The Weight of Zero (25 page)

“Oh, he's doing the Mitzi diet?” my boyfriend says, flashing a smile. But then he turns serious again. “Cath, for real, you'll let me know if he bothers you?” he says. “That kid is such a damn bully. Anthony and his friends despise him.”

I nod and then take Michael's hand. “Thanks for the offer,” I say. We walk down the hall, linked.

Michael wants me to sit with him and Tyler and some other boys at lunch. On another day, I might be tempted. But there's a new email on my phone from Jenna the curator. I'm hoping she's found a third letter from Jane. I tell Michael this and he wants to come with me to read it. He loves the other two letters that Jenna sent.

But I don't know how to explain that he can't be with me right now. When I lay eyes on Jane's words, I need to read them in private, at least for the first time.

“I have other homework too,” I say. “I didn't finish it last night. I wonder why?” Michael gets it. We stayed up till after midnight texting. He's got a surprise planned for Saturday night.

In my favorite library cubby, I click on the email.

Jenna thinks this is the last letter of Jane's that she'll be able to locate. I click on the photograph. I can tell that the paper Jane used to write this letter is a different shade of white, and it looks like she wrote in pencil; her graceful, even script appears more smudged and faded compared with that of the other letters. Once again, Jenna has transcribed it for me.

April 29, 1945

Dear Mama,

I love England! I truly do! Your daughter sailed in high style on the finest cruise ship around, the
Queen Elizabeth.
She's a beauty even though she's been painted a dreary gray and her main job is moving troops back and forth. I'm happy to report that it was very smooth sailing for us. Not like the first group of 6888s. They were chased by a U-boat and the girls tell me that everything was flying off the shelves in their rooms and people were screaming and the boat was rocking this way and that, with all the bells and sirens going. Some girls said they'd rather go after Hitler himself than get themselves back on another boat. But please don't think it was a vacation for me. They had us constantly doing drills and tons of exercise, which you know I do
not
like.

Birmingham is a big city pretty much in the center of England. We're about three and a half hours from London. We can still see the damage from the Luftwaffe bombing. London got hit the hardest and Birmingham came in second. It is a real shame. Especially because the people here are so nice, Mama. It is so much different from at home. They are so kind to us. Families invite the girls inside their homes for “tea.” Dorothy and I are especially lucky. Mrs. Spencer wants us to spend the weekend with her again. She said she's lonely and loves how lively the house feels when we visit. She's got a big garden filled with roses and lilac just about to bloom. You would love it, Mama. And if you need more proof that we are treated well so you can sleep at night, listen to this. Some girls went into a pub and there were white American soldiers there. They didn't welcome the 6888s at all. Instead, they started yelling nasty things like how dark the room got 'cause the girls came walking in. It was awful. But then the local people told the white soldiers to stop and they wouldn't, so they got kicked out of the bar. Wasn't that amazing? It made me so happy but it also made me sad. I thought our being here might change things.

I am slowly getting used to living at the King Edward School. It almost feels like a real base now instead of a temporary accommodation. I still hate the showers outside in the courtyard. Good news is that I now bathe pretty darn fast. I know you will be hoping/praying that I will continue that new habit when I get back home.

I hate to grandstand, Mama, but we are doing a fine job with the mail. Nobody expected us to get it sorted so fast. I bet we would go even faster if the windows weren't blacked out and we had some decent working space in this drafty gymnasium. On some days, I still wear my ski pants, it's so chilly inside.

Bet you didn't expect such a long letter from me. I have just been missing home a little. Please don't worry anymore. We are all safe here. Everybody's saying only just a couple more weeks and Hitler will be caught. The war is going to be ending.

Give Mari and Petey and yourself a big hug from me, Mama. I miss you and can't wait to see you all!

Your loving daughter,

Jane

The same sadness envelops me again. I hate knowing the end to Jane's story. The jeep accident happens on July 13, 1945, so she's got only about five weeks to live after this letter was written. She and Dorothy will be in the jeep when it crashes in France after the 6888th is transferred there. The girls will be killed in a town called Rouen, the same town where Joan of Arc was killed.

There's another emotion in addition to my sadness. I'm
pissed.
How could those assholes in the pub treat them that way? Weren't we all supposed to be on the same side?

All through Ms. Stinkov's class, I simmer.

Amy might be returning to group. That's what Sandy has just dropped on us this Friday afternoon with only a half hour left to go. “I'd like to see how you all feel about that,” Sandy says. “Anyone want to share?”

“I don't want her here,” Alexis says curtly. “It's better without her.”

Lil' Tommy nods. “Yeah. I don't think she's right for this group. She kills the mojo. We've got our own thing going now.”

Sandy looks at me. “Um, I can see what Alexis and Tommy are saying,” I say slowly. “It definitely feels a little more relaxed without her here.”

“What?” Kristal bursts out, looking at me like I'm an idiot. “Really?”

Where the freak did that come from?

