Blue Plate Special (2 page)

W
aiting for my old Dell to boot up
, I finger-dust the shell set Dad gave me three years ago on my twelfth birthday. The shells are organized in a clear shadow box with tiny labels identifying each one. My favorite is the miniature conch—bumpy and white on the outside, smooth and pink on the inside. Mom has one just like it, except she found hers herself, on a beach near where we used to live. On the card that came with the gift Dad wrote,
Maybe these will help you remember Florida, Peaches.
Apparently, peach was my favorite baby-food flavor. I can’t remember, just like I can’t recall living in Florida, but I never remind Dad of that.

My monitor blinks on and I smile at the desktop photo of Dad and me, taken the morning we left the Sunshine State. My enormous diapered butt is balanced on his wide, lean shoulders, and there’s something pink spilled down the front of my onesie. Dad is bare-chested and sunburned. He’s wearing denim cutoffs, and his long sandy hair is held back by a red bandanna, which I’m clutching with my small, dimpled hands.

Looking at that sweet little-boy face, I’d never peg Dad as a murderer. But he is.

When the jury found him guilty and the judge sentenced him to twenty years in prison—reduced because he was a minor—Mom claims he never made a single excuse. To this day, Dad says he did what he had to after he learned the Truth. Whoever said “the truth shall set you free” didn’t have him in mind. For Dad, it did just the opposite.

I don’t blame him. I miss him, that’s all. Sometimes I haul out his old CDs and play them on the antique boom box stored in the basement with his stuff. Or I open up the foot locker that holds his clothes, hugging a sweatshirt, inhaling his smell, imagining how his voice might’ve sounded when he read me a bedtime story, picturing what our first snowman might’ve looked like. I dream about the day he’ll live with us again, but Mom tells me not to get my hopes up. That even if Dad does get paroled early, it’ll take time to see if, quote,
their relationship is still intact
, unquote.

We visit Dad four times a year—near all our birthdays and again before Christmas—and he and I talk on the phone. I’d love to see him more often, but the drive is rough, over three hundred miles each way, so four trips is all Mom can manage.

I sign in to check my e-mail, glad there’s a message from Olivia.

Hey Ariel,

Dad and Steve are having a dinner party Friday night at 7.

They’re making baked lobster, your favorite! Can you come?

XO, Liv

Of course, I’ll have to disappoint her. Friday is date night with Shane.

I hear Mom’s car pull into the garage. Minutes later, the kitchen door opens abruptly, smacking the wall behind it.

“Shit!” she says, followed quickly by “Sorry! I owe a dollar!” Mom claims that when she was my age, every other word out of her mouth was a swear, so she uses a Potty Mouth Jar to keep from having a relapse.

“Hi, Mom,” I call, starting for the kitchen.

Her book bag is crammed with folders and legal pads. Mom works for Aunt Lee as a research assistant, and whenever Aunt Lee’s near a book deadline, Mom carts home tons of work.

I rescue the brown paper sack tucked beneath her arm. One whiff tells me it’s filled with Chinese takeout. I peek inside the first of four containers. Shrimp with cashews and snow peas, my favorite. Immediately, my mouth waters.

Mom wriggles out of her coat, kicks off her shoes, and hurries down the hall. “Gotta go! Gotta go!” she calls, imitating the overactive bladder commercial. The bathroom door whips closed.

I set out place mats and plates, toss out the napkins that came with the meal, and reach for two linen ones instead. Mom grew up poor, so she insists on the real McCoy.

Mom reappears, sipping what’s left of her morning tea, then collapses in a chair.

“Long day?” I ask.

She glances at her overstuffed book bag. “You know it. Aunt Lee’s editor wants to see part three by the end of next week.”

Sitting across from Mom, I unfold my napkin on my lap. I’d die if I got anything on my new low-rise jeans. They’re Shane’s favorite pair. He says I look sexy in them.
Me.
Sexy. God. I hand Mom the brown rice and keep the white for myself. “Does Aunt Lee think she’ll meet her deadline?”

Mom smiles. “Remember who we’re talking about.”

“Right,” I say, filling my plate. “I forget, Aunt Lee invented Type A behavior.”

I stand, heading to the fridge for more soy sauce. The chintzy packets you get with your take-out are never enough. When I open the door, a
Hillary for President
magnet drops to the ground. I keep bugging Mom to pack up her campaign gear, but she refuses. Maybe she’s waiting to see if Hillary will try again in 2012.

I restick the magnet, grab the soy sauce, and hurry back to my seat. A shrimp is gripped between my chopsticks, about to be devoured, when the phone rings.

Mom groans. “I’ll bet it’s a telemarketer.”

