Jersey Tomatoes are the Best

by Maria Padian

  “I don’t recall a question, Eva, but I do have an answer for you. Unless you want to remain intubated and restrained to this bed, you need to eat.” She leaves the room.

  I feel broken. Brittle. I’m so sick of it all: the restraints, the drugs, the tube, the threats. I don’t know what to do. I can’t decide. I’m so tired of fighting.

  You know what to do. Get the damn tube out of your nose. It’s pouring fat into your belly while you lie here on your dead ass. Which, by the way, is spreading while you sleep.

  I can’t pull it out. If I pull it out, they’ll just stick it back in.

  They’ll take it out if they think you’re eating.

  Wendy returns. She carries white towels and a small bowl. A familiar smell wafts from the bowl.

  “What’s that?” I ask. She is spreading the towels on the floor, sopping up the water.

  “It’s pasta. Plain boiled ziti,” she says.

  Ziti. Rotini, spaghetti, fusilli, linguini … all the “ ’eenies,” I called them. “What do you want for dinner tonight, Eva?” my mother would ask, and I’d cry out, “I want ’eenies, Mommy!” One night when Dad was traveling for business, we went to the grocery store and bought one box of every pasta ending in i that we could find. She boiled up a portion of each, and dinner for both of us that night was a ginormous bowl of pure carbohydrate, a melting pat of butter on top. We both decided that good ol’ spaghetti tasted best, even though we knew each shape was made from the exact same ingredients.

  We ate and ate. We were so full that we fell asleep together, on her bed, while she was reading to me that night. And in the morning, when she started pulling out the boxes of breakfast cereal, I asked, “Wanna eat the rest of the ’eenies?”

  She microwaved the leftovers and we giggled like two friends doing something naughty.

  I want to love pasta again. I do love pasta. I love …

  Plain ziti, my ass! Dripping with butter, more like. Can you imagine Wendy eating anything plain in her life?

  “Can’t I have fruit?” I ask. Wendy sighs.

  “You haven’t eaten regularly for a long time, Eva. Plain, cooked foods like pasta are best for you at first.”

  What would that lard butt know about nutrition? Give me a break. She’s smeared something on those noodles.

  “I don’t want pasta. I don’t like pasta. I like fruit.” Wendy replaces the bowl on the end table. She sits quietly for a few moments before diving in again.

  “Your mother told me you like pasta.”

  ’Eenies. They’re called ’eenies, and yeah, she would know.…

  Shut up! Shut up with that stupid ’eenies baby talk! You are such a big baby.

  “By the way, I enjoyed meeting your friend Henry.”

  Hmm. Where’s this going?

  “I can sense a real bond between the two of you. I was thinking, when I met her, that you’re very lucky. A true friend like that doesn’t come along very often.”

  For some reason, her words make me sad. I feel my eyes well up with tears.

  “What did you tell her?” I ask.

  “I tried to help her understand why you’ve gotten sick. How she can support you.”

  There she goes again, with that “sick” stuff. Know what’s sick, Wendy? You’re sick. Anyone with rolls of fat around her ankles is totally sick.

  “She’s in your corner, Eva. She wants to see you get out of that bed and smile again.”

  Guilt rains down on me from every possible direction. Guilt, for making Henry leave her special camp just because of me. Guilt, for the fear in my parents’ eyes every time they look at me. Guilt, for what I imagine this hospital costs.

  But mostly, guilt over that small white bowl on the end table. Because I’m thinking maybe I should eat some pasta. Maybe I should trust Wendy. Taste food again.

  Yeah, that’s the spirit, you cow. Pasta today, pizza tomorrow, right? A little pasta, plus the nose-tube crap, and you’ll roll right out of ICU. You pig.

  Wendy has picked up the bowl again.

  “What do you say we start with one bite?” she says softly.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  HENRY

  I had woken to an empty bed. Traces of early morning peeked around the edges of the heavy motel curtains. The digital clock glowed: 6:15. I’d never heard the alarm.

