The Thing About Leftovers (19 page)

I couldn't believe it
when Mom asked where I wanted to eat dinner to celebrate my win on my last night in the city of Charleston.

“
Here,
” I said, as if she should've known.

“Oh no, Fizzy,” Mom said. “You don't mean you want to order room service again, do you?”

But I did.

After we'd eaten and I'd had plenty of time to bid farewell to those beautiful silver lids, Mom pushed the room service cart out into the hallway.

I was still just me, I realized again, and I was beginning to feel really sad about it.

When Mom came back into our room, I said, “You love me more, right?”

“More?” she said.

“Yes, you love me more now . . . for winning the cook-off . . . right?”

Mom looked confused, but she answered anyway. “No, Fizzy. I love you just the same. I told you before, there's nothing
that could make me love you any less, and maybe I should've told you then, there's nothing that could make me love you any more either.”

“So nothing's changed? I'm still just
me
?” I whined.

“What's wrong with being you?” Mom asked.

I gave her a dark look.

Mom stopped moving and waited for an answer.

“You know what's wrong with me,” I said accusingly. “
You. Know.
”

Mom came and lowered herself onto the edge of the other bed so that she sat across from me. “No, Fizzy, I don't,” she said softly.

“But you have to!” I shrieked. “Because if you don't know what's wrong with me . . . then . . .”
How will I ever get fixed?
How will I ever be okay?
That's what I was thinking, only I couldn't say it, because my throat closed; my face crumpled, and tears spouted from my eyes.

Mom rushed to put her arms around me.

“Don't!” I practically shouted, pushing her arms away. “Don't touch me! And don't lie to me!”

“Fizzy, I don't know what you're talking about. There's nothing wrong with you,” Mom said, staring at me through wide, unblinking eyes.

I shot up off the bed. “There is!” I wailed. “There
has
to be!”

“But . . . why?”

I threw my arms out at my sides and screamed, “Because even my own family doesn't want me!” I accidently hit the lamp
on the nightstand between the two beds. The shade popped off, hit the side of the bed, and bounced onto the floor.

“Calm down, Fizzy. That's not true,” Mom said, bending and reaching for the lampshade.

I only meant to kick the lampshade out of her reach, but it went flying off, hit the window, and rolled across the floor. “Yes, it
is
true!” I yelled.

Mom gave up on the lampshade then and, instead, reached up, grabbed both of my hands, and tried to pull me down on the bed beside her. “
No,
” she started, but I yanked my hands loose, turned my back on her, threw myself facedown on the other bed, and cried and cried.

Mom got up and moved to the other bed, too, where she placed a gentle hand on my back and let me kick and cry and scream—into a pillow—until I'd pretty much worn myself out.

When I finally began to quiet down, Mom got up, went to the bathroom, and came back carrying the tissue box, which she handed to me.

I pushed myself up into a sitting position and mumbled, “Thank you.”

Mom nodded, sat down beside me, and waited.

I wiped my face and blew my nose.

“Now,” Mom said. “May I ask why you think we don't want you?”

I shrugged. “I guess I'm not pretty enough or smart enough or good enough—or maybe I just make too many mistakes—that's probably it.”

Mom shook her head. “That's not what I was asking, but let
me just say that you
are
pretty enough and smart enough and good enough . . . and, Fizzy,
everybody
makes mistakes.”

“Yeah, except I can't make them anymore,” I said.

“Why not?” Mom asked.

I felt my chin tremble, so I slapped a hand over it and waited. When it stopped, I said, “Because Keene lets me live in your house even though he doesn't want to, just like Suzanne lets me stay at Dad's house when she doesn't want to—nobody really
wants
me, and if I make too many mistakes . . .” My chin started quivering again and more tears sprang to my eyes, so I had to stop talking.

Mom took my hand in hers and asked, “If you make too many mistakes, then what?”

“Then Keene and Suzanne will stop letting me stay . . . and I'll be
homeless
!”

“Fizzy, that will never happen.”

“Okay, maybe I won't be homeless,” I sobbed, “but I could end up in foster care—Zach's told me about foster care!”

“No, never,” Mom said certainly, squeezing my hand. “Fizzy, it may not feel like we're a family yet—you and me and Keene—but that doesn't change the fact that we
are
a family.”

I sniffed.

Mom continued, “Families don't keep score. They accept each other, flaws, mistakes, and all. They love and care for each other, not because they're perfect—nobody's perfect—but just because they're family.”

I thought about that while fresh tears slid down my cheeks and dropped onto my shirt.

Mom let go of my hand, plucked two tissues from the box in my lap, and handed them to me. “Is this why you've been cleaning and cooking your guts out?”

I buried my face in the tissues and nodded.

“You don't have to do that anymore. Nobody expects you to be perfect. Do you think Keene's perfect? Let me tell you, he isn't, and neither am I.”

“I think Suzanne might be almost perfect,” I said. “I mean,
really
.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “She isn't—trust me.”

I knew better than to argue with Mom about Suzanne, so I just sat there forcing myself to breathe deeply and evenly.

A few minutes passed and then Mom said, “What makes you think Keene doesn't want you? Has he told you that?”

“No,” I said, “but—”

Mom interrupted, “No, of course not, and he never will.”

I told her about the woman I'd overheard at Keene's family reunion, and how she'd gone on and on about how sweet Keene was to let me live with him, as though he'd made some sort of incredible sacrifice or something. “Am I really that terrible?” I asked. “So terrible that people just can't imagine letting me hang around?”

Mom didn't answer me right away, so I turned to look at her.

Her face was pinchy and angry. “Who said that? At the reunion, who said that?”

“I don't know.”

