and she can’t forgive you. So she’ll get back at you in every way she can, starting with this: making you fat. Don’t tell her.
“I don’t know!” I scream into the cushions.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Rhonda replies, her voice slightly higher. “Who else puts things in your closet?”
“Paige,” I say. Instant, nonsensical, knee-jerk response. Rhonda looks dumbfounded.
“Paige is putting garbage in your closet?” she says. I sit up. My mind races.
“That was something she wanted me to throw out for her. I remember now. It must have fallen out of my backpack. I forgot to dump it.” Rhonda sits wearily on the edge of the couch.
“Eva, this makes no sense,” she says quietly.
“It’s from her soccer game,” I say. “Paige is the captain, and she’s supposed to clear the bench before they leave? It’s a drag, people always leave their empty Powerade bottles lying around. Sweatshirts. One day there was even a laptop under the bench. So Paige asked me to help her carry all this stuff, and there was a bag of orange slices the team didn’t eat. I put it in my backpack and must’ve forgotten to dump it. It really got gross, didn’t it?”
Rhonda stares at me, shaking her head.
“Those weren’t just oranges,” she says. “There was some sort of meat in there.”
“Well, I don’t know what those girls eat!” I exclaim. “Why are you interrogating me?”
“I’m not interrogating you—”
“Well, it sure feels like an interrogation! No hot lights, but plenty of suspicious questions.” Rhonda reaches out and places one hand on my shoulder.
“Eva, soccer was months ago. We’re in July.” I sigh, exasperated.
“Paige is captain of her spring travel soccer team. They just played in the regional finals. In June.”
I watch the confusion play out across Rhonda’s face. She wants to believe this story, but she knows damn well there was nothing in that bucket resembling a rotten orange. After a minute, the lines of her face arrange themselves purposefully.
“If Paige is team captain, then she should get the trash, not you,” she says, a little indignation brewing. “Friends don’t treat each other that way.”
“Well, if you don’t like Paige, why do you keep pushing her to invite me to the swim club?”
“I don’t push her! What are you talking about?”
“Oh, please. ‘Eva doesn’t have anything going on this week, Paige.’ I mean, could I look like more of a loser?”
“Honey, you are not a loser. I … I just want you to get out a little. It kills me to see you sitting in your room day after day.”
Yeah, that’s right. Loser daughter with no social life. Nothing to brag about there.
She glances at her watch.
“Well!” she says briskly, getting up. “I need to fumigate your room. Then we have time for your snack before we head to the doctor’s. Okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. And as she retreats back upstairs, I feel like throwing up.
Yeah, but you can’t, can you? You’ve never been able to. You’re such a wimp.
* * *
Wendy Koontz looks like a large child dressed as a grown-up. Some organic cotton approximation of professional clothes that come off more like refugee couture from Little House on the Prairie. Her long, colorless hair is neatly woven in a French braid that trails down her back. She wears rimless glasses and chunky, colorful shoes that you gotta know are treated with tea-tree oil. She speaks in a girlish whisper. I don’t think she could scream if her life depended on it.
I have an overpowering urge to smack her, which is not good, since she’s my therapist and I’m supposed to be in here baring my soul. But I can’t get beyond the feeling that this gal could use some assertiveness training herself.
We sit in her office, the three of us: Rhonda and I in these deep, cushy armchairs, Wendy in her desk chair with the wheels on the bottom. She smiles serenely. Her expression matches the décor. Muted colors. The walls covered with flower prints. No framed diplomas.
“So how’s it going?” she asks gently. Rhonda and I look at each other, unsure who is supposed to answer that question. This is our second appointment. The last one started with both Rhonda and me in the room for fifteen minutes; then I went solo with Wendy for the remaining forty-five. I assume it’s the same drill for this visit as well.
“Fine,” I reply, at the very same moment that Rhonda says, “A little stressful.” Only Wendy smiles.
“Eva, why don’t you start?” she says. I take a deep breath.
“Everything’s going fine,” I repeat. I try to match her flat, emotionless affect. “It’s a little boring, since I’m trying to stay off my toe as much as possible. But I’ve been able to spend some time with friends. We hang out at the town pool a lot.”
“Swimming?” she inquires softly.