  I snapped on the lamp, climbed out of bed and looked in the bathroom: empty. My eyes did a quick inventory of the room. My backpack: on the floor, my junk strewn around it. His sneakers: gone. The keys to the Cayenne: not on the dresser. The square black bag: on the dresser, zipped open, one of his T-shirts poking out. My shoulders relaxed.

  I decided to hop into the shower. As I rummaged through my pack in search of shampoo and clean underwear, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror over the dresser. Tangled blond hair. Long, wrinkled T-shirt with two tomatoes, like crumpled roses, blooming just over my breasts. I was a mess, for sure.

  But I was still me.

  Nothing had happened. He’d wanted it to, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. We’re not ready, I told him. We’ve known each other, what? A few weeks? That’s no time at all.

  “I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he breathed into my neck. The sweet smell of him, the feel of him, pressed against me beneath the cool sheets, was … indescribable. Kissing him, holding him, is wonderful. Perfect. But then it changes. There’s this urgency, this insistence about him. I know it’s what happens next, but for me, right now, it doesn’t feel right. It feels scary.

  He rolled away from me in the dark. I heard him breathe out, an impatient blow I recognized. It’s what he does when he’s trying a new shot and the ball keeps hitting the tape.

  I think I counted to ten before sliding toward him. I placed one hand on his chest, rested my head on the pillow next to his.

  “Please don’t be angry with me,” I whispered.

  “I’m not angry, Hen,” he said.

  “Don’t be disappointed,” I pressed. He said nothing.

  “You’re disappointed,” I said.

  “Well, yeah,” he said. Impatience in his voice. “You could call it that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. He slid one arm under and around me. He wound his fingers through my hair.

  “We should get some sleep,” he said. “It’s a long way to New Jersey.”

  When I emerged from the steamy bathroom, a towel wrapped around my wet head, he was back. He had opened the curtains. Two Styrofoam cups steamed on the round table in front of the window. There was a paper bag with the Dunkin’ Donuts logo on it. He smiled at me.

  “I got us some breakfast,” he said.

  “Ooh, I hope it’s sugary and loaded with trans fats,” I said, eagerly approaching the bag. He shook his head.

  “Nope. Two sesame bagels, cream cheese on the side,” he said. I picked up one of the Styrofoam cups.

  “Caffeine?” I asked hopefully.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. He pulled two large Nantucket Nectars from the bag. “And juice.”

  We didn’t speak as we unwrapped the bagels and took our first tentative sips of the hot coffee. I could make out traces of blue sky through the gauzy privacy curtains. It promised to be a good day for driving.

  “What time did you get up?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know. Five? I couldn’t get back to sleep. My mind was working overtime.”

  “Don’t you hate that?” I agreed. “It’s like you know you have to sleep some more, but you just keep thinking.” He was quiet when I said that. He cleared his throat.

  “Actually, Henry.” A statement. I waited. Blew on my coffee. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Not a good intro.

  “I think we should go back.”

  My lungs, instinctively, sucked air. Deep, sharp intake of breath. The way, so I’ve heard, your body clutches at air when you’ve plunged into icy water.

  “What do you mean?” There was a dead look in his eyes. It made me sick.
r />   “I know that Eva is your best friend, and you think she needs you right now …”

  “I don’t think it. I feel it. Like, in my bones. This is not a question, David.”

  “Fine, you feel it,” he said. Patiently. Like you would speak to a child. Something dark stirred inside me. “But Henry, be honest. What can you really accomplish up there? She’s got her family and a whole hospital’s worth of doctors looking out for her.”

  “I don’t want to accomplish anything. I just want to be there for her.” What part of this doesn’t he get? I thought.

  “I don’t know, Hen,” he said softly. “Are you sure you don’t want to be there for you? Are you sure this isn’t just some grand gesture because you feel guilty?”

  “Why would I feel guilty?” I demanded.

  “Because things are going well for you and not for her,” he said. “Because you’re happy and she’s not. I don’t know, you tell me. Because in the cold, clear light of day, this whole thing is starting to look pretty irrational. And I don’t think I can hang with it anymore.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. After making it halfway up the East Coast, he wanted to turn around? A light went on in my head.

