Blue Plate Special (11 page)

three weeks

after trying on dresses

but still a week before the dance,

me and jeremy are in his room,

watching
beavis and butt-head
,

a little caesars box open between us.

usually when we share a pizza

we have leftovers, but

i did some major

chowing down.

jeremy leans close for a kiss.

within seconds we’re making out.

when he goes to lift my shirt

over my head,

it’s hard to get off.

struggling, he says,

there’s a little more

of you to love lately.

what the hell’s that

supposed to mean?
i snap.

you put some weight on, that’s all.

but i’m not complaining
.

he glances at my chest.

your boobs are bigger.

jeremy gives me one

of those little-boy looks

that melt my heart every time.

even though my breasts

are tender

i let him unhook my bra

and have himself a field day

with my bigger ’n’ better boobs.

after we make love

jeremy turns to me and says,

dez, i was thinking, maybe you

should go on the pill or something.

you know, so that
…

his voice trails off.

i rest my hand on my stomach,

touch the extra layer of flesh

that covers me like insulation.

you’re right. i should.

we wouldn’t want anything to happen.

* * *

three days later,

i take the city bus to ten center street.

inside i walk to the end of the hall,

past ashtrays spilling over with butts,

push on the door marked

planned parenthood.

a lady in a gray linen suit

leads me into an office.

she closes the door behind us

and invites me to sit, so i do.

cat calendar pictures

line one wall,

displayed in cheap plastic frames.

i stare at the october kitty,

clutching a trick-or-treat bag,

popping out of a pumpkin.

i hate seeing animals posed.

they look so exploited.

i hope the cat scratched

the photographer.

i hope he took the candy and ran.

i glance back at the lady

who reminds me of oprah winfrey.

she tells me her name, which i forget,

then she asks me mine.

desiree
, she repeats,

that’s pretty.

she asks me other things too,

personal questions that

i answer like a robot,

my voice flat, barely there.

i study a display below a sign

that says
birth control
—

a round pink case filled with pills,

a funny-shaped wire thing,

a brown dome that could be a

barbie umbrella except

it’s missing a handle.

that’s a diaphragm
, oprah explains.

you fill it with spermicidal cream and

insert it into your vagina

before intercourse.

i imagine shoving that ugly

rubber thing inside me

and i can’t help it, i laugh.

all straight-faced

oprah says,

desiree, before we discuss

your contraceptive options
,

we need to do a pregnancy test.

come with me, okay?

i follow her down a hall

that smells of refried beans.

she stops outside a bathroom,

hands me a cup to pee in.

i close the door, fill the cup,

leave it on the shelf beside the toilet.

in the waiting room,

i play with my belt,

which barely closes around me.

a woman sits across from me.

she’s maybe nineteen or twenty.

a little girl with a load in her pants

pulls on the woman’s arm,

crying
mommy, mommy!

while a younger boy

lies on the floor,

kicking his feet,

eating snot.

oprah reappears,

inviting me back to her office.

she stares at her hands like

what she has to say is etched

in the creases of her palms.

your test came back

positive, desiree.

you’re pregnant.

she reaches to touch my arm,

which is nice to do,

except it makes me cry.

she backs off,

sliding a box of tissue forward.

since you’re only fifteen
,

i imagine this presents a challenge
,

but i can help you sort through your options.

one choice, of course, is to carry

your baby to term
…

i tune oprah out,

study the august kitten,

who is pretending to watch tv,

a clicker poised beneath one paw.

…
or you might want to consider an abortion
…

pregnant.

baby.

abortion.

those words belong

to someone else.

they have nothing

to do with me.

nothing.

nothing.

nothing.

i jump up fast,

bolt through the door,

and run like hell.

* * *

that night

as i’m changing for bed,

i glance in my mirror,

turn sideways,

touch the small swell

rising from my middle.

pregnant
,

i whisper softly

so the walls

won’t hear me.

baby.

then

i mouth

the darkest,

scariest word:

abortion.

three syllables,

eight letters,

but so much

more than that.

a part of me

steps aside,

tells me,

get rid of the baby, desiree.

maybe you’ll get rid of larry too

and the memory of what he did to you.

you can go back to being who you were.

before.

but when i think of what that

dark, scary word really means—

that something,

someone,

will

—
shit!
—

die

i crawl into bed,

clench my pillow tight,

bury my face in the foam

and cry.

