Love for Scale
Page 9
“Can I have your server bring you something?” she asked, all innocence.
“Uh, that guy I was with, did you happen to notice if he left?”
The waitress blinked. “Your brother? Oh, he said that his beeper went off and he had to go back to the hospital to see a patient. I thought he would have told you.” She frowned.
My brother? Oh God. Is there any chance to salvage what little dignity is left? “Oh, I was in the bathroom,” Rachel said.
“I guess it must have been a real emergency,” the waitress said, shrugging. “He said he’d like to talk to me some more, but only had time to scribble his number down for me. We’re going to hook up next week.” A smile crept across her dumb face.
Do not get mad, do not cry, Rachel repeated over and over in her head. You hated him anyway; he’s not worth crying over.
“So I’ve only got a second, but tell me what your brother’s really like.” Apparently this clueless waitress and Rachel had just bonded and were now best friends.
Before Rachel could open her mouth, her own waitress deposited a plastic tray with the bill on the table. “Here you go,” she smiled, also clueless.
Seriously? The schmuck ditches me and stiffs me with the bill? Sheri and Brian were going to suffer slow and tortuous deaths.
“I’ll get you some Wet-Naps,” the waitress said, pointing at the corner of her own mouth, a subtle demonstration.
Shit, Rachel thought, swiping her napkin across her lips, eradicating the barbecue sauce. She fiddled around in her purse for her Visa card and tossed it onto the tray on top of the bill. She didn’t even bother to check the amount, it didn’t matter.
Blondie was still waiting.
Rachel dug around in her purse some more. “Oh, dammit!”
“What?” Blondie Big Boobs asked.
Rachel clutched at an old prescription bottle of allergy medication that had been at the bottom of her purse for years, her hand deliberately covering the label. “I picked up my brother’s prescription and forgot to give it to him.”
“Prescription for what?” Just as Rachel had hoped, it turned out Blondie was nosy.
“Valtrex,” Rachel said, suddenly having all the confidence in the world.
The waitress looked like a deer in headlights.
Rachel looked around and then leaned toward the waitress. “For his genital herpes,” she whispered. Her delivery was deadpan. Her library’s weekly sex talks for teens delivered by the public health nurse had finally come to good use. Rachel’s vast knowledge of various treatments for STDs was being successfully parlayed into a delicious batch of revenge.
“Oh!” breathed the waitress.
Even if Rachel had the superpower to make people disintegrate right before her, she still couldn’t have caused the waitress to disappear faster than she did on her own two feet.
Rachel’s smile was genuine, for the first time that evening. She only felt a slight tinge of guilt over pulling one over on the waitress who hadn’t done anything bad to her. But Leo would probably always wonder why the waitress had never called. Rachel took pleasure in the knowledge that her plan would reach its pinnacle of greatness if he ever returned to the restaurant to find out why. And he had seemed arrogant enough to do just that.
When the Visa machine came, she paid the bill, took her slip and grabbed her purse to leave. As she pushed her chair back, she heard her name. Her smile faded. God, please let there be someone else named Rachel at the table next to me, she begged.
She looked up to see Finn walking toward her.
“Hey, Rachel, how’s it going?” His eyes darted down to her table at the two settings of dirty dishes.
“Okay,” she lied.
“It’s nice to see you,” he said. He jerked his thumb toward a big table in the corner where a crowd was hovering, trying to decide on seating arrangements. “I’m here with my family. It’s my uncle’s birthday. They dragged me here. God, this is the worst place ever for a recovering binger.”
“Buffets are tough,” Rachel said. It was true, and not just because of the food.
“Did you want to join us?” Finn asked, all smiles. “I’m sure my family won’t mind and you can keep me on track.”
“Uh, I was just leaving,” she said, trying to look like she was in a hurry. “I was here with my brother; he got called away just a few minutes ago.” She shrugged, feeling bad for lying, but it was still easier than explaining what had really happened. And even if she had been honest, she was on the verge of crying and was sure that if she got even the hint of a pity face from someone, she was going to burst into tears.
