chapter thirty-one
The Gravy Train of Self-confidence
The salon was so packed and noisy Miss Bertha had to prop open the front door just to let the air circulate a little (Mother refuses to turn on the air conditioner before Memorial Day). Everywhere I turned there was a pretty, skinny, perfect girl: Margaret Abernathy and Rolanda Davidson waited on the bench by the front window; Peggy Wells had already parked her size-zero butt in Richard’s chair; Annelise Marley, a new but already screamingly popular junior, was talking with Mother. The Bluebirds were sure to show up, although I didn’t look at the schedule to find out exactly when they were due.
It was the annual Heavenly Hair Pre-prom Up-do Dry-run, which is basically just what the title says: a chance for girls to do a practice hair style a couple of weeks before prom night. As usual, Mother had gone to a great deal of trouble for the event. She’d hung an enormous plastic banner off the front of the building. She’d ordered cookies from Town Square Bakery and bought a whole stack of age-appropriate magazines. In the waiting area was a giant metal tub filled with ice-cold Diet Cokes and bottled water, and Miss Bertha had even switched the radio station from oldies to alternative rock. Mildred was in Gatlinburg for the weekend, so Grandma Georgia agreed to fill in as manicurist. Her cosmetologist license is still good, and besides that, she’s trying to get Mother to let her take over some clients (just temporarily, so Mother can get that rest her doctor keeps ordering).
My stomach was clutched up with nerves, and I longed to escape to the basement, but the snack machine was freshly restocked— too dangerous. Instead, I grabbed a broom and started sweeping.
“Now, Peggy, you have just the sort of face for an up-do, a down-do, whatever you want, honey,” Richard cooed. I shot him a dirty look and ran the bristles of my broom over his sandal-clad toes.
“Whoops, sorry,” I said, then did it a second time. Peggy glanced up at me with that vague don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere expression, then focused on Richard again. Richard is completely, openly gay, and yet half the girls at Spring Hill High School would run away with him if he asked. He’s beautiful, for one thing. For another, he dresses like someone off the streets of New York City, which has quite an alluring effect in a place like Spring Hill, Tennessee, among the adolescent female population anyway. And, finally, Richard knows how to concoct just the right mix of friendly and bitchy.
“Well, what I’d like to do, Richard, is figure out a hair style for the prom
and
for the Miss Fireworks Pageant. I’m a contestant this year,” Peggy announced, batting her green eyes with the mile-long lashes.
“Well, congratulations!” said Richard, glancing at me nervously. I could tell he wanted to gush all over Peggy, so I swept my way over toward Mother’s station, where the dark-haired, blue-eyed, perfect-smiled Annelise was discussing how difficult it is to manage such thick hair. “Oh, you’re right,” Mother agreed. “Damaged, thin hair is much easier to style, especially with an up-do. Your hair is so glorious, I actually think you should leave it down. Maybe do it slightly off to the side with a clip of some sort. Rhinestones, maybe.” Mother’s voice sounded wistful. She scratched her head, and the wig she wore shifted to the left slightly.
Rolanda, with her chocolate skin, regal carriage, and perfect smile, was delicately nibbling a cookie that I could’ve easily consumed in one bite, and next to her Margaret Abernathy flipped through the latest issue of
Seventeen
. Margaret’s face wasn’t quite as pretty as the other girls’, but her killer body made up for it—long, shapely legs, large bosom, lightly tanned skin, wide shoulders, narrow hips (Barbie come to life). And my guess was Margaret wasn’t grunting and farting her way up North Main Street every morning to get that perfect body either.
Suddenly, I was back inside my 203-pound frame. I wasn’t Rosie with the cute boyfriend, Rosie with the beautiful best friend, Rosie who had run every morning for the past several weeks, Rosie who had struggled and suffered and clawed her way to 161 pounds and holding. I was the old, fat, miserable Rosemary Goode. I stood there in the middle of Heavenly Hair, and for a second it was the day after Christmas all over again. I glanced at the corner where the dried-out little tree had stood. I looked out the window and half expected Mrs. McCutchin to rap on the glass.
“Rosie.
Rosie
.” Miss Bertha was calling me from across the room. Margaret and Rolanda were staring at me with their matching like-what-is-your-problem expressions. It was the Quilters and Hilda May Brunson and Mrs. McCutchin’s Christmas cookie episode all over again.