* * *

the night of the harvest dance

i can barely squeeze into my dress.

the straps cut my shoulders,

the zipper gouges my back,

and my cups runneth over,

big time.

eric’s older brother lets eric

borrow his truck for the night.

the four of us squeeze in

and eric shifts into gear.

carol ann tickles his side.

let’s have some fun
!

* * *

the band sucks,

no one was bright enough

to spike the punch,

and there are chaperones everywhere,

thick as a swarm of summer gnats.

we head back outside to the truck

to dump our punch

and refill our cups with the wine

jeremy bought with fake i.d.

it’s warm for october,

like indian summer.

just off school grounds a bonfire roars,

and the smoke-filled air stings my eyes.

as the rah-rahs strut back and forth,

showing off their size 0 dresses,

i think of something mam told me

in one of her rare talkative moods.

she said she hated the

cheerleaders at her school.

they were skinny and pretty and

popular—everything she wasn’t—

except this one girl she liked a lot.

mam would watch her during practice.

jesus
, i said.
did you have a crush on her?

and mam looked at me, all serious,

and said,
no
,
i wanted to
be
her.

we wander out past

the baseball diamond.

a field spills over with pumpkins.

eric twists one off its stem and

chucks it at a telephone pole.

the pumpkin hits,

splits apart,

spattering orange barf everywhere.

jeremy and eric and carol ann laugh,

so i do too, even though

i don’t think it’s funny.

as i turn

to head back

to the truck

for more wine

the moonlight glides

across my belly swell

and i feel carol ann’s stare.

i look up, meet her gaze.
what?

she opens her mouth, closes it,

follows me back to the truck.

* * *

at one in the morning,

the parking lot is empty.

a chalky cloud hangs

over the smoldering bonfire.

eric drives along the pot-holed road

that snakes behind the school,

parks beside a dried-up cornfield.

he pulls two blankets from the back,

opens them both across the ground.

eric leads carol ann

in the direction of one blanket,

and jeremy motions me toward the second,

a few yards away.

the smell of burned wood

and old corn mix together

as we do it,

right there

below the night sky.

and this time the stars are real.

* * *

afterward

a mist hides the moon,

and the air is chilly.

when i shiver,

jeremy takes off his

suit jacket and drapes

it across my shoulders.

his warmth surrounds me,

his smell,

his jeremyness.

gazing at me,

he lifts a strand of hair

from in front of my face,

and for the first time ever

he says,
i love you, dez.

i never thought about

whether or not i love jeremy.

but then i remember the day

in his bedroom

when he said he’d kill

anyone who hurt me,

and i whisper back,
i love you, too.

* * *

everyone wants breakfast.

so i suggest the geronimo,

two blocks from jeremy’s house,

but eric says,
i know someplace better.

they make a killer omelet.

eric drives us clear to elmira,

to a diner called the second chance.

the walls are paneled dark brown

and decorated with movie posters

of old farts in cowboy hats.

we grab a booth in the

smoking section and light up.

as i study the menu

jeremy reaches behind

my head, smiling.

hang on, dezzie lou
,

you got a piece of corn in your hair.

i elbow his side and shoot back,

how do you think it got there, cowboy?

* * *

it’s four in the morning

when we get back to johnson city.

i can’t wait to peel off my dress,

drop into bed,

and sleep.

jeremy kisses me good night on our porch.

i hand him his jacket and let myself in.

inside it’s dark, but

i get this creepy sensation

i’m not alone,

that someone is watching me.

as my eyes adjust

a face moves toward me

and a hoarse whisper

shatters the silence:

i’ve missed you, sweet stuff.

M
om hauls out the last of our stuff
, cramming it into the trunk. By the way she’s packed, you’d think we were leaving for two weeks instead of two days.

I set the directions on the dash between a bottle of Apple & Eve and a bag of Soy Crisps. I’d planned on getting the directions off Mapquest, but Aunt Lee, who grew up in Elmira, insisted on writing them out herself. Across the bottom she added,
Be safe, ladies! Say hello to my high school alma mater! xo, Lee.

“Okay,” Mom says, “mental check. The doors are locked. The stove’s off. I put a light on a timer. The heat’s set at sixty.” She turns to face me. “Is that high enough? Will the plants be all right?”

“They’ll be fine.” I hop into the front seat, motioning for her to do the same.

Mom peers inside the car like it’s an alien spacecraft instead of a Subaru wagon with a gazillion miles on it.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go. Marge is waiting.” Marge is what Mom calls her car, named after Homer Simpson’s wife.

Mom wrings her hands. “I didn’t cancel today’s newspaper. Maybe I should have. It’ll be sitting in the driveway until tomorrow
night when we—”

“Mom”—I pat the driver’s seat—“let’s go.”

