The Weight of Zero (17 page)

Nonny twists all the way around to look at me from the front passenger seat of Lorraine Pitoscia's Subaru. Who knew her aging vertebrae had so much flexibility?

“Why you wear your hair like that?” she asks.

“Oh man, Nonny,” Michael groans beside me in the backseat.

“It's okay,” I say. And it is. Nonny doesn't mean anything by it, and she seems sincerely interested in my hair. “I saw that movie with Audrey Hepburn.
Roman Holiday,
” I tell her. “She cuts her hair short. I just liked it.” I omit the small detail that the haircut occurred during the apex of a manic episode.

“Oh, I love
Roman Holiday
!” Lorraine says. “That movie is why we went to Rome for our honeymoon.” She throws a glance at Nonny. “Nonny, why don't you turn back around? You'll be more comfortable.”

“Me too,” Michael mutters under his breath.

Nonny ignores her and continues questioning me. “What you think? I get my hair cut short too?”

A vision of Nonny getting her hair snipped by Rodrick flashes through my head. Two worlds colliding. Her eyes are expectant, demanding an answer.

“My grandmother always wore her hair short. It looked great on her,” I say. I have no idea where that just came from. I never talk about Grandma. It must be some residual Lamictal loosening my tongue.

Nonny nods and then directs her gaze onto Michael. “
That's
why I had to come. I need some girl advice.” She readjusts herself to face front. “Lorraine, you take me to Supercuts after we drop off the kids. I'm gonna be Nonny Hepburn.” She pulls out her iPhone, peels away the Kleenex encasing it and begins pecking away.

“Michael, call and make a reservation for Nonny at Supercuts,” Lorraine says. “It's a zoo on Saturdays.”

“And Michael's friend comes over for dinner tonight. She see my hair!” Nonny shouts as her phone chimes. It sounds like a foghorn. Holding the phone as far as possible from her face, she slowly reads aloud the text message she just received. “Sylvia wants a picture of my new hair.”

“Hey, Nonny,” Michael says, “maybe you should have your own Instagram account. I can start it for you.”

“Don't you dare, Michael!” Lorraine yells.

Nonny isn't in the car when Lorraine picks us up at four o'clock. “She wants to surprise you,” Lorraine tells me.

So I'm headed back to Casa de Pitoscia. At least it's not a dinner ambush like last week. Still, Nonny's tactics make me like her all the more. Grandma did the same thing once.

I was in fifth grade, and Mom had started dating an orthodontist she'd met at the law office—he was being sued for malpractice. He'd come inside the house whenever he picked Mom up, but Grandma and I never spent any time with him.

One Friday night, Grandma finally snagged him by cooking her best dish—fried chicken. She also whipped up the lightest mashed potatoes and brown gravy, along with my favorite dessert, apple pie. But the real hook was the chicken. It was early evening and the scent of the chicken had wafted into the living room and out the front window screens. Dr. Scott was drooling on his Ralph Lauren polo by the time his penny loafers cleared the first concrete step to our door. And that's how we spent our only evening with Mom's first steady boyfriend. So when the balding douche broke up with Mom, Grandma said with authority that she had known something was wrong with him and that Mom was better off.

That was the way Grandma worked. She was never in your face about anything, just a subtle, steady presence at every breakfast, after-school snack, dinner and good-night hug. Snapping pictures from the front row at every recital. Religiously saving my report cards, ballet flyers and artwork. Singing as she folded clothes warm and soft from the dryer. She was as constant as my breath. Our house was always well lit and warm with the great smells of whatever she was cooking or baking.

So the truth is, I don't mind returning to the Pitoscias. Mom is working a longer shift today, anyway—somebody called in sick, so she won't be home until nine. The Pitoscia household with Nonny in the garlic-scented kitchen and the loud voices, well, it seems a hell of a lot more appealing than the empty Pulaski Cape on Maple Drive.

This will also be the longest stretch of time Michael and I have hung out. And so far, so good. Borderline great. He was the perfect museum companion this afternoon: not too chatty, not clingy, stayed within view and only called me over to point out something especially amazing or heartbreaking. He saved the exhibit on the 6888th for last.

“I have to get myself in the mood,” he explained, half-serious, half-joking, during our froyo break. “I'm ready to meet your Jane now.”

His lips lifted in a half smile, and in that moment, sitting on a stool looking out onto Chapel Street, he looked beautiful to me. Maybe it was a sugar rush from the yogurt. Or the fact that he acknowledged this project meant something to me. Whatever it was—the way his face looked, that Mona Lisa boy-smile, his brown eyes holding mine—it was one of those moments that imprints itself onto the brain. I felt my cheeks warm and knew I was blushing.

“Thanks again,” I had said, realizing then that I never thanked him in the first place. “For agreeing to switch soldiers. That was really great of you. I know you were into Kasia.”

“It was hard,” Michael had admitted, spooning strawberry yogurt with chocolate sprinkles into his mouth. “I still have my G.I. Joe and Rescue Heroes. I won't let my mom donate them yet.”

Then, at the 6888th exhibit, he just soaked it all in, reading everything, studying Jane's coat, watching the looping video for at least four full runs, all the while typing notes into his phone. When he got to Jane's letter under Plexiglas, his eyebrows drew together and his fingers rubbed his chin. I joined him there, and Jane's words still sang to me: “I can't change the way I was born.” We stood side by side and that was when he laced his fingers in mine.

