The Weight of Zero (23 page)

The shower runs until four a.m. I pretend I'm asleep as Kristal emerges from the bathroom. I don't know what to say. I can't jeopardize this friendship. Before getting into her bed, Kristal slides something under it.

Does everyone hide their darker selves under their beds?

In the morning, before we head downstairs to breakfast, Kristal turns to me. “Don't say anything about the doughnuts. I just threw them out last night after you fell asleep. My mom gets all weird about food and stuff now.”

We're standing at the top of the back staircase that leads directly to the kitchen. Kristal won't meet my eyes. She runs a hand along the white paneling that rises halfway up the wall.

I don't say that I heard her coughing in the bathroom at 3:30 or that the shower ran for almost a half hour. I don't say that she's lying about being recovered from bulimia. She's entitled to her secrets just like I am. But I'll watch her. And maybe, if the time is right, I'll say something. I'm not sure she'll be receptive to any words of wisdom coming from me, though, regardless of what she said last night.

Bev makes us banana-and-strawberry pancakes at the six-burner mega-stove. We sit around the island and chat about school and Jane and her letters. It's nice, but all the while I'm aware of Bev stealing glances at Kristal and Kristal's plate. The expression in her eyes reminds me of Mom.

Mom and I are in Walmart. We drove here straight from Kristal's. “I cleaned and went grocery shopping last night,” Mom had said as soon as I slid into the Accord. The twenty questions, sleepover edition I anticipated were not on the morning's agenda. “It was slow, so Dominic let me go early,” she'd said. “Do you think Michael will like that chicken dish I make with the artichoke hearts and mushrooms? And I'll do roasted potatoes, string beans and an apple pie. With vanilla ice cream.” She was abuzz with nervous energy. Dinner at the Pulaskis' with Bipolar Cath's new boyfriend!

We split when we got inside the store, Mom headed to Housewares in search of a new tablecloth, me to the Women's Intimates linoleum quadrant. My bras are all pretty new. The silver lining to my weight gain was to go up a cup size, necessitating a trip to Kohl's with our Kohl's cash and coupons in hand. But I really need underwear. My existing stock is worn, and now that I have a boyfriend, the status of my underwear has become more relevant.

But then I realize that, duh, there's no way I can buy underwear. Could I be any more fucking obvious?
Hey, Mom, thanks for cooking dinner tonight and, oh, would you mind shelling out for these new undies I plan on wearing for Michael?
I guess I'm stuck with my aging tie-dye bikinis from Target.

At home, I help Mom with peeling the potatoes, and then cover the table with the new tablecloth. Mom tells me about her first session with the anxiety support group, how initially she was petrified, but the people are really nice and have family with all kinds of issues—addiction or alcoholism, bankruptcy, criminal activity, Alzheimer's. Only one other person has a loved one with mental illness. Mom didn't recognize anyone from Cranbury and that made her feel better.

“Jeez, Cath, I understand now why you were so worried about going to St. Anne's,” she says as she rinses the chicken breasts under the kitchen faucet.

“I was freaking out when I walked in that first day,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty. “I was praying I didn't know anybody.” And then I realize that I have to tell Mom about my lying to Michael about work. Michael could bring up the topic tonight at dinner. “Michael's asked me a few times to stay after school for our project,” I say. “I told him I couldn't, that I work at your law office.”

Mom puts a chicken breast down to look at me. Then she shocks me. “I was wondering about that. He used to be there a lot when I picked you up. I wondered if he ever asked you.”

“I couldn't tell him about St. Anne's,” I say.

Mom brushes her shoulder against mine and returns to the chicken. “I don't blame you. So how many days a week do we work together?”

“Five,” I say, and we both start laughing.

“Industrious,” Mom says. “I'm impressed.” She moves to the refrigerator and gets the eggs. “You know, Cath, if things seem to be working out between the two of you, you'll eventually have to tell him, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “But I barely know him. Let's see what happens.” I don't tell her the truth, that Michael will never know about that part of me.

“I get it now, Cath. How hard it is to go to these group sessions. How hard it is to say your problems out loud. I'm so proud of you.” Mom wraps an arm around my shoulders and I allow myself to lean into her. “You tell Michael when you're ready, baby girl. If you do decide to, we'll buy some doughnuts for moral support.”

I think of last night and Kristal. Her anxiety and bulimia and vagi-whatever. How it all just sucks.

“Yikes, I forgot about the laundry,” Mom says suddenly, moving to wash her hands under the faucet. “I put in a load last night and it will smell if I don't move it to the dryer.”

“I'll do it,” I say. “Finish up here.”

“Wow,” Mom says, sending a dart of guilt through me—that my doing the laundry warrants such shock and awe. “Thank you.”

In the basement, I empty the dryer and transfer the wet towels and sheets into it. There are huge mounds of clean clothes in the two laundry baskets on the floor. Their sweet fragrance dances up to me and I suddenly remember Grandma, bending to pull the clothes out of the dryer. She'd always sing the same song, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray….” She'd fold the clothes, sometimes draping me in a warm towel or blanket fresh from the dryer while I'd lie on my stomach on the braided rug, coloring or drawing.