Hesitantly, Mom slides in. Fastens her seat belt. Adjusts her rearview mirror. Pats Marge’s dusty dashboard.

Finally, we take off. As we cross the Mid-Hudson Bridge out of Poughkeepsie, my phone rings. I’d managed to glide through the whole why-Shane-gave-me-a-cell-and-why-I-accepted-it issue by inventing a little white lie. I told Mom that Shane was worried about us traveling, and that’s why he bought me a phone—so I can call for help if we have any problems.

I peel back the flap on my pack, feeling inside for my cell. Then I dig through the side pockets. Next, I dump it upside down on my lap, cradling an avalanche of CDs, makeup, and breath mints. Meanwhile, “Only U” plays and I’m cursing under my breath, getting more and more upset.

“Hey, calm down.” Mom moves a magazine off the seat between us, and there’s my phone, underneath it. Except the ringing stops the minute I flip it open.
1 MISSED CALL
. I push View. Shane’s name appears. Quickly I phone him back.

He answers in less than a millisecond. “Where were you?”

“Here. I mean, on the road. We’re driving. Well, Mom’s driving. You know.” I sound like a total spaz. “I couldn’t find the phone.”

“Oh,” Shane says. One word. One short, single-syllable word. But it tells me all I need to know. He’s upset about something.

I lean into my door, like that might give me some privacy. “Shane,” I whisper, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Two syllables this time. Sometimes I’m so busy trying to figure out what
Shane’s
feeling I barely have a clue what kind of mood
I’m
in anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, even though I really don’t have anything
to apologize for. Other than being a moron who can’t keep track of her phone.

Shane sighs a slow, easy breath. “Okay.” Two syllables again. But these are smooth and round, even as well-worn stones.

I exhale too. “So, what are you doing?”

“Missing you.”

“Me too.”

We talk effortlessly for several minutes. I’m smiling again, and I even laugh a few times—once so hard that I snort, then hiccup, which makes my mom laugh too.

Before we hang up, Shane says, “Call me when you get there, okay?”

“Okay.”

* * *

Four hours later, Mom and I are parking Marge in the hospital lot. Inside, we stop at the visitor’s desk. An old woman in a turquoise dress smiles up at us. Her pin says
Frieda: Volunteer.
A halo of white hair surrounds her head, transitioning to black a few inches from her scalp. I feel sorry for her, that she doesn’t know how ridiculous it looks. “Name of the person you’re here to see?” she asks.

“Murdock,” Mom mumbles.

Frieda scans her list. “Are you family?”

The word must throw Mom for a loop. Her face goes completely white.

“Yes,” I answer for her.

Frieda holds out two visitor stickers. “She’s in room seven-twelve, bed B. Take the second set of elevators.”

On the way, we pass a gift shop. There’s a candy kiosk next to the register. Mom almost never eats sweets, so I have no idea why
she stops. Or why she has this bizarre expression on her face—like one of those glassy-eyed people on the psychic channel who claim they can talk to dead people.

Mom holds up an Almond Joy bar. “When I was your age, I practically lived on these things.”

“
You?
”

“Yep.” Mom grins. “I used to shoplift them.”

The woman at the register turns to watch us.

“She’s kidding,” I tell her.

“No, I’m not,” Mom says, deadpan.

I take the candy bar and put it back before Register Woman decides to call security. Then I nudge her toward the elevator.

I push the up arrow. We wait.

“Do you feel ready for this?” Mom asks me.

“No.” I laugh. A choppy, nervous laugh. “You?”

“Hell, no.”

Mom doesn’t say anything about owing her jar a dollar, so I let it go.

The door glides open with a bing. We step on, and I push the button marked seven. I always hate it when elevators stop on every floor, picking up more and more people until you’re so crowded your face is mashed in someone’s armpit. But, today, I wouldn’t mind. I’d welcome anything to put off what’s ahead.

The door opens on the seventh floor. We walk slowly, checking the numbers.

Room 712 is across from the nurses’ station. The tag outside reads:

M. Murdock / Dr. Bishop

DOB: 12-11-59

From where Mom and I stand in the hallway, I can see her: M. Murdock, clad in a kelly-green hospital grown with a long-sleeved sweater overtop. Occupying the entire bed, her large form rises and falls with each breath. A big green mountain.

Seconds later, she stirs. She grabs the rails that line both sides of her bed, straining to sit up, which—judging from the look on her face—must hurt. She leans forward. Coughs. Sips from a Styrofoam cup. Points a remote at her TV. Melodramatic music fills the hallway.