“Eva’s doctor doesn’t want her to swim right now,” Rhonda interjects. “But she can visit with her friends at the club.”
Wendy acts as if Rhonda isn’t in the room. She stares placidly at me, awaiting a response.
“I’m not supposed to swim,” I say agreeably. Then stop. Wendy holds my gaze for five full seconds, then moves on to Rhonda.
“Why do you think things are a little stressful?” she asks. Rhonda shifts uncomfortably.
“Well,” she begins, “there’s definitely some tension. Between us.” She nods in my direction. “And even between Eva and her father. They’ve always been so close, and this is a man who never argues, he’s so even-tempered, and last night? Well, they weren’t exactly shouting at each other, but he raised his voice because she barely touched her dinner.…”
“Pot pie, Mom. You made chicken pot pie. You know I loathe it.” So much for serenity. The acid in my voice could burn through reinforced steel.
Rhonda looks hesitantly at Wendy, who says nothing.
“No, I didn’t know that, Eva,” Rhonda says. “I thought you liked it. I know you won’t eat beef, or pork. Just chicken and fish. So I thought pot pie would be a good choice.”
“Well, you thought wrong,” I say. Silence follows.
“What did you eat for dinner, Eva?” Wendy finally asks.
“I had some ramen noodles,” I say.
You mean ramen broth. You dumped the noodles.
“And that’s it?” Wendy continues. I frown.
“May I ask a question?” I say.
“Of course,” Wendy says.
“Why are we talking about what I eat? I thought that topic was saved for the nutritionist Mom’s been dragging me to.” Wendy purses her lips.
“I’m concerned over your choice of the word ‘drag.’ Eva, are you going to these appointments unwillingly?”
“Why is it that I have to answer your questions, but you get to answer my questions with another question?” I fire back. The urge to hit her is becoming almost too much for me.
“We were talking about the different responses you and your mom had to my question. You think things are going fine; she says it’s stressful and attributes the stress to your conflict over dinner last night. That’s why we’re talking about food.”
I pull my gaze from hers and stare out the window. Leafy foliage presses against the glass. Wendy’s office is attached to her house, a tasteful square addition to her suburban Ridgefield home. Last visit, I remember hearing ambulances screaming in the distance. Wendy said Ridge Valley Hospital was only a few blocks away.
“Mrs. Smith, why don’t Eva and I talk alone now?” Wendy says. Rhonda dabs at her eyes; she sniffs. Wonderful. M
ore waterworks. Rhonda hasn’t stopped crying since Dad came home with all my stuff from the annex. Wendy picks up a box of Kleenex and holds it out to Rhonda, who plucks a tissue, smiles gratefully, then quietly exits.
Wendy returns to me.
“I’d like to get back to the nutritionist. Your choice of the word ‘drag’ makes me think you don’t want to see a nutritionist.”
“Well, you have to admit it is a little ridiculous,” I say.
“Why?” Wendy asks.
“What does a nutritionist know about broken toes?” I reply. Wendy’s eyes widen ever so slightly.
“Not much, probably,” she says. “But you’re not seeing a nutritionist to discuss your broken toe.” I shrug.
“Why do you think you’re seeing a nutritionist, and seeing me?” Wendy continues.
“I have no idea,” I say. “Because it gives my mother something to do besides cry over my lost ballet scholarship?”
“Is that why you think your mother is crying?”
“It was just a guess. You’d have to ask her.”
“You sound very angry, Eva.”
“Not at all. I love having nothing to do all day, getting dragged around to stupid doctors’ appointments and being pressured to eat unhealthy, disgusting food.”
Wendy looks steadily at me, digesting this comment. Then she changes tactics.
“Tell me about the bag your mom found in the closet.”
They’re talking about you behind your back.
“When did she tell you that?” I say.
“She emailed me before your appointment today,” Wendy says.
“Well, then she probably also told you it was some trash I had forgotten about.”
“Yes, I know that’s what you told her. But I want to hear it from you.”
“Excuse me: are you calling me a liar?”
“I’m giving you an opportunity to confide in someone. What goes on in this room stays in this room. Priests and doctors. We’re professional secret-keepers.”
I laugh, in spite of myself. Wendy smiles. She waits. I disappoint her, however, so she tries again.