Second Helpings (9 page)

My e-mail and digits, silly! So we can keep in touch.

It was obvious that she was putting on a show for both sets of parents. I looked at the two very respectable, very deluded people whose genetics had produced this hobag. I wanted to say something like, Call Me Chantalle, I wouldnt touch you without a stockpile of antibiotics . But I knew my parents would be horrified by my candor, which, of course, conflicts with Phase 1 of the PDAD plan.

I waited until I got home to flush her info down the toilet, where it belonged.

I hadnt expected to get anything out of SPECIAL. To finally have something to be excited about was beyond my expectations. I now know I will get through my senior year, if only because Ive finally gotten a glimpse of what awaits me once my diploma is in my hands.

the fourteenth

I thought it was bizarre that my parents hadnt driven up to visit me at SPECIAL, but I didnt want them there, so I didnt bring it up. And on the phone, they said nothing but vague, unimportant things about life back in Pineville, so I assumed nothing was going on. I shouldve known better. No, they wanted to wait until I was settled back into the homestead, enjoying a fine breakfast of Capn Crunch and coffee, before springing a months worth of bad news on me.

Your grandmother, Dads mother, Gladdie

I know who my grandmother is, Mom.

Well, she said, clutching her teacup. She fell down the stairs again while you were at SPECIAL.

Jesus Christ! Is she okay?

Well, she didnt do any damage to her artificial hips. Mom paused to sip her chamomile. However, it seems the fall was caused by

By what?

A little bit of a stroke.

WHAT?! How can you have a little bit of a stroke? Thats like saying she caught a touch of the AIDS.

Well, she was in the hospital for only two weeks.

Only two weeks!

The stroke impaired her motor skills. And her memory is gone.

Mom! The woman is ninety years old! She hasnt been in her right mind in decades.

She shushed me. Dont say that. It will upset your father.

Where is she now?

Well, we moved her into an assisted-living facility because she cant take care of herself anymore.

Assisted-living facility. Is that PC for nursing home ?

She shushed me again. Dont say the N word. It upsets your father.

My father. Aha! No wonder he hadnt grilled me about my workouts. Hes been too distracted by his mothers little-bit-of-a-stroke.

Why didnt you tell me about this?

We didnt want to worry you.

Does Bethany know?

My mother paused just long enough before saying yes to let me know that she was full of crap.

Liar.

Mom frowned. We dont want to tell your sister over the phone.

And shes out in California, so she couldnt do anything to help, anyway. Why worry her? Were waiting for a more appropriate time.

Of course. Denial is how we Darlings deal with everything. Or, rather, dont deal with anything. Like Matthew. His birthday is two days away. He wouldve been twenty-one. But instead of acknowledging it, and maybe releasing some of the pain she still feels about the crib death of her two-week-old son, my mom will simply and silently pop Valium instead. My dad will ride his bike from Pineville to the moon and back again.

We never, ever talk about it. Never will, either. It is extremely unhealthy.

Is this how its going to be next year? My parents will save all their bad news for when I come home for breaks from whatever the hell college Ill be attending since they probably wont let me attend Columbia even after I get accepted because it is absolutely impossible for me to feign perfection in their presence, as my next comment proves.

Would you have told us if she died? Or would you have buried her without us and waited for a more appropriate time?

My mother placed her hands over her eyes for a few seconds, reluctant to even look at me. I wasnt sure who she was more ashamed of, me for the comment, or herself for the truth in it. I found out soon enough.

Jessica Lynn Darling, she said in her best Because-Im-Your-Mother-and-I-Say-So tone. Just for that, I insist you go over there and visit Gladdie today.

Will she even remember it afterward? I mean, will I get credit for going?

Another scornful look.

What? You said shed lost her memory! So why bother going if shes going to forget I was even there as soon as I leave?

Because it will make her happy while youre there. And it will make your father happy. By the way, try to be a little nicer to him, okay?

Okay, I said, with a heavy, stereotypically adolescent sigh.

So thats how I ended up spending my afternoon at Silver Meadows Assisted Living Facility.

To its credit, the place wasnt nearly as depressing as I thought it would be. It looked more like a well-appointed hotel than a hospital where the elderly go to die. There were lots of fresh flowers, which thankfully made the joint smell like potpourri, not pee. Bandstand music piped through the speakers. A chanteuse crooned about all the things that she didnt get a kick out of: champagne, cocaine, a plane. But I get a kick out of you

I had no problem finding Gladdie. She was sitting in an overstuffed chintz chair, holding court in the Silver Lounge, located directly across from the front lobby. She was in the middle of one of her famous stories, surrounded by no fewer than a dozen men and women who all looked as old as she did, but with far less flair. Gladdie was looking as lovely as a nonagenarian stroke victim with two artificial hips could. She was wearing a lavender pantsuit with a matching beret perched atop her salon-poofy white hair. Always color-coordinated, she had her walker done up for the day with ribbons in light and dark shades of purple. She seemed virtually unchanged from my memory. Shed been ancient my whole life.

And so I said to the fella, That old gray mare aint never been what she used to be!

The crowd howled with phlegm-filled, ragged, lung-rattling laughter.

Hey, Grandma, I began cautiously, well aware that Id have to break in before she launched into her next tale. Its me, Jessica.

She fixed her eyes on me and there was an instant flash of recognition.

Hey, guys and dolls! she brayed. Its J.D.! The one I told you about!

Twenty-four quad-focaled, cataracted eyes turned toward me. So Gladdie seemed to know me, but why did she refer to me as J.D.? No one had ever called me that in my life. Even so, I pretended that it was a nickname Gladdie had given me years ago.

This one here has to beat em off with a stick, I tell ya!

Not true at all, obviously, but its in line with Gladdies usual delusional view of me.