“Yes,” I said.
“Rosie, can you mail these bills for me, sugar? The postman’s coming any second, and Reda’s supposed to call from Memphis. I don’t wanna leave the phone.” Reda is Miss Bertha’s youngest daughter.
“Sure,” I said. I took off my smock, grabbed my purse, and flew out the door. I hurried toward the mailbox at the end of the street, opened the metal mouth, stuffed in Miss Bertha’s mail, and headed toward the salon again, but stopped when I caught a glimpse of myself in Milly’s Luncheonette plate glass window. I half expected to see the girl from nearly five months ago; instead, I saw a thinner, not skinny or perfect like those other girls, but much-improved me. She was staring back at me—blinking and breathing, yet I didn’t know her. A horrible thought ran through my mind. Maybe I could weigh 110, look like whatever Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s daughter is gonna look like one day, but I’d still feel this way. Maybe, no matter how hard I tried, I’d always be fat on the inside.
Two young moms strolled their babies past me. An old man with a ringing hearing aid ambled by. I watched Mr. Tankersley, the mail carrier, empty the contents of the stocky blue box into his pouch. He had a large potbelly, gray-blue Bermuda shorts, black socks, and orthopedic shoes. He was whistling something. “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”
I pictured it then, a large, steaming engine with an endless line of freight cars. It spitted and hissed and squeaked its way up the street, stalled slightly, then roared on by. It was the gravy train of self-confidence, and I had missed it.
I didn’t go back to the salon. Instead, I got in my car and went home.
The afternoon was the very
definition
of spring—lawn mowers purring like kittens, the smell of warm boxwoods, cut grass, roses. Swing sets squeaked in backyards, and the little kids across the street ran naked under a hose. All at once I ached for my childhood. I missed the way Mother would tuck me in bed at night or how Aunt Mary would occasionally pick me up from school and take me to get an ice-cream cone at the Dairy Queen. I missed the way Grandma Georgia would play round after round of putt-putt golf with me (
before
she ran off to Florida with Mr. Keith).
In the garage, I found my old plastic wading pool. It was dirty and covered in cobwebs, so I scrubbed it out with dishwashing liquid and filled it with water. I cinched in last year’s too-big bathing suit (which I never actually wore) with a safety pin and switched on the kitchen radio. It played faintly through the open window and filled the backyard with the sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.” I rubbed my pale skin with Coppertone sunscreen and sang along softly.
The water was shockingly cold. I lay down in it, closed my eyes, tilted my face toward the sun, and pictured my worries fluttering off like butterflies. I was submerged in a fairly sufficient Calgon moment when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Are you okay? Hey, Rosie? Are you okay?” I did not want to open my eyes. Right at that very moment, I wanted to float off with the butterflies. FAT GIRL DROWNS IN KIDDIE POOL. The sun hung high above him. I squinted against it and reluctantly sat up, curling my legs tightly against my chest.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Oh, well . . . um . . . I’m sorry. I tried to call first, but I guess you didn’t hear the phone ring.” Kyle was staring at me.
Oh, God. Old bathing suit with a safety pin! Stretch marks exposed! Fat rolls everywhere!
Music wafted across the yard. It was an oddly nasal voice I couldn’t place. “I wasn’t sure if you were home, so I left the car running,” Kyle explained.
“Could you hand me that towel over there, please?” I pointed to the porch railing clear across the yard.
“Sure,” said Kyle, but he didn’t move. Before I could jiggle across the yard and retrieve the towel myself, he squatted down beside me. A current ran through my body. It started at the top of my head and radiated out to my extremities. I could feel it pulsing somewhere just beyond my sea-foam green toenails. Kyle’s face was flushed, and he was sweating a little. “Um, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Rosie. Will you be my date to the prom?”
My heart pounded out a drum solo. “Go get that towel while I think it over,” I replied coyly. Kyle hurried across the yard and grabbed my towel.
I.
Stood.
Up.
In my too-big, safety-pinned bathing suit, half expecting the world to come to an abrupt and violent end, I stood up. The world did not end. Instead, Kyle grinned and wrapped the sun-warmed towel around me the way Mother used to when I’d just come out of the tub. “Okay, I’ll go,” I said, smiling up at him.