  “You’ve been talking to someone,” I said. Scripted. It explained the tone. The rehearsed expression. He placed the coffee cup carefully on the round table.

  “If we head back now,” he said, “no recriminations. No sanctions, no problems. We’ll be able to play in the Friday tournament. I mean, I think we’ll be a little road-weary, but first round shouldn’t be too bad.…”

  “Who?” I interrupted. “Who told you ‘no problems’?” He sighed.

  “Harvey,” he said. “Missy. I checked my phone messages when I went out. They’re pretty upset, but I managed to calm them down.”

  “Because you told them we’re heading back,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. He took one step forward, eagerly. “Henry, I know how you feel, and I totally respect that …”

  “No, David, I don’t think you have a clue how I feel,” I said, my voice shaking. “I can’t believe you would go behind my back. I can’t believe you wouldn’t talk to me first. What else aren’t you telling me? Besides, by the way, about the car.” It slipped out. Not the way I’d hoped to bring up the topic.

  He looked confused.

  “What?”

  “The Cayenne. I know your dad owns it.” David sighed again.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t up front with you about that. I just … hate … for people to judge me. To put me in the ‘rich kid’ box before they get to know me.”

  “You could have told me the truth,” I said.

  “I can tell you the truth now that you know me,” he corrected. “But when we were just getting together? Don’t say it wouldn’t have colored the way you see me.” I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to give him a single point.

  He stepped closer to me.

  “Henry, I swear, that’s the only, only lie I’ve ever told you. So please believe me about this Harvey and Missy thing. Please appreciate how much slack they are cutting us. Ditching out of the program like that, without permission? Anybody else would have been sent home.”

  “Exactly,” I snarled. “Chadwick’s rising stars. They’d let us get away with murder as long as we keep winning.” I couldn’t contain the bitterness in my voice. He frowned.

  “That’s not what’s going on,” he said.

  “Of course that’s what’s going on!” I snapped. “Why don’t you see it, David? Let me ask you something: don’t you ever feel owned by these people?”

  “I feel lucky. These people support me,” he said, incredulous. “They support us.” I couldn’t help it; I snorted.

  “Oh, that’s bull! You’re not their family, David. You’re their investment. Earn a top-ten ranking someday and they’ll love you. But say you break an ankle tomorrow? Then it’s welcome to oblivion.”

  He crossed his arms tightly and stared at the carpet. When he spoke again, I could tell he chose his words carefully.

  “I’m going back.” Something inside my chest split open.

  “David. Please. I need to see her.” I couldn’t bear the thought of turning around. Not now. He nodded.

  “I understand,” he repeated. “Listen. We’re about thirty minutes outside of Raleigh. You can pick up Amtrak there, which will take you to Newark. From Newark you can get a bus to Ridgefield.”

  The conversation had changed direction so quickly I actually felt dizzy. I sat on the edge of the bed, still clutching my coffee.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “I had Missy check the trains. I told her I’d do my best to bring you back with me, but if you wouldn’t come, we needed a Plan B to get you home.”

  I could hear a little “oh” escape my lips. Suddenly the anger I’d been riding evaporated, and I just felt … abandoned. My eyes filled.

  David took the coffee from me, placed it on the floor and held both my hands in his. He knelt before me.

  “Please, Henry. Let’s go back. Let the doctors do what they’re supposed to do, and we’ll do what we’re supposed to do.”

  Supposed to do.

  Who the hell decides that?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  EVA

  The tube is out. Breakfast is plain toast and juice. Along with this maroon plastic bottle of something called Boost. I’m trying not to freak out over what must be in it. I read the nutrition information on the label: 360 calories packed into eight fluid ounces. Plus enough vitamins and minerals to sustain a team of Clydesdales. You know, those enormous horses that pull the beer wagon?

  The voice in my head shrieks, especially over the Boost. Every time I lift it to my lips, Ed unleashes on me.