Like grandmother, like granddaughter! shouted a liver-spotty man in a plaid sport coat.

The crowd went into more spasms of laughter, but I clearly saw a hint of blush show through Gladdies heavy cheek rouge, as she calls it.

Later, when we were alone in her room, Gladdie told me that this twice-widowed charmer is Maurice, but everyone calls him Moe.

He has a car!

Gladdies drivers license was taken away a few years back when she ran a dozen too many stop signs. I imagine that Moes freedom of movement is very appealing to her. I had to laugh, though, because its the exact same thing a freshman Hoochie Baby says when she starts getting banged by an upperclassman.

Moes the pick of the litter, she confided. And the cats meow. She purred for effect.

They sure know how to have a grand old time at Silver Meadows. I stayed through bingo, Wheelchair-obics, Music and Memories, and afternoon tea and cookies. This assisted-living facility seemed closer to my vision of college than SPECIAL turned out to be. You know, guys and girls hanging out, having fun, hormones flying. Only its even better because they dont have to go to class or study or write papers or anything.

Jesus Christ. Id rather be a senior citizen than a senior in high school. A new low.

the sixteenth

My mom wont get out of bed today.

My dad disappeared at dawn, and wont pedal into the driveway until after sundown.

My sister in California will go shoe shopping, blissfully oblivious of the date.

I will sit and think about how I am a pinprick in the condom. A forgotten Pill. A misplaced diaphragm. An accident. I am the second daughter they werent supposed to have after the first son that wasnt supposed to die. I will contemplate how my very existence relied on his demise.

I will sit and say it silently, because no one will ever say it out loud: Happy birthday, Matthew Michael Darling. Happy birthday to you.

the twentieth

I am trying to be nicer to my dad. Trying and failing.

I actually asked him if he wanted to follow me on his bike while I went on a five-mile run. If only he knew how much of a sacrifice this was for me. Not only have I always hated it when he rides along with me, but the sheer act of running has been pure torture lately.

Running used to be effortless, even when I hated it. I broke my leg last fall, but now my entire body feels like it needs to be fused back together. I feel like Ive gained a hundred pounds, even though the scale hasnt budged. Every breath is labored, as if Im running in a biohazard suit but the oxygen tank isnt working. I know I look as terrible as I feel, and I dont need my dad to point that out.

I told you to work out at that artsy-fartsy camp! Now look at you! Do you want to get beat by freshmen again?

No, I most certainly do not. Last seasons comeback from my injury was a total failure. Ive tried to let go of that humiliating track season, when I was beat by runners I had practically lapped the year before. I cant. Still, nothing bothered me more than my inability to come within twenty seconds of my old PRs. The way I see it, if I cant beat my former self, whats the point? After being number one, its tough to settle for being just one of the pack.

I want to quit. If that makes me a sore loser, then so be it.

Ive never quit anything in my life. Plus, Im the captain, a senior, and a four-year varsity vet. And captains who are seniors and four-year varsity vets do not quit.

But I really want to quit.

In fact, the only real problem I have with the concept of quitting is that no more team means no more runningperiod. Id miss those middle-of-the-night solo runs around my neighborhood. They were the only things that soothed my insomniawell, besides those late-night phone conversations with He Who Shall Remain Nameless. I felt connected to something larger than my own sorry little suburban existence. It was the closest Ive ever come to having religion. Its too bad I never felt that sense of peace at practice, or at the meetseven when I won.

The other drawback to quitting would be my dads insistence that I see a surgeon. My mom hates hospitals, which is why she has supported my decision not to go under the knife. Or maybe she sees what my fanatical father cant. She knows that an orthopedist wont be able to fix the real source of my pain: my head.

the twenty-eighth

Ack. I was mailed by the Clueless Two while back-to-school shopping.

I figured the food court would be the one mall zone where Id be safe, since the Clueless Two dont eat. Just my luck that they lined up right in back of me at Cinnabon, where I was buying a Pecanbon and they were buying Diet Cokes. They couldve bought Diet Cokes at any one of the thirty-eight eating and drinking establishments in the Ocean County Mall, but in a truly sadomasochistic dieting gesture, they chose to buy their Diet Cokes at Cinnabon. But I digress.

Omigod!

Saras voice is unmistakably snotty. (Ha. In more ways than one. Her parents are so moneyed, youd think they wouldve paid to have her adenoids yanked out of her nose, then had a bit lopped off the bridge in time for her senior portrait. Or at the very least, provide her with a travel pack of tissues before she leaves their seaside estate.)

Omigod! Look at me, Jess! Im skinnier than you are!

I wasnt about to endorse her eating disorder by agreeing, but it was true that Sara had lost quite a bit of chunkage. Even more disturbing than her anorexia was her tanorexia , which had reached savage, Bain de Solunatic levels. Tanning was the closest that Sara came to having a hobby, other than gossiping or surfing pro-ana websites, that is. She started every morning with a half-hour fake bake in the bed her parents bought her before the junior prom. Then (weather permitting), between ten A.M. and four P.M. every day, she would soak up UVs on the beach in her backyard. The result? Even the webbing between her fingers was the color of coffee without cream. Even for someone with her Italian heritage and dark coloring, it was unnatural and alien-like.

Do you even recognize me now that Im quote a perfect size two unquote ?

Had an Amberzombie salesgirl called Sara a perfect size two? Or was Sara acknowledging that she isnt really a size two, but close enough] Or had Saras quote/unquote catchphrase gotten to the point that she was starting to use it inappropriately? You know, like the foreign-restaurant owner who doesnt know how disconcerting it is for a potential diner to see a sign that reads: TODAYS SPECIAL: CHICKEN CHOW MEIN!!!!