Kyle laughed and put his giant football arms around me. “I’m so relieved you said yes.”
“I’m so relieved you asked. Is that Wayne Newton on the radio?”
Kyle held me at arm’s length. “You seriously
know
who that is?” he asked, wide-eyed. I nodded. “I can’t believe you know who that is!”
"Well, he’s singing ‘Danke Schoen,’ ” I pointed out.
“I bet there’s not another girl at school who would know that besides you!” Kyle beamed with pride at my oldies prowess. He grabbed me and pulled me close again. “ ‘I can see hearts carved on a tree,’ ” he sang off-key in my ear, "’letters intertwined, for all time, yours and mine ...’ ”
chapter thirty-two
Lucky
I had just finished my treadmill workout, and was glancing over a nutrition book Kay-Kay picked up for me at the library, when I heard Aunt Mary’s car pull up. I could tell by the way she slung it into the driveway she was angry about something. She and Mother had gone to Nashville for an appointment with Dr. Nelson, and I’d heard through Grandma Georgia that Aunt Mary intended to tell him about Mother’s not following his orders. I glanced out the window and watched Mother press up the sidewalk, Aunt Mary close on her heels. The minute they burst through the door, the shouting started. “You need to mind your own business!” Mother exploded.
“And if I mind my own business, you’ll be dead in a year!” Aunt Mary shouted back. “Is that what you want?”
“If I don’t have the right doctors taking care of me, I’ll be dead in six months,” Mother retaliated. I put my book down and crept to the bottom of the stairs where I could hear better. “You are always in our business, Mary. You don’t know when to stop butting in. Rosie’s right, you know. She gets tired of it, too. And in case you haven’t noticed, your social calendar isn’t exactly brimming with invitations! Maybe other people feel the way we do, except they’re not
stuck
with you! You’re nothing but a big know-it -all who doesn’t know a damn thing!” I couldn’t believe Mother was saying these things. They were true, but still . . .
“Now you’re just being mean, Rose Warren. Well, just so you know, I am not afraid of your anger!”
“God, I wish you’d stop with the armchair psychology bullshit! It’s enough to
make
me crazy!”
“I swear to the good Lord in heaven, I will call Dr. Nelson’s office every single time you defy his orders. If you go to work, I’m calling. If you clean the house, I’m calling. Mama has already agreed to work for you. And Rosie can help out around here. It’s not like she couldn’t use the exercise.”
I bristled at the insult. “You hush up about Rosie! She does plenty to help me out. And she’s up at the crack of dawn running every morning. See, this is exactly what I’m talking about! You judging our lives every five seconds! Maybe you should take a good hard look at your own life, Mary. It’s not so hot, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I am your official spy. I will tell Dr. Nelson, and if he drops you from that practice, it’s your own doing,” said Aunt Mary. She was using her quietly condescending voice now.
“You are no longer welcome in this house! You can just spend Saturday nights with that pissing, hissing fur ball of yours!” Mother was treading on shaky ground now for sure. I waited. I listened. I held my breath. It was the calm before the storm. Suddenly, the front door slammed so loudly the whole entire house shook. “And don’t come back!” Mother yelled. She was cursing under her breath and slamming things around.
I crept back up the stairs again. The last thing Mother needed was somebody else spying on her. Normally, I would take Mother’s side in a heartbeat over Aunt Mary’s, but I knew my aunt was partly right about this particular issue. Mother hadn’t slowed down a bit. All along I’d wanted to say something, but it was a little like Aunt Mary’s comments about my weight. They never made me lose weight; they just made me mad. Besides that, I remembered Mrs. Wallace’s words about how Mother would have to handle her illness her own way.
Later, I got the full story from Grandma Georgia. Apparently, while Mother was in the examining room with Dr. Nelson, Aunt Mary confided in his nurse. Aunt Mary told her how Mother was still working full-time and doing too much around the house and attending downtown merchants’ meetings and having special events at the salon. Mother was with the receptionist making her next appointment when Dr. Nelson called her
and
Aunt Mary back to his consult office. The last thing he said to Mother was, “Lady, this is your life you’re playing with here. No chemo, no remission. No remission and your cancer gets worse. Continued noncompliance and you can find yourself a new doctor.”