“Here's my two cents,” Garrett says. He's going Rasta, his long blond hair now a mass of dreadlocks. “I don't think we should block her from coming. If she wants to come, that's fine with me. If she acts like a bitch, you guys should just tell her that.”

“That's easy for you to say,” Alexis says sharply. “She was always flirting with you.”

“Sorry, guys, but I've got to agree with Garrett,” John says, his mental state stable again if his full-body Red Sox attire means anything. “It's not right to exclude her.”

“This is an IOP, people! An
intensive outpatient program,
” Kristal bristles at Alexis and Tommy. And me. “Right? People with issues are supposed to come here. You can't turn this into a clique and exclude her. That's just wrong. And mean.” Kristal's eyes travel around the room to land on me beside her. She sniffs scornfully. “Just because it's more
relaxed
? Get over yourselves.”

“It wasn't just that she wasn't friendly,” I say, irritated at Kristal's righteousness, at her overreaction. It's not like we're saying no to Kristal. “She does change the group dynamic.”

“Cat, she's got
serious
issues.” Kristal gives me a long look.

Did she just imply that I
don't
have serious issues?

“You don't get it, Kristal,” Alexis joins in, really pissed now. She leans forward, eyes wide, hands squeezing the sofa edge. “Me and Amy, we were a ‘team.' ” Alexis makes air quotes. “You know, me and her were in this IOP long before you got here. And we
bonded.
” Sarcasm drips from Alexis's words. “In the beginning, we did all our fucked-up eating shit
together.
We shopped for broth and yogurt and cereal. We kept track of how many hours we'd exercise. And we'd binge together. And puke together.” Alexis's voice cracks. “I already have to see her in school. I don't want to see her here. She's gonna get into my head again.”

“But we can't just shut her out,” Kristal says obstinately. “She needs help too. It is not cool what you guys are saying.”

“Jesus!” Alexis shouts. “What don't you get? I'm glad for you, Kristal. That you're cured. That you're totally over it. I'm jealous to be completely freaking honest. Because even though I haven't done anything in forty-two days, I still want to. I am still tempted every fucking day. Have you forgotten what that feels like? Can't you
try
to understand that it's bad for me to have Amy here?”

I'm waiting for Kristal to admit that she isn't cured. The opportunity is right here, right now. Perfect open door. But she says, “I still think it's wrong not to let her come back. I just do.”

Alexis rolls her eyes. “I'm leaving if Amy comes back.”

Sandy reaches forward to take Alexis's hand. “I understand how you feel, Alexis. And I thank everyone here for sharing his or her thoughts. It's a highly emotional issue and I see everyone's point. But due to the unique circumstances of this issue, the prior unhealthy relationship between Alexis and Amy, I don't think it's wise to have Amy return to this particular group.”

Kristal whispers to me, “I cannot believe you voted her off the island, Cat. That is cold.”

“We have other programs for Amy, so, Kristal, you don't have to be concerned about that,” Sandy continues. “We've only got two more weeks left. Our final meeting is on the last Wednesday in November, right before Thanksgiving. The following week, the first week of December, you will all be starting the step-down program in the new group room. We're calling it Group Room B. As I told you, we have another group starting around that time using this room. You'll enter the same way, use the same door and foyer area, but instead of heading to this room, you'll be turning left.”

After group, Kristal and I walk out together as usual. There's an awkwardness between us that I've never felt before. The first cracks in my first post-diagnosis friendship. Is this the start of another Riley-and-Olivia situation? I'm so glad that I didn't tell Kristal I was bipolar.

I spot the Accord a couple of rows away and start to walk toward it.

“Cat.” Kristal grabs my arm on the concrete sidewalk outside the door. “Wait a sec.” We say good-bye to Garrett and John. And then Alexis walks out. Kristal spontaneously hugs her. “I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, Al. I get what you said.”

“Al” is stiff and barely returns the gesture. “Have a good weekend, Catherine,” she says, and gives me a wan smile.

“Shit,” Kristal says. “I…I really fucked up. I shouldn't have opened my mouth.”

She's waiting for me to say it's okay, but I don't. I can't. She was wrong.

“Are you mad at me too?” she asks.

The question hangs in the chilly air. I could just say no and blow the whole thing off. She's already kind of apologized. But I can't. “Why did you say that? About some people having serious issues? Were you hinting that I don't?”

“No, Cat,” she says. “Not at all. Having your grandma die in your arms, I can't think of anything worse. Of course anybody would be totally messed up from something like that. It's just that…well.” Kristal stops.

I don't fill in her gaps of knowledge about my other “issues.” Instead I ask, “What? It's what?”

“Sometimes you don't seem that sympathetic to the stuff other people are going through.”

“What?” I force myself not to shout. “How can you say that to me after what you just did to Alexis in there? Saying that Amy should come back when it's so obvious she's bad news for Alexis?”

