Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (31 page)

And real friends speak the painful truth.

I glance at my watch.

“Sure, Dad. Let’s go,” I say.

*   *   *

She’s awake, and her eyes are wide, urgent, as I approach. Even though I saw her yesterday, I still struggle at the sight of her. I will myself not to stare at her wasted shoulders. The thick knobs of her elbows.

Her dad is sitting with her when I arrive. He gets up and gives me a tight hug. He’s always so nice.

“Thanks for coming back, Henry,” he says. “I’m going to go make some phone calls while you girls visit, okay?” He bends over Eva and plants a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be back in a minute, hon.” He walks out of the ICU and gives us some privacy.

“Hi,” she says tentatively. “Thanks for coming back.”

“No problem,” I say. “How’s it goin’?” She turns her head restlessly. She reaches up to run her fingers through her hair.

“Hey! They untied you!” I say without thinking.

“Only for part of the time,” she says. “They put the restraints back when I’m alone.” She’s glancing nervously around the room. I wonder if she’s planning on trying something while I’m here. Her eyes return to me.

“Do you hate me?” she asks quietly. The words feel like a blow.

“Why would you even ask that?” I say. “Don’t be a dope.” I try to smile at her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Dad says I told you to leave. I don’t remember that.” I shrug.

“It’s okay, Eva.”

“But it’s not,” she returns fretfully. “I mean, I wouldn’t say that to you, would I? And I can’t remember. So please, Henry, just tell me: did I ask you to leave?” I sigh.

“Yeah, you pretty much did. But Eva: I’m not mad. Okay?” Her eyes fill.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I can possibly do to help her. Except give her a second chance.

“Apology accepted,” I say, “even though you don’t owe me one.” The tense lines on her face relax.

“Dad says you’re going back today,” she says.

“Yup. Only place in America that’s hotter and more humid than Jersey,” I joke.

“Is it hot out?” she says.

“Awful. Like walking into a steam cleaner. You are very lucky to be in all this nice air-conditioning.” I realize this is a pretty stupid thing to say to someone in intensive care.

“It’s too cold,” she says. “I hate air-conditioning.”

“Well, maybe you should be going to Florida,” I quip. Stupid comment number two. One more and I’ll strike myself out. Eva and I are quiet for a while.

“I might, you know. Go to Florida.” I look at her in surprise.

“When I get out of here. Wendy wants me to go to this program in Florida.”

“What sort of program?” I ask.

“For anorexia,” she says. She holds my eyes with hers when she says this. It’s the first time the word has passed between us. Mom told me Eva refuses to admit that she has anorexia.

I nod. Accept the word. Allow it to float freely in the space between us.

“That might be good, you know?” I tell her. “Florida’s not so bad. I mean,
it ain’t Joisey
. But it’s okay.” I try to smile bravely at her.

“Jersey tomatoes are the best,” she says, returning the barest trace of a smile.

“The very best,” I agree. “Although, if we both end up in Florida, what will that make us? Hothouse tomatoes?” She laughs. A little. Then she turns, stares at the wall.

“We’ll see,” she says quietly to no one in particular. She seems very distracted.

I could burst with all the things I need to tell her. But seeing her lying there, a ghost of the beautiful, lively girl I hugged good-bye only five short weeks ago, I’m ashamed of my own need. She almost died. What’s a trophy, or a party, or even a broken heart, compared to that?

I miss her. I miss my best girlfriend.

Her eyes are closed; she’s dozing off. She’s still on some pretty heavy meds. I grasp her now-free hand and squeeze. As far as I went, twenty-plus hours, a thousand miles, she strayed farther.

“Come back to us, Eva,” I whisper.

Chapter Thirty-Four

S
omeone’s played a mean trick on me and replaced Henry with Wendy. I wake to find her, draped in one of those wrinkly, sacklike dresses, sitting in the chair beside my bed.

“Hello, Eva,” she says, not unkindly.

My mouth feels dry. I can tell that my own breath is bad.

“Can I have some water?” I ask. She presses a button that slowly raises the head of my bed to a semi-upright sitting position. She holds out a tall paper cup with a lid and a straw. I reach for it. My hands are still unrestrained. Before I sip, I lift one edge of the lid. Peer inside. Sniff. Plain water. I take a long pull on the straw and the cotton lining in my mouth dissolves.

“Is Henry gone?” I ask. She nods. I take another long, cool sip.

“How long have you been here?” I ask. Wendy glances at her watch.

“Not long,” she replies.

I hate the way Wendy never answers questions. Why
couldn’t she just say, “I’ve been sitting here for seventeen minutes.” Or, “I haven’t left your side for thirty years. You’ve just woken from a coma, and Zac Efron is president of the United States.” I mean, if you take into account the creation of the universe, thirty years qualifies as “not long.”

They must be backing off on the meds. I’m starting to remember things. Like how much Wendy annoys me.

“How do you feel?” she asks. I consider.

“Less loopy,” I tell her. She nods.

“Do you think you’re ready to eat something?” I freeze.

Here she goes again, Lard Ass pushing food. What’ll it be today, Wendy-girl? Peanut butter Häagen-Dazs sundaes?

“I thought I was being fed by this tube,” I tell her.

“Yes, but you want to begin eating normally so that your doctors can remove the tube.”

“But I can’t eat while I have the tube!”

“Why not?”

“Because that would be too much.”

“Why do you think that would be too much?”

Why do you think, fatso? Okay, maybe a pump full of calories plus a full meal doesn’t seem like too much to you. Maybe you don’t mind waddling around with those ankles. But there’s no way I’m doing it
.

“Why don’t you just answer my question!”

“What question, Eva?”

Throw it. Just throw it at her
.

The paper cup hits the floor. Water pools.

“I’m sorry, but that’s just not acceptable.” Slight trace
of irritation in Wendy’s voice. It comes as something of a relief, getting a bona fide human reaction out of her. She stands up.

“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

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.