Maybe Mother was so angry with Aunt Mary this time because deep down she knew she was right.
Our Mother’s Day brunch included Mother, Grandma Georgia, Aunt Mary (so much for not being allowed in our house), Miss Bertha, and me. It wasn’t much of a celebration, however. Miss Bertha was missing her own children and grandchildren something fierce. Grandma Georgia was irritated because Mother and Aunt Mary still weren’t speaking to one another (Mother wasn’t really talking to anyone). I was trying to navigate my way around the fattening lunch—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn bread with butter, macaroni and cheese, and string beans. I considered avoiding the whole menu and having a salad instead, but that seemed rude after Grandma Georgia had spent the entire morning cooking. Instead of helping her, which I should have done, especially since it was Mother’s Day and all, I spent the morning with Mother.
After my run and before my shower, I hid the gift bag behind my back and slipped into her bedroom. I had a present for Grandma Georgia, too, but I wanted a little time with Mother, just the two of us. She was lying in bed staring at the ceiling when I went in. “I’m tired of this,” she said to the ceiling.
“What?” I asked, shutting the door behind me.
“I can’t take staying home and doing nothing. I’m sicker here than if I work all the time. And what if I’m dying?” she asked, suddenly angry and sitting up in bed. “Does your goddamned, nosy-assed aunt want me to spend my last days wallowing in bed sheets?”
I was too stunned by Mother’s remark to say anything. I had never heard her speak that way about Aunt Mary. In fact, I’d never really heard her speak that way about anybody. I waited for Mother to backtrack or apologize, but she didn’t. A few minutes passed. Maybe it was only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity standing there in the middle of the floor—
waiting
.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” I said finally, tiptoeing toward the bed. “I brought you something.” I took the gift from behind my back and put it on the bed.
“Oh, Rosie, I’m so sorry. Here you came to give me a present and I—”
“It’s okay. Just look inside.” Mother peered into the bag and pulled out the various bottles and tubes.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh, but it’s too extravagant, Rosie.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t pay retail,” I explained. “I used your vendor number and found a discount place online.” I’d dipped into my savings account and purchased the finest moisturizing products available. They were guaranteed to help Mother’s chemo-ravaged skin. If nothing else, the products had certainly ravaged my bank account.
Mother patted my hand. “Even at a discount, this was extravagant. ” Her eyes welled up, and she grabbed a tissue off the night-stand. “You’re a good daughter,” she whispered.
“You’re a good mother,” I replied.
Mother dabbed at her eyes and blew her already red nose. “You know, before this happened, I had no idea how lucky I was. I mean, I worked hard, I know that. Luck didn’t get me the salon or this house. Luck didn’t turn you into the fine girl you are. I’ve worked hard for everything in this life, but I was also lucky. I was so lucky to have the
energy
to work that hard. Oh, God, I miss pulling fifteen-hour days at the salon! I miss tearing out a wall and tiling a floor and hanging bead board!” She glanced around the room. “What I wouldn’t give to paint these walls.”
“You just repainted last year,” I reminded her. The pale butter-yellow color was perfect for Mother’s bedroom, and there wasn’t a scratch or scuff mark anywhere.
“That’s not the point,” Mother explained. “I’d like to
be able
to paint them.” She flopped back against the pillows and sighed. I thought she might cry again, but she didn’t. “Promise me, Rosie,” she said, taking my hand.
“What?” I asked.
“That you’ll be okay. That no matter what happens to me, you’ll be okay.”
“I
am
okay,” I replied, pretending I had no idea what Mother really meant.
“You wanted this, Rosie.” Mother drew in a ragged breath and sighed it back out again.
“Wanted what?” I asked.
“I read your letter. I know I shouldn’t have, but it was hanging out of your purse, and it had my name on it, so I read it.” My heart sped up; my cheeks burned.
“That letter was an assignment from Mrs. Wallace. I didn’t give it to you,” I said, trying not to let anger seep into my voice.
“I know, but I need you to promise me that if I die, you’ll go on with your dreams . . . with your life.”
“Wha—?”
“I have life insurance. If Mr. Decker down at the bank invests it well, there’ll be enough for Vanderbilt,” she said. “Isn’t it sad that I’m worth more dead?” She laughed ruefully.