“I wasn't thinking about Alexis. I was thinking about Amy, about her wanting to come back to group and not being able to. I felt bad for her. And I told you, I was wrong. I should have been more clued in to what Alexis was saying. But, Cat…Never mind. This probably isn't the right time.”

“No. Tell me.”

“Sometimes I get the feeling you think your shit is, like, the worst and no matter what any of us go through, it will never compare to yours. Does that make sense?”

I'm stunned. “How can you think that?”

“Please don't be mad. It's just…you keep your distance. Like that time when Alexis was crying about Amy and it took you forever to come over to the sofa just to sit next to her as she basically hyperventilated. And when Tommy or Garrett say stuff, I get the feeling that you don't think it's really a problem for them. The only time you got involved was when John's wrestling accident happened. It was great that you…I don't know…engaged, shared what had happened to you. It really helped him. But usually…” She trails off.

I'm on the verge of asking her why she didn't “engage” with Alexis today about not being cured of bulimia, but I can't. Because it suddenly slaps me that I brought two dozen doughnuts to a girl with bulimia. My God, what was I thinking? Not about Kristal, that's for sure. I was thinking about how the Walkers would perceive the gift. And me. And worrying that maybe it was a little low-class for them. Kristal's eating disorder never even crossed my mind. What kind of friend am I? I should've told Aunt D no.

Kristal places a hand on my arm. She has the most open expression on her face. “You're my best friend, Cat. I always want us to be totally honest with each other. I'm so sorry if I hurt you because of my diarrhea mouth.”

Best friend. Best. Friend.
The words twinkle inside me like Christmas lights under snow. I move in and we hug. “You're the best thing to come out of this IOP,” I say to her.

Inside the Accord, on the way to celebrate Aunt D's birthday at Casa de Amigos, something sharp pokes into my happy. It's Kristal's observation that I'm some kind of mental-health illness elitist. The Judith Swenson of St. Anne's. I think of Garrett with
just
his kids-will-be-kids addiction issues that have already garnered him a juvenile rap sheet that jeopardizes his future. And Kristal and Alexis and John with their eating disorders, which I know can last a lifetime. Going into a restaurant for them is no leisure activity. It is an obsessive calorie-counting, exercise-planning nightmare that sometimes ends with the meal winding up in the toilet later. And my roommate in the hospital, and poor Tommy. I admit thinking his OCD is kind of cute, but what happens when he gets out of high school, when he's a fully grown man with a beard and chafed, red, raw hands that can't touch anyone? How could I have never acknowledged their pain, when pain is the one thing I understand? I carry the unbearable weight of secrets.

Just like they do.

My throat tightens. Amy. That sick, sick girl. The one who was basically starving and shitting herself. To death. Right in front of my eyes.

Where the fuck is my heart? Do I still have one? God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, anybody up there, help me.

All day Saturday, I do penance. To Mom, to Amy, to Garrett and Alexis and all my IOP comrades. I clean my room, empty the dishwasher, and dust and vacuum the downstairs.

Mom feels my forehead twice and then finally blurts out the worry that's been creasing her brow all morning: do I have any racing thoughts? Because a four-day cleaning binge was the prelude to my “Highlights of the Mediterranean” episode. I tell her the truth, no racing thoughts, but then modify it: I feel a little guilty, I say. I feel like I ought to be doing my share around here. You shouldn't have to do everything. I don't tell her that the chores relieve the shock of last night's revelation in the Accord.

After the house is clean, Mom and I watch three episodes of
House Hunters International.
Each show, we agree on the same place to buy: the one-hundred-year-old Tuscan villa, the grand Prague apartment with the brick kitchen, and the impossibly tiny apartment in Tokyo with the washer-dryer unit on the balcony. Duh, we said. The washer-dryer trumps everything.

In a lighter mood, I begin my body prep for tonight's anniversary surprise that Michael has been planning. In the shower I take my sweet time shaving. In the moist mugginess of our tiny bathroom, I slather on moisturizer and add perfume to my wrists, cleavage and the back of my neck. Finally, I step into my one-dollar Silkeez Intimates and snap on my nude lace bra. Tonight's outfit: a strategically chosen button-down flannel shirtdress and leggings. Slightly sloppy but easy to move if Michael's hands feel like exploring. I'm ready for my anniversary surprise.

The Pitoscia house is quiet as I pass through the fragrant wall of warmth and garlic in their foyer. Lorraine, Tony and Anthony are all out and only Nonny is patrolling the kitchen. She says she didn't cook tonight, but there are two steaming plates of ravioli and sausage on the table that she must've ladled out just as I rang the doorbell. She's adorable in black leggings (which look scarily similar to mine) and an oversized sweatshirt that comes down to her knees. Aside from the Crocs with sweat socks, Nonny is definitely amping up her style game.

“So your mom, she a good cook,” Nonny says as she plants herself down opposite me and Michael and our plates. So much for an intimate dinner with Michael. “You cook too?”

“Uh…not really,” I say.