I’d like to remind her that if we had a phone with caller ID, we’d know who it is. But Mom doesn’t believe in replacing things before they break or die a natural death. So we’ve been stuck with the same antique cordless for, like, ten years. Thank God for gifts from Aunt Lee. If it weren’t for her, we probably wouldn’t even own a microwave.

“I’ll get it.” I hurry for the phone before it stops ringing, but it isn’t on the charger where it should be. I sprint from room to room, hoping it’s Olivia calling. In middle school we nicknamed our predinner conversations the Nightly Food Report. I’d tell Liv what Mom was making for supper and she’d tell me what her dad’s partner, Steve, was cooking. Then we’d score their choices like we were judging the Olympics: Mom—chicken tetrazzini: 8.2; Steve—salmon patties with lemon-dill sauce and parmesan-herb risotto: 9.6. We never reported vegetables; they were irrelevant. In high school, the food report fizzled because we both agreed it was juvenile. But we still talk every night. Well, we did until two months ago when I started dating Shane.

I finally locate the phone under a futon pillow and press Talk. “Hello?”

A man announces he’s Doctor somebody and asks to speak to Mom. I return to the kitchen and hand her the phone.

“Yes?” Mom listens intently. The color drains from her cheeks. She coughs. Excuses herself. Takes another sip of tea. “Are you sure?” she asks.

“Mom,” I whisper. “Did something happen to Dad?”

She shakes her head no.

“Aunt Lee?”

Another no.

“
Who
then?”

Mom’s chair scrapes the floor as she stands. She crosses the room and reaches in the junk drawer for a pen. I follow and look over her shoulder. On a pad she writes:
Chemung County General, River Road, Elmira.
Which is no help to me.

“Thank you for calling,” she says flatly, hanging up. She holds the phone against her chest like she’s cradling a small, hurt bird.

Mom says there are pivotal moments in life that divide our existence into distinct compartments. Like when she had me at sixteen, life became Before Ariel and After Ariel. She could never go back to being who she had been. As I take the phone from her, returning it to its base, I have an eerie feeling this might be one of those moments.

When I glance at her again, she’s crying. “Mom,” I say, “what’s wrong?”

She grabs a tissue and dabs her eyes. “It’s my mother.”

Mom never talks about her mother. Not that I mind. As far as I’m concerned she’s just a mean old woman who kicked Mom out of the house when she was fifteen and pregnant. “What about her?” I ask. It comes out sounding cold, but I don’t care.

“She asked the hospital staff to try and locate me. They Googled me so her doctor could call and tell me…” Mom hesitates. “She has stage-three breast cancer.”

“Breast cancer,” I repeat matter-of-factly.

“She had a double mastectomy today. She was in surgery for eight hours.”

I look down at my own breasts, which aren’t big enough to draw attention, but they’re there. Where they should be. Both of them. “Is she going to die?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Mom answers.

My mouth is so dry, my lips stick together. I walk to the fridge for a bottle of water, press it against my hot cheeks, then take several long swallows.

I’ve never even met my mother’s mother. And I probably wouldn’t like her if I did. But, still, I feel this ache, this loss. And I have no idea why.

Mom walks to the window over the sink. Her mascara’s running and she looks like the guys on Dad’s old KISS CD. She twirls the wand on the blinds, shutting out the fading sunset. Then she starts down the hall toward her room. Once inside, she closes her door, and the sound of it echoes in the hall. A closed door means
I need time/space to think
, a message we both respect. Except it’s usually me who sends it. Mom hasn’t closed her door since the judge denied Dad’s parole request two years ago.

When I taste my food again, it’s cold. I stick my plate in the microwave and push the reheat button. I wait near the window, reverse-twirling the wand on the blinds. Bands of magenta ooze like spilled paint across the darkening sky. Second by second, they shift, growing thinner, sparser.

The microwave beeps, but I don’t move. Not until the last band has vanished.

C
onsidering the shape Mom’s in when we leave
the cemetery—and the fact that she had her license revoked after her last DWI—she doesn’t balk when I ask for the car keys. And I don’t argue when she tells me she wants more beer.

I pull into a 7-Eleven. Bugs circle the light above the door. A red neon lottery sign buzzes, blinking
Win Big.

Mom reaches under her seat, wiggles her fingers inside a rip in the cushion, and produces a five-dollar bill. I don’t mention the money she owes me.

She weaves toward the glass storefront. School started a few days ago so the displays are still lined with notebook paper and calculators and pencils. Inside, Mom darts past them, heading straight for the beer cooler.