“Well, I should let you go, then.” Finn looked disappointed. “Have a good rest of your weekend. I’ll see you on Tuesday at the meeting.” He smiled, shoving his hands into his front pants pockets.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Rachel said and turned to leave. As she got to the archway of the room, she turned and watched as Finn sat down at the table occupied by his family. He said something, she couldn’t hear what, and everyone at the table laughed. They looked like nice people. If they were anything like Finn, she knew they would be.
She wished she’d had the guts to tell him the truth. Maybe then, she’d have accepted his invitation and be sitting with him and his family at their table instead of leaving the restaurant pathetic and alone.
Chapter 16
One good thing about her date from hell: since she was staying at Sheri’s she didn’t have to go home and explain another failed date to her mother. In fact, she hadn’t told her mother she was going on a date at all. Good thing. She cried quietly most of the way home in the back of the cab, not because she’d had high hopes for her date with Leo, but because she had been so utterly humiliated. Again.
She finally began to cheer up after imagining Leo sitting at home actually being consumed by huge, pus-filled, painful boils that would prevent him from ever dating again. That would serve him right. Asshole.
Rachel trudged up the stairs to the second floor, unlocked Sheri’s apartment door and was greeted by Sunny the dancing Chihuahua. Sunny didn’t normally dance, except when he really had to go. Taking that as her cue to move faster, Rachel grabbed his leash and a couple of plastic shopping bags, stuffed Sunny under her arm and headed back down the stairs.
After Sunny’s jaunt around the corner, stopping at every single vertical item to sniff and/or mark, Rachel took him back up to Sheri’s apartment. She realized that although she was bone tired and beyond emotionally drained, she still had to head over to Brian’s townhouse to walk his dog.
Grabbing her car keys and Brian’s house key, and reminding Sunny to be good until she returned, she left the apartment.
She almost lost her nerve when she was greeted by Glen’s throaty, “Ooof” as she slid the key into the front door lock.
“Hello?” she said as she pried open the door, trying to be as non-threatening as she could. There he was. Glen was clearly not a dog. Glen was a shaggy, fawn colored pony.
“Hi Glen, I’m here to let you out, so you’re not going to eat me are you?”
“Ooof,” Glen said again as he shoved his huge head into Rachel’s hand, looking for affection.
“I guess that answers that,” she said out loud, relieved. She grabbed the leash off the hook by the door and snapped it onto Glen’s collar.
“C’mon, Glen,” she said, unnecessarily. Glen was more than ready to go.
Despite his size, Glen was thankfully very well-behaved on the leash, stopping a few times to pee, but generally walking right alongside Rachel. She understood why Sheri loved him so much; he was a real pleasure. Even when she brought him home, he sat patiently as she unlocked the door and when she removed his leash, he licked her hand, a slobbery thank you.
Rachel sighed. Just one more reason to be envious of her best friend. She stood up as Glen left her for the kitchen, his noisy slurping a moment later telling Rachel he had gone for a drink. She followed him, curious to see Brian’s digs.
Rachel daydreamed about what she would do if she were to move in. Maybe a big vase of silk calla lilies on the dining room table, a bowl of fruit on the kitchen peninsula and, of course, a huge framed picture of herself and Brian over the mantle.
After drinking what seemed like a gallon of water, Glen walked over and nuzzled Rachel’s hand again before heading into the living room to flop down on his bed with a big sigh.
After washing her hands of Glen’s drool, Rachel noticed a stack of paperwork on the kitchen table. She looked around but it was just her and the dog (who was unlikely to tattle), so she stepped closer.
The top sheet was an invoice from ‘Keys R Us’ for a whopping four dollars and eighteen cents for two key cuts and a keychain.
Suddenly very ashamed of herself for the blatant invasion of Brian’s privacy, she turned and left the townhouse, only lingering a second to say goodbye to the snoring dog.
Returning to Sheri’s apartment, she climbed the stairs, counting each one as she made her way up to the second floor.