I hum the tune as I fold all the clothes in the baskets.

In addition to Michael, Aunt D joins us for dinner. Those awkward silences punctuated by Mom's ramblings that I feared never happen. Aunt D skillfully keeps the conversation hopping from one fun topic to another as Mom bustles around serving a dinner on par with Nonny's cooking. I need to remember to thank Mom for that. I also need to thank her for giving Aunt D a heads-up about my lie about working at the law firm.

Following dessert of apple pie and vanilla ice cream, the most unexpected development occurs.

“I'm stuffed,” Aunt D says, her hand resting on the pudgy stomach that swells slightly over her belt. And in a rehearsed fashion, Mom replies, “Why don't we try to walk off some of our dinner?” Aunt D responds with the enthusiasm of an infomercial hostess. “Great idea, Jody!”

I raise my eyebrows. It's beyond bizarre. My mother would sooner go for a Brazilian bikini wax than meander through our dumpy neighborhood at eight at night. But the two of them are already zipping up jackets and wrapping scarves around their necks and heading for the front door.

“How long do you think we'll be walking?” Aunt D stage-asks Mom while covertly winking at me.

“A half hour,” Mom says, checking her watch. “We should be back around eight-thirtyish. Maybe we can play Jenga or Taboo when we get back?” And then Mom gives me a little smile that says, “Have fun but not too much.”

I feel a surge of love for the two of them. A whopping thirty minutes of private time—what a freaking unexpected bonanza!

As soon as the front door closes, I hit the overhead light so just the one lamp is on. Michael stands stock-still, clearly silently freaking out. I sit on the sofa and pat the cushion.

“Why don't you sit down?” I ask, trying not to sound like a cheesy porn star. Thirty minutes is the most time we've had alone. Maybe I should've bought new underwear at Walmart.

Michael sits down next to me and stares straight ahead. I can see red blotches on his neck. I lightly touch his cheek and then his chin, pulling his face toward mine. Leaning over, I kiss him. The race to connect crosses my mind, but I don't want to think that anymore. It's cheap and wrong now that I actually know Michael. It's more that I want experiences
with this boy
before Zero returns. But that may be another lie I'm trying to sell myself. Because the bigger truth may be simply that I like him. I just really, really like Michael Pitoscia.

Our kissing has progressed from sitting on the sofa to lying down. Not very smoothly accomplished, since I kind of tugged Michael down by the front of his flannel shirt, but here we are, his long body on top of mine.

Michael explores my ear with his tongue, giving me delicious shivers. I could do this all night, but we are seriously running low on time. According to my Timex, we've been kissing for seven minutes. This only leaves us a solid ten minutes, fifteen max. Undoubtedly, Mom will be at the front door at 8:30 on the dot or maybe even five minutes before. Aunt D wouldn't allow an arrival any earlier.

Michael is kissing my neck. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers in my ear. His breathing is faster, but his hands have stayed locked on my waist, superglued to the nubby fabric of my sweater.

I bring both my hands up to his neck. I love the way our bodies feel, pressed tightly together like this. I love this closeness, and the warmth of this contact. I lift his shirt and run my hands up his back. His skin is hot, smooth and a little sweaty. I'm surprised at how his back widens from those narrow hips. The twin columns of muscle running along his spine are firm and I like the way they feel under my fingers. He moans a little.

“We should probably stop, Cath. Your mom is coming back.”

“Five more minutes,” I whisper.

We kiss some more. Michael moves his hands, tucking them under the small of my back. I wrap one leg around his and this brings us even closer together down there. I can definitely feel a pressure buildup in his zipper region. This is getting better and better. My hands slide down to the jean pockets on his butt. And that is where I err. With a deep gasp, the boy rises horizontally like he's been electrocuted, jackknifing into a sitting position a good foot away from me on the sofa.

“Whoa,” he breathes, his face a brilliant red. He leans over as if in pain. “Where's your bathroom?” he asks. I point to the door off the living room, and, slightly hunched over, he hobbles out of the room.

Oh God. My heart picks up its pace and I feel the tiny needles of anxiety. Was it too much, too soon? But we have been dating a month. I feel a shadow over me, the evening's goodness growing tainted. Did I fuck up in some way? Miss Manic acting inappropriately again?

Michael returns to the living room, his shirt no longer tucked into his pants. He smiles as he slides beside me on the sofa. He wraps his right arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek. “Sorry about that, Cath. You are so hot.” He nuzzles my ear. “I'm just worried about your mom walking in on us. It's eight-twenty-two. Let's snuggle for two more minutes.”

“Snuggle”? He just seriously used the cutest word in the world in a sentence. With me.

With his free hand, he plays with my fingers. Then he says, “You know, our one-month anniversary is coming up this Tuesday.” He is a total mush right now, and Zero's shadow vanishes. “We should celebrate next weekend. Saturday night, okay? Let's plan something good.”