A shiny blue Camaro pulls into the parking space beside me. Its windows are open, and the radio is cranked up high. I recognize the station right away—92 Rock Revue out of Binghamton. When Janis Joplin starts singing “Me and Bobby McGee,” the bass pounds like a second heartbeat in my chest. I lean back, rest my neck on
the headrest, and close my eyes. I mouth the words to the song. And I breathe. Deeply. Relaxing, I let go. My hands drop from the steering wheel and land with a silent thud in my lap. Nothing exists anymore. Not the car or the store or the empty can my toe crunches against when I straighten my legs. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Everything has disappeared. Dissolved. Me included. I’m not Fatty Maddie or the Fat Girl Nobody Talks To. I am bodiless. Liberated. A spirit that moves with the music.

I have a secret fantasy that somewhere there’s another person who understands how I feel. Someone who knows what it’s like to ache because the words to a song are so beautiful. Who feels the melody pulse through his veins, more real than his own blood. Someone whose throat tightens and eyes dampen because there’s no way to contain the emotion.

When the song ends, a commercial for Tame Creme Rinse zaps me back to reality. As I open my eyes and glance sideways, a boy hops out of the Camaro. He’s a few years older than me, and his hair is cut in a shag. When the dome light comes on, the girl in the passenger seat shields her eyes. “You want anything?” the boy asks her.

The girl looks away, twirling a strand of long blond hair around one finger. She reminds me of Marcia Brady.

Annoyed, the boy says, “I
asked
you a question. You want anything?”

Still, Marcia Brady doesn’t answer. I wonder if she’s his girlfriend. If maybe they’ve just had a fight.

“Frig that,” he says, yanking his keys from the ignition. He slams the car door, and the dome light cuts off. And 92 Rock Revue vanishes too.

The night fills with unwelcome silence. My brain kicks into gear, reminding me that I am a body, not a spirit.

I watch the boy swing the store door open. Watch him pass Mom in the potato chip aisle then peer inside the cooler she left moments ago.

Marcia Brady reaches for a poncho. It’s crocheted in citrus-colored zigzags like the afghan I want to start in home ec class. She slips it over her head and leans forward, resting her face against the dash. Her pale hair shimmers, pink in the lottery light’s glow.

I wish I could be her for five minutes.

When the girl sits up again, I notice she’s crying. How could someone so thin, so pretty—riding in a shiny blue Camaro with a boy who remembers to ask if she wants anything—possibly be that upset?

Abruptly, the girl turns. In my direction. Her face tightens and her sadness evaporates, replaced by sudden irritation. She scowls, yelling through her window. “What are you staring at, fat girl?”

“N—nothing,” I stammer. I look away, exhale, slump down low in my seat. Crouched, I count to sixty, deciding one full minute is enough time to prove I’m sorry. But when I try to straighten up, there’s a problem. One of my stomach rolls is wedged beneath the steering wheel. Frantically, I jerk from side to side, except it doesn’t do any good. I’m trapped. I can’t move, can’t breathe.

Panicking, I grip the steering wheel to lift myself out. But the wheel is slippery and my hand slides off, smacking the horn, sounding a long, loud blast.

People inside the store turn to gawk. Marcia Brady stares too. And when her boyfriend reappears, dropping a six-pack of Budweiser in the backseat, the girl pokes his arm, pointing at me, saying, “Check out the fat girl. She’s stuck!”

I look down at my pinned stomach. Then up at the boy and girl, laughing. At Mom, walking toward our car, cradling her beer like a baby again. I bite my lip to keep from crying.

Mom slides in and slurs, “Whassamatta? Yourfaceisallred.”

My heart slams against my chest. “I’m stuck!” I blurt out.

Mom’s eyes focus on my pinned stomach. She starts to giggle, then presses a finger to her lips, shushing herself. “Thelatchisontheside,” she manages, nodding toward the floor.

Jesus, I’m so stupid.

I feel for the lever on the lower edge of my seat. Hold it in, press it back. The seat glides away from the steering wheel. Finally, I can breathe.

Elton John sings “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” as the Camaro pulls out of the space. A space the boy won’t remember parking in five days from now, or five months, or five years.

But I’ll remember. Because I will always be stuck here. In this spot. In this body. I will never be a spirit. Or anything other than what I am.

As his car merges onto the main road, Marcia Brady’s still laughing.

* * *

By the time I pull into our driveway, Mom is passed out cold. I wake her and help her out, steadying her as she stumbles up the steps to our apartment.

Inside, she collapses on our sofa. Within seconds, she’s snoring.

I slip her shoes off and put them in her closet, careful not to disturb the pillars of playing cards stacked in one corner. A carton of Mom’s cigarettes comes with a free deck, and she’s saved over
two hundred of them, still wrapped in their original plastic. Lord knows what she plans to do with them. Maybe build a house someday.

Returning to the couch, I open the ratty green blanket folded across the back—the one I plan to replace with a homemade afghan—and I spread it across Mom’s sleeping form. “G’night,” I say, even though I know she can’t hear me.