We dropped hands as soon as an attractive brunette approached us. It was the curator, Jenna. I had emailed her on Monday per Bev and asked about any other items she might have on Jane, and then I let her know about our Saturday visit. After introductions, she told us that she might have more materials, that another library was loaning them a whole box of letters and that once they arrived, she'd shoot me an email if she found anything. As soon as Jenna walked away, Michael reached for my hand again.

“Let me go inside first,” Lorraine tells us now as she pulls into the driveway. “And tell Nonny that you're here.”

But the front door is already swinging open and I can see Nonny's short, stocky frame silhouetted in the doorway. Just as we reach the door, Nonny flips on the foyer light. “What you think?” she yells.

Gone is the center-parted knot of gray hair at the base of her head. Now her thick hair is short, side-parted with long bangs, and tapered to her neck. I might actually need to check out Nonny's stylist.

“You don't look like you just landed on Ellis Island anymore,” Michael says, hugging her.

She turns to me. “So, Michael's friend, you like it?”

“It's fantastic! What a great cut,” I say.

“No, I went to Supercuts,” she corrects me. She about-faces and marches into the kitchen. “I made pizza. Come and eat now.”

Anthony and Mr. Pitoscia are already seated at the table, eating. Anthony waves and gives a friendly, “Hi, Catherine.”

Michael's dad pats his mouth with a paper napkin and then rubs his hands together as he rises to his feet. He's maybe five foot nine—so that's why Anthony's so much shorter. Michael towers over both of them.

“Hello,” Mr. Pitoscia says to me, hand outstretched. “I'm Tony, this guy's dad.” With his free hand, he squeezes the back of Michael's neck. “I've heard a lot about you. And your hair.” He grins and I can see Michael's smile in it.

We shake hands, and Mr. Pitoscia pulls out a chair for me next to Anthony.

“Hey, Dad, I'm thinking putting Catherine right next to me is not the greatest of ideas,” Anthony says. “I worked today and haven't showered yet.” He looks at me with an open grin. “I do wash. We just always meet when I've gotten off work.” Anthony's baseball hat is on backward, revealing sweat-dried hair, and his green Paoletti's Landscaping T-shirt looks damp and threadbare with small bits of grass and leaves speckling it.

Michael pulls out a chair on the opposite side of the table for me, next to Lorraine. “Hey, Michael's friend,” he teases. “You sit here.”

On the kitchen table are two cookie sheets of misshapen, clearly homemade pizza. Holding a pair of heavy silver scissors, Nonny wedges herself between Anthony and Mr. Pitoscia.

“You two slow down and let Michael and”—she looks at me—“his friend eat first. You already went through two pies.”

Then she picks up the corner of one of the pizzas and cuts it into large squares.

“She uses those scissors on everything,” Anthony tells me. “Cutting coupons, pruning her tomato plants, even trimming Mitzi's hair.”

Michael and Mr. Pitoscia burst out laughing. Lorraine looks at me and rolls her eyes. “She definitely does not use them on the dog,” she says.

Nonny slides two large squares onto my plate and then steps back, watching me, so I pick up a slice and take a bite. Maybe it's the dog-hair seasoning or the newspaper-print flavor, but Nonny's pizza is awesome.

“Catherine, we can drive you home tonight,” Lorraine says. “Is your mom working?”

Before I can answer, Nonny spouts, “Where your father?”

I can handle this, my answer automated from years of practice. “My parents split up when I was young.”
In utero, to be precise.
I add, “I never really knew him.”
Or his name.

Lorraine's face is a mask of sympathy that turns to horror when Nonny speaks again.

“That's okay, Michael's friend,” she says, while scissoring into the second pizza. “My grandmother hated her husband. Spent forty years of her life with that ass. She better off without him.”

“Jesus, Ma!” Mr. Pitoscia reaches for his mother's hand. “Settle down.”

Lorraine quickly repeats her earlier question about whether I need a ride home.

“My mom can get me,” I say. “She's hoping to get out around nine.”

That's kind of late. For a second I worry that I'm overstaying my welcome, but then Michael asks, “Can she pick you up later than that?”

Before I can answer, Mr. Pitoscia asks me where Mom works and I tell him about both her day and night jobs. Big mistake, because Lorraine then says proudly, “And you work at that law firm too, right, Catherine? Michael told me.”

Oh Jesus. “Um…yeah…just when they need me,” I say.

Mr. Pitoscia nods. “I love to hear when kids get experience like that. What do they have you doing?”

I'm overheating. I'm trapped, locked into this lie for good now that I've scammed Michael's entire family. What makes it even worse is that they're all looking at me expectantly, waiting to be impressed. When the truth is that I'm not doing anything brilliant—psych rehab is pretty much the complete opposite.

“Like, filing stuff,” I say slowly, looking down at the pizza square on my plate. The lies are like mud on my tongue, thick and heavy.

Just as I'm about to attempt a conversation hijack by asking about toothless Mitzi, Michael reroutes the discussion with a loud, “Let's open an Instagram account for Nonny.” He must know his mother's going to flip, because I can see a flush bloom near the neckline of his T-shirt.

Lorraine indeed flips out as Nonny withdraws her phone from somewhere within the top half of her torso and drops its tissue cocoon to the table.

“No!” Anthony says. “Facebook! I'll get my laptop.”

Anthony bolts from the kitchen and Mr. Pitoscia heads to the refrigerator. He's halfway back to the table, beer in hand, when Lorraine scolds, “Tony!” Her tone is soft but sharp-edged. Without a word, Mr. Pitoscia returns the unopened can to the refrigerator.