Finally able to sit down by herself and think about what had happened at dinner, she began to laugh. She laughed at how clever she’d been to the waitress, ensuring that Leo wouldn’t be hearing from her. Sheri would howl when she heard that. She laughed at how funny the situation was, how it was so ridiculous that it belonged in a sitcom.
Then she began to cry. She felt like the biggest loser on the planet. The butt of jokes, someone so pathetic that she belonged on a sitcom.
Whether Sunny was being sympathetic or just needed a warm body to snuggle up to, Rachel wasn’t sure, but the little dog pawed at her leg until she picked him up and deposited him on her lap. He looked up at her, his eyes two dark pools gazing into her own.
“You ever been humiliated like that, Sunny?”
“Rowr,” Sunny answered.
“Yeah, you probably have. You’re little; no one takes you seriously, no matter how much you try.” She scratched the dog’s head, right behind the ears where he liked it. He leaned into her touch, his entire body weight pushing into her hand. All four pounds of him.
The tears still fell, but she was somehow comforted by the quivering little dog who looked into her eyes, seeming to know everything. Finally, after giving her his own brand of reassurance, Sunny turned around and unceremoniously flopped down, curling up in her lap. After a sigh, he closed his eyes and began to snore.
“You don’t sweat the jerks, do you, Sunny?” she said, marveling at how his ear twitched when she said his name. “Nah, I won’t either.”
Rachel carefully leaned forward, mindful of the little cargo on her lap and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. She swiped at her wet eyes with her sleeve and turned on the TV, happy to settle in and watch a repeat of Grey’s Anatomy.
Chapter 17
Pearl strode into the kitchen and abruptly announced, “You’re just going to have to make the latkes.” Harry was long gone to work, but Rachel lingered over her dry toast and yogurt, reading the morning paper.
She looked up at Pearl. “What? Are you serious? I can’t do the latkes.”
Pearl shook her head, dismissing her daughter. “I have to go into the branch. Apparently three of the girls are off sick with the flu, so you’re just going to have to.”
Rachel panicked. The small, greasy potato pancakes had always been her downfall. “I can go work for you.”
Pearl looked over the rims of her glasses at her daughter. “You’re not a manager, Rachel. I can’t let you go in my place. You know that.”
Rachel swallowed a mouthful of dry toast, thankful for the hot tea to wash it down. “Whatever,” she mumbled.
“Don’t give me that attitude, Rachel. I need your help with this.”
Apparently it wasn’t enough that Rachel had taken two vacation days from work to help her mother get ready for the huge dinner. She was willing to do everything else, everything else other than this.
“Ma, I just don’t think I can do the latkes, please don’t make me do them,” she begged.
Pearl stood, her hands on her hips. “Who’s going to do them, Rachel? The latke fairy? Your father? Hmm?” She stared at her daughter, lips pursed, foot tapping.
Defeated, Rachel nodded. She would do them, she knew she would give in before Pearl.
So as Pearl showered, Rachel grated the potatoes. As Pearl put on her makeup and did her hair, Rachel grated the onions. And as Pearl left, with a promise to return later in the day, Rachel turned on the front burner on the stove to start heating the huge frying pan of oil.
The first batch never turns out quite right: the oil isn’t hot enough. So as batch number two made it into the pan, Rachel nibbled on batch number one.
Whoops, that one fell apart; not acceptable for company. It disappeared into Rachel’s mouth. And so it went until all six dozen latkes were fried and piled up between layers of paper towel. By the time Rachel turned off the stove, she felt heavy, ashamed, and more than a little nauseated.
Tears rolling down her cheeks, she wrapped up the latkes and put them in the fridge where they would sit until Pearl took them out to warm up for dinner the next day.
Angry at her mother, but angrier at herself, Rachel grabbed her gym bag and headed out to the Y. She wasn’t scheduled for an Aquafit class, but she had to do something to work off a little steam and a whole lot of potato.