Mom rolls her eyes. “
All My Children.
The theme song’s imbedded in my brain.”

We watch her watch TV. It feels weird—knowing who she is when
she
doesn’t have a clue who we are. Or that we’re standing here, studying her.

“She looks the same,” Mom says. “Except older. Older and”—her eyes fill—“vulnerable.” She reaches in her pocket for a tissue. When she blows her nose, it makes a honking noise.

The green mountain that is allegedly my grandmother looks up. Into the hall. Right at us. She points the remote at the TV again. The sound vanishes and a hoarse voice penetrates the sudden silence. “Is that you?” she asks Mom.

Starting through the door, Mom reaches behind her for my hand, squeezing so tightly I think she might bust a knuckle. She stops at the empty bed closest to the door. Its smooth white sheets look ready to welcome someone new. Even though we’re only a few yards away, it feels more like a hundred miles.

Mom pumps my hand like it’s a heart she has to keep beating. And I just stand there thinking,
This is the woman who made my mother’s life hell.

“I used to share the room with Ella Parker,” she informs us, tipping her chin toward the empty bed. “Except she died yesterday.
Liver cancer.” She points to the chairs that flank the dead lady’s bed. “Grab those and pull ’em over.”

We do as we’re told. Sitting, I mentally case out the room. There’s a yellow carnation in a plastic vase on the sill. A single “get well” card sits next to it. When Mom was home sick with pneumonia two years ago, she got dozens of cards. They filled the kitchen counter. And her mother has a single card. A gaudy one with too much glitter.

She reaches behind her, wrestling a pillow loose. Her face takes on the same pained expression. As she holds the pillow in front of her chest, I try to imagine what it must be like to have parts of your body removed. To look down and see scars where your breasts used to be.

The green mountain that is my grandmother wiggles her legs out from under the covers. She turns, struggling to swing them over the edge of the bed so she’s facing us. Her feet are swollen and bluish.

“Fluid retention,” she says, reading my thoughts. “Diabetes.”

I nod. “Oh,” is all I can think to say.

I glance at Mom, who’s clawing a loose vinyl strip on the arm of her chair, looking shell-shocked.

“What’s your name?” Green Mountain asks me.

I clear my throat. “Um, Ariel.”

Her eyes narrow. “Like
The Little Mermaid?
”

Mom finally speaks. “Ariel’s named after a collection of poetry by Sylvia Plath.”

Mom’s mother harrumphs. “Never would’ve pegged you as the literary type.” She turns to face me again. “So, Ariel. Did your mom tell you what a shitty mother I was?”

I start to choke. Then cough.

She points toward the corner of the room. “Open that door.”

I have no idea how opening a closet is going to help me stop coughing, but I do it anyway. There’s an insulated tote on the top shelf, the kind I used to carry my lunch in when I was in elementary school. Mom would pack me the same thing every day—a sandwich on whole wheat bread, a bag of Sun Chips, a piece of fruit, and a container of Juicy Juice. It’s funny, the things you remember.

I unzip the lid. Inside are six cans of Coke and an ice pack.

“My bingo buddy, Thelma, smuggled those in for me this morning,” Mom’s mother informs us. “I’m not supposed to have sugar on account of—” She glances at her feet.

“Your diabetes,” I finish.

She winks at me and smiles.

I feel myself start to smile back. But a smile would betray my mom, so I pin the corners of my mouth in place and sit. Peel back the tab on my Coke. Sip.

A nurse breezes into the room. She replaces Green Mountain’s water pitcher and hands her several small pills. “Nice to see you’ve got yourself some company,” she says. Turning to Mom and me, she adds, “Just to let you know, Mrs. Murdock has four drainage tubes from her surgery, and she has to be careful with her movements. No organized sporting events during your visit, you hear?” She smiles and glides toward the door, leaving a long, uneasy silence in her wake.

“Well, if the cat’s got everybody’s tongue…” Green Mountain says, powering the TV back on.

Mom drums her fingers on the chair.

Green Mountain nods at the TV. “He’s a looker, isn’t he?

Mom raises her voice over the sound. “We didn’t drive four hours to watch
All My Children.
”

Her mother directs the clicker at the TV. The picture fades to a black dot, and the sound in the room empties out. Now it’s even quieter than before.

“So”—Mom clears her throat—“how are you feeling?”

Green Mountain’s eyebrows knit together. “They cut my breasts off three days ago. How the hell do you
think
I feel?”