Mom took a deep breath and looked at me. “Well, whoever
she is, she obviously doesn't know you—she obviously doesn't know
anything
about
anything
.”

It was true that we didn't know each other and that did help a little.

“Has
Keene
done anything to make you think he doesn't want you?”

I shrugged. “He hardly ever talks to me.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe he's just as scared as you are, just as afraid of making a mistake or saying something wrong?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Well, he is,” Mom said.

Wow.
I'd never thought of that, but it made sense, didn't it? I mean, Keene didn't usually say—or do—the right things.

“We're all a little nervous,” Mom said. “It's just going to take some time for everybody to get used to living together—even me. It'll get better, you'll see.”

“But it won't be the same, will it?”

“The same as what?”

“The same as it was with Dad,” I said, and then I told her how I felt like I had lost an important grocery bag, the one with all the important ingredients.
For my life.

“It can be good, Fizzy, but it can never be the same. Because you haven't been given substitutions for an old recipe; you've been given new ingredients for a whole new recipe, a new life.”

“But I didn't want a new life,” I told the box of tissues in my lap.

“I know,” Mom said, putting her arm around me. “But life
changes whether we want it to or not. No matter what. Life
is
change.”

Yuck.

Mom gave me a sympathetic little squeeze. “What about Suzanne?” she asked. “She doesn't talk to you either?”

“Huh? Oh. No, ma'am, she does.” I told my mom about the picture in the bedroom then.

Mom thought about it and then finally admitted, “I'm sorry. I don't know the answer to that one. I could understand if you hadn't been there for the pictures, but . . .”

I nodded.

“But I
do
know your father well enough to know he feels the same way I do about family. And if Suzanne didn't feel that way, too, he wouldn't have married her. Trust him, okay?”

I guessed I didn't have any reason not to trust my dad.

“And if the picture bothers you that much, then I think you should talk to your dad about it.”

“Maybe.”

Mom snapped her fingers. “I know exactly what we need.”

“What?”

“Brownie batter.”

I couldn't disagree.

But room service disagreed—strongly. When Mom called them, they told her they absolutely could not, under any circumstances, bring us brownie batter, due to the raw eggs in it from which we might contract salmonella poisoning, for which they would be held responsible—in a court of law. Mom told them we'd settle for two warm brownies and some milk.

Meanwhile, I disposed of all my snotty tissues, put the tissue box back in the bathroom, and washed my face with cold water—so the room service person would know that I was fine.

Mom parked the room service cart at the end of a bed and pulled the desk chair up to one side. I sat down on the other side of the cart, on the edge of the bed. Once we were into our brownies, Mom ventured, “Anything else on your mind?”

I shrugged. “I guess not.”

“I'm not convinced,” Mom said, and she spooned warm brownie into her mouth.

I put my spoon down. “It's just that . . . you always say love means compromising.”

Mom swallowed. “That's right.”

“But you aren't compromising with
me
, Mom. I used to cook dinner all the time, and now I hardly ever get to. I used to watch TV with you, and now I never do—now you watch with Keene. I used to have lots of time with you, but now I never have any time with you.”

Mom stopped eating and lowered her eyes while she thought about it. “You're right,” she said sadly. “And I did notice you withdrawing to your room more and more . . . but I thought—hoped—it was just your age.”

“Why?”

“I guess . . . I guess I'm scared, too. I just want everything and everybody to be all right. But you aren't.” She closed her eyes and shook her head in a way that made her seem . . .
defeated
.

I felt bad then and sort of wished I hadn't said those things.

When Mom looked up at me, her eyes were pleading. “I wish you'd said something sooner, Fizzy. Why didn't you?”

I shrugged. “You're my mom.”

“Yes . . . and?”

“And I'm your daughter. I'm not supposed to question you or be disrespectful or rude—it's not like I can just start taking out my earrings, you know?”

“Taking out your earrings?” Mom repeated, looking confused. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, that's how you know when two girls are about to fight at school—one of them will start taking out her earrings.”

“At LVMS?”

“No, ma'am, I saw it at my old school. Once.”

Mom thought about this, laughed a breathy little laugh, and shook her head. “Fizzy, I want you to keep your earrings on—
always
—and to be respectful, but more than that, I want to know what's going on with you. I'd rather you talk to me than be polite to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And you're right about compromise: You should be allowed to do all of those things more often. I'll work on it.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling a lot better all of a sudden—probably it was the chocolate.

“See?” Mom said. “I'm not perfect. I've made some mistakes. Do you want me to move out of the house?”

I smiled. “No, ma'am.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure you can forgive me?”

“Yes, ma'am. I forgive you and I love you.”

Mom smiled. “Of course you do, because
that's what families do
.”

I nodded my understanding.

“Anything else?”

“I still want to take karate lessons,” I offered.

“All right, I'll call about karate lessons as soon as we get home. I promise. Is that all?”

I searched my brain and found one last—bothersome—thing: “Miyoko's mom is mean.”

“To you?”

“No, mostly to Miyoko.”

Mom sighed. “Sweet pea, we all do the best we can for our children—even Miyoko's mom—I'm sure she's doing what she thinks is best for Miyoko.”

“But it isn't . . . best.”

“If you're sure about that, then remember her mistakes and try not to make the same ones when you're a mother.”

“Okay,” I said, “but I wish I could help Miyoko.”

“You can, you
do
, just by being her friend and loving her.”

That didn't seem like enough.

“Just remember, Fizzy, we all make mistakes, even when we're trying our hardest and doing our very best.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

After we'd finished our brownies and milk, Mom said, “Now go brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”

I knew for sure then that I was still me, so I said, “I can't believe the cook-off is over and I'm still just plain old freckle-faced Fizzy Russo, the leftover kid . . . who is nobody special at all!”