Chapter 18
Setting the table was always one of Rachel’s favorite things to do for the holidays. She took great pride in getting everything looking just right, using her creativity to make it look special and unique. And the act of setting the table itself didn’t instigate any eating either, which was a relief, especially since her latke meltdown.
But that was yesterday, and now, thankfully, the potato pancakes were in the fridge, out of sight out of mind, at least for now, and Rachel was able to turn toward setting the big table.
She had inserted both leaves into the oak monolith and put the table pads on: necessary to protect the wood from hot plates and inevitable red wine spills. Over the pads went the heirloom tablecloths which her mother painstakingly washed and ironed with care after every holiday.
“How many tonight, Ma?” Rachel called into the kitchen where Pearl was standing, dressing the turkey. She wondered if Aaron had spilled his news.
“Thirteen.”
“Who are the extras?” Rachel asked, carefully taking the stack of good dishes out of the hutch.
She spared a moment to admire the China: its delicate feel and elegant gold bands around each dish. Someday it would be hers. She had made her mother promise to will her the entire set of good china. Her brothers could have anything else they wanted, but the dishes were hers. Rachel had always had a passion for dishes, beginning with her first set of Royal Doulton Bunnykins, which was carefully preserved in bubble wrap in her dresser. Someday she would give it to her own child. Well, maybe; she had to find a man before she could even start thinking about kids.
Pearl abandoned the turkey and turned toward the dining room, holding her wet and greasy hands up like a surgeon who had just scrubbed in. She began to count on her fingers. “Well, we’ve got you and me and your father, Jeff and a friend.” The wide eyes and the emphasis on the word ‘friend’ was not lost on Rachel.
Rachel smirked. “A new friend?”
Pearl looked over her glasses at her daughter. “Apparently. I would have liked to have gone with your father to pick them up at the airport but obviously the turkey couldn’t have waited.” She ticked two more fingers on her left hand. “Aaron and Lily.”
Oh God, he hasn’t told her, thought Rachel, forcing the smile on her face not to waver. Well, I�
�m not saying anything; I’ll just set the place and let Aaron deal with it.
“The Feldmans, your Bubby Marion, your Aunt Louise, Uncle Morty and Rabbi Rosen.”
Rachel almost dropped the irreplaceable antique plate she was holding. “Excuse me, who?”
“The Feldmans, your—”
Rachel cut her off. “No, did you say Rabbi Rosen?”
Pearl blinked innocently behind her reading glasses. “Yes. What’s the problem, Rachel? It’s a mitzvah to have the rabbi for dinner.”
Her heart racing, Rachel glared at her mother. “And I suppose you only invited him for that reason alone?” Her mother liked to hide behind the veil of doing things just for the sake of doing good (for example: buying a pair of Stuart Weitzman slides. If you got them on sale it was a double mitzvah: you save money which you could give to charity – mitzvah one, and with a name like Weitzman, he has to be Jewish, and we support our own – mitzvah two.)
Pearl turned back to the waiting turkey, avoiding her daughter’s scowl. “Of course.”
Rachel didn’t buy it. She knew her mother well enough to know that had she not been single, the rabbi would not have been invited to her home to eat: it was too much pressure to feed the rabbi. You had to provide kosher food, avoid putting customary sour cream on the latkes (there would be meat on the table), and generally be pious and good, something Rachel’s brothers were not known for.
Rachel had expected the addition of some kosher meat: her Aunt Louise and Bubby both kept kosher in their homes. But she should have suspected something was amiss when the entire meat order had come from the kosher butcher instead of Costco.
Fuming, Rachel placed all the plates in front of the chairs which had already been arranged around the table. She decided once she was finished, she would print up some place cards on her computer and make sure she and the rabbi were to sit at opposite ends of the table. She’d rather be next to perverted old Uncle Morty with the bad breath and the wandering hands than have to sit for a whole meal next to the rabbi on what her mother probably considered their first real date (four scant minutes at speed dating didn’t count as a date in Pearl’s books).