“Mother, don’t—”
“No, let me finish. Now you’d still probably have to get a scholarship or some sort of financial aid, but the insurance money would certainly help. Even with good investments, there probably wouldn’t be anything left for you after college. You might want to consider studying something practical, you know, like business. Something that would provide a nice living when you graduate.”
Between the bold words and the bald head, I barely recognized the woman beside me. For months, I’d wanted to support her, to be included in her struggle, to be one of the adults. Hadn’t I said all along I wanted my mother to talk to me? Now I wasn’t so sure. A shadow box hung on the wall just above Mother’s head. Inside it was a picture of a little girl holding a bird. The creature looked as if it were poised to fly away at any moment. “I promise,” I said. “I promise,” I said again, and hugged Mother.
Later, in the shower, I thought about things.
Did it mean something that Mother and I had openly acknowledged death’s unwelcome presence? Was it some sort of omen?
A shower is the perfect place for crying. No one can hear you if you do it quietly, into a wash-cloth, with the water running.
At lunch, Aunt Mary went on and on about how much weight I’d lost. “Well, we’re finally getting you there, aren’t we, Rosie!” she said loud enough for everyone to hear. “All those books, the treadmill. My efforts are finally starting to work!”
Your efforts, my
ass!
I felt like saying, but I didn’t. I could tell Aunt Mary was just trying to get on Mother’s good side again, and no one was paying her any attention.
Mother was sorting through a new batch of get-well cards, and Miss Bertha and Grandma Georgia were debating how much longer to bake the apple crisp. I was looking over my notes for a unit test in Mrs. Edinburgh’s class.
By the time we were gathered around the table, Aunt Mary had downed three mimosas. She’s never been much of a drinker, and I wondered if a Kay-Kay scene might soon follow. She raised her champagne flute so high it was just millimeters from crashing into our low-hanging chandelier.
“Watch what you’re doing, Mary!” Grandma Georgia scolded, and tugged her arm down a notch. “And make it quick. I didn’t bust my
tokhes
all morning to eat cold food!”
Aunt Mary giggled, but I could tell the scolding had hurt her feelings. The showiness went out of her voice. “I just wanted to toast Rosemary’s success,” said Aunt Mary, swaying ever so slightly. “How much weight have you lost now?” she asked.
“Forty-five pounds,” I lied. Really, it was only forty-two still.
“Here’s to . . .” Aunt Mary stalled. “How much?”
“Forty-five pounds,” I said again as if my aunt were deaf instead of drunk.
“Well, here’s to fifty-three pounds!” said Aunt Mary. Mother reached for my hand and squeezed it tightly, but she didn’t raise her glass. She just narrowed her eyes and glared at my aunt.
Lunch ended abruptly. Miss Bertha and Grandma Georgia made arrangements to drive Aunt Mary home. Mother went back to bed, and I headed for the kitchen. Someone had to tackle the mess.
I switched on the radio, donned rubber gloves, and filled the sink with hot soapy water. Mick Jagger wailed on the radio. I turned the volume up and tried not to think about Mother’s words that morning. I tried to distract myself with prom dress worries. When that didn’t work, I switched my brain over to the English test, but I’d studied too much to obsess over it. I knew I’d get an A. Finally, I settled on the Bluebirds, always a good source of tension. But no matter what I tried to torture myself with, I kept coming back to Mother again.
Did she think she was going to die? Was there some piece of information she was keeping from me? Maybe Dr. Nelson hadn’t taken her off chemo. Maybe they were secretly giving up.
Panic rose in my chest.
I heard Grandma Georgia come through the front door. “Hi, there, Rose Garden. Now
that
was what I call a Mother’s Day lunch. The perfect reminder of how much trouble it is to have children!” She laughed and kissed me on the forehead. “If I’d known how much nicer grandchildren are, I’d have had you first,” she whispered.
I smiled, and the panic died down a little. Grandma Georgia tugged a fresh dish towel from the linen drawer and began drying. In no time we had the entire kitchen cleaned up. It was good to work side by side without talking. Just having my grandma there made things seem better somehow. I pulled off my rubber gloves and hugged her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Oh, my little Rosie, I love you, sugar,” she said.