  Fatty, fatty two-by-four, can’t fit through the bathroom door! Here comes chunky monkey Eva drinking her Boosty woosty! Loser. Big baby. Big baby who does everything they tell her.

  Only Wendy understands Ed. She tells me she hears him behind my sarcastic jokes and nervous questions and anger. Especially the anger. She says the shrieks are Ed’s death cries. When I eat healthy food, it’s like pouring holy water on a demon. Make him sizzle, she tells me.

  I don’t know how to tell her that every bite I take is like flames to me. Guilt that burns all the way down. And on good days, I can believe that Ed is some nasty guy living in my head. But most of the time … there is no Ed. It’s me. That voice is my own.

  If I can’t tell the difference between me and this so-called Ed, who do I believe?

  Wendy is due in to see me this afternoon, but Rhonda has shown up for breakfast this morning. Wonderful. Someone always sits with me when I eat (they call it “support”), and today I’ve won the jackpot and get Mommy Dearest. She’s slurping something she picked up at Starbucks. Caramel Macchiato, she calls it.

  “Would you like a sip?” she offers.

  I stifle the impulse to hurl the Boost at her head.

  “You really aren’t getting this, are you?” I say.

  “Getting what, Eva? I offered you a sip of Starbucks.”

  “Right. Trans-fatty, sugary, caramel crapulous whatever.” She looks nervously out the window.

  “I’m sorry. I just thought you’d enjoy it more than the shakes they’re giving you. I mean, those Boosts already have eleven grams of fat in them, so I thought …”

  “FUCK!” The Boost hits the wall. A brown stain explodes, drips.

  Now THAT’S my girl! Next time, peg her.

  “Eva, my god, why did you do that?” She looks frightened. She yanks some tissues from the box on my night table and swabs the wall. Smears the brown even more.

  “These are not SHAKES! They’re supplements, okay? Get with the lingo, Mom. And can you not talk about … calories? Or fat grams? It is so unbelievably triggering!! Why don’t you understand that? Does Wendy need to beat you over the head or something?”

  She returns to her chair and stares at the floor. A long minute pass
es before I notice her shoulders shaking. She is sobbing without making a sound.

  “Not this again,” I mutter. Her head snaps up.

  “I’m sorry. Is it upsetting to you that I’m crying?” she demands, her face streaked with tears. “Are you the only one around here allowed to express your feelings?”

  “When have you ever not expressed your feelings?” I fire back. “It’s been the Rhonda Show in our house since the dawn of time.”

  She laughs. Not in a mean way. More like I’ve told a great joke.

  “Oh, Eva, how little you see. The Rhonda Show! Starring the Invisible Woman, I suppose. The drudge, whose entire existence is spent in the service of her amazing daughter!” She falls back in her chair, laughing and crying. Which I guess means she’s hysterical.

  “That is so lame!” I fire back at her. “You are, like, the stage mother from hell, and somehow that’s my fault?” She shakes her head.

  “Nothing is your fault, Eva. I’m just saying it’s been anything but the Rhonda Show all these years. It’s been the Eva Show.”

  “Yeah, and you loved it,” I say bitterly. “Every braggy minute of it.”

  “I did love it. Because you loved it,” she says softly. “And we love you.”

  “You love the way I dance,” I correct her. “Face it, Mom. Without pointe shoes, I’m not particularly interesting to you.” A fierce expression comes over her face. She stands up.

  “Someday you’ll have a child and realize how incredibly unfair that comment was.”

  “Hey, you’re the one paying for all the therapy. Sorry if the truth hurts.”

  She folds her arms across her chest tightly, her lips a thin line. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about what to say, or trying to hold back things she knows she shouldn’t say.

  “From the moment … the moment … you were born and they placed you in my arms, I have loved you. I looked into your beautiful little face, and it was as if I recognized you from another life, and you had been returned to me. I loved you naked and screaming and red and helpless, and there wasn’t a pointe shoe in sight.” Her voice trembles as she speaks.