by Mary Hogan
How do you tell your newfound grandmother you feel damaged ? There are no words to express how much it hurts to see my dad all melted and drooling and baggy eyed. Why would a father let his daughter see him lose his manhood every day, fade into the couch and stop caring about his kids, and treat their mother like she’s an intruder in his own private blurry world? Doesn’t he realise I’ll carry that image with me all my life? How am I ever supposed to have a boyfriend or a fiancé or a husband if my image of men is so warped?
The most unsettling thing of all, of course, is that my dad stopped drinking since we moved to Barstow (as far as I could tell), and he’s as weird as ever.
My mouth hung open, but nothing came out. How could I tell an old woman what it’s like to have your parents one day just decide to destroy your life? Without even asking. To ruin your whole entire life without even saying sorry! My best friend has already traded me in for a better model. All the boys I’ve ever liked like somebody else. Greg Minsky freaks me out, and Zack Nash looks at me like I’m his little sister. Like I’m invisible! And now I’ll never get the one thing I really want: a serious kiss. It’s too late. I’m branded a loser for life.
How could I express how terrified I was to start over in a new school? My whole life is one giant hold button – blinking, blinking, blinking – waiting for whatever dreadful thing is going to happen next.
Nana reached her veiny, ring-encrusted hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. She sighed. “Sometimes there’s so much to say it’s hard to find even one word.”
I nodded.
She said, “It’s a funny thing, though. Teens and old people have a lot in common.”
Staring at her, I struggled not to roll my eyes and grunt.
“Old age scares people,” she said softly, “so they don’t like to see it. They herd all of us into retirement homes, pretend not to hear us when we talk. Younger people treat older people like children. We feel powerless much of the time, our bodies are giving out, doing bizarre things they never did before. Betraying us. But you can only share what’s happening with other old people – who else wants to hear about constipation and arthritis and bunions? Certainly, no one wants to hear about bladder control. It’s a joke on Jay Leno! That’s how society feels about us – people are so scared of becoming us, they can only mention us in jest. Really, society barely tolerates old folks. Sound familiar?”
I nodded, blinked. Of all people, I thought my grandmother would be the last to understand.
“It’s lonely being old,” Nana continued. “You’re invisible. Men are not attracted to you; women cling too tightly. And there’s that cloud that follows you around night and day: Will this year be my last? Have I done enough with my life? Will I be missed?”
Nana stared off into space for a moment. Suddenly, in her face, I could see the woman she once was. The fiery widow who declared, “To hell with what others think of me, I’m living in a kitchen!”
“It’s true,” I said quietly, “society barely tolerates both of us.”
Smiling, Nana took my hand and squeezed it. “I tell you one thing, my love,” she said. “It’s a secret that’s taken me seventy-five years to discover.”
“What?” Straining, I lifted my head off the pillow.
“No one has any control.”
“Nobody?” I let my head fall back down.
“Nope. Control is only an illusion. Striving for it is a waste of time. Life itself has a plan for you that’s playing out right now, on its own, without your intervention. No matter what you do, life is going to win. You cannot control it. It’s foolish to try. You’ve got to let go. Let life’s flow carry you along in its current. Don’t resist. Sit back and enjoy the ride. Watch where life takes you. Stop trying to steer it. Life will always win, my darling. Give it up. Let go.”
Nana stroked my cheek, then leaned over to kiss me on the only patch of my forehead that wasn’t covered by a now-filthy white gauze. In my ear she whispered, “In the meantime, you might want a little snack.”
My grandmother left me with a wicked frittata and a big surprise: I wasn’t so alone after all.
TWENTY
I awoke the next morning with a new resolve. To let go.
“Whatcha making?” Mom asked me as I stood at Nana’s stove, dots of flour on my old T-shirt, my forehead bandage gone. No doubt left atop my unmade bed.
“Pancakes.”
“Pancakes?”
“Want a stack?”
Mom looked alarmed, not sure what to say.
I slid the spatula beneath the bubbling batter and flipped one of the cakes. Mom sat at the table and asked, “Are you okay?”
“Never better. Butter?”
The enormous pancake stack slanted and wiggled as I carried it to the table. Nana and my brothers had already eaten; in fact, they were already gone. Off somewhere living their lives, going to school. Me, I was letting life carry me in its current.
“Syrup, Mom?”
“You seem well enough to go to school, Libby,” she said.
“We’ll see.”
Life wanted me to stay home for the rest of the week.
“Libby—”
“You’re going to be late for work, Mom.”
My mother glanced up at the clock, said, “Oh, dear,” and rushed back to our trailer. I settled in for the most delicious pancake breakfast I’d ever eaten. Juan whined beneath the table, but I pushed him aside with my foot. Cutting little pancake triangles with my fork, I shoved several layers into my mouth at a time. Letting go never tasted so good.
After breakfast, I decided to forgo a shower. I let go of bathing, too. Why bother? Who cared if I was dirty or clean? My head was fine. A brown scab covered pink, tender skin. It didn’t hurt, just itched a little. Sliding my bare feet into flip-flops, I wore the same boxer shorts I’d slept in, scooped up Juan Dog, and left.
It didn’t take long to make my way to the pool. As I approached, I could hear the same chatter and lazy slapping of the water. Charlotte wasn’t there yet, but Mim and the clapper in the wheelchair were, plus a new old lady who was totally bald. She swam slow, deliberate strokes back and forth across the pool. In my new frame of mind, they all looked stunning.
“Beautiful day!” I called out breezily as I walked through the gate.
“Good morning,” Mim said, then she asked gently, “How are you, dear?”
“Never better. Happy as a clam. Snug as a bug in a rug. And you? How are your bunions?”
Mim looked startled. With Juan Dog in tow, I dropped myself into an empty chaise and closed my eyes. The sun was already blistering hot and it was just past nine.
“Sunscreen, dear?” Mim asked. “The desert sun is treacherous.” Eyes still closed, I shook my head no, stretched out. Listening to the gentle ripples in the pool, I imagined I was floating down a river on my back, destination unknown – letting go, letting life sweep me along in its current. What did I have to worry about any more?
When we were little, Mom used to call Rif, Dirk and me her three dwarfs: Breezy, Dopey, and Warty (me), as in worrywart. Then, who could blame me? I mean, who wouldn’t worry, when life was always one big question mark? The way I figured it, I was the only one in my family who recognised how bad things can be, how many perils there are to life. The way I saw it, I was the only one who worried appropriately. But not any more. From now on, Mom would call me her dwarf Bright Side. Or Floaty. Yeah, from now on I’d be Floaty, the girl who goes with the flow.
My sunburn was just surfacing when I returned to Nana’s for lunch.
“Yikes,” she said, taking one look at me. Then she reached past the sink to snap off a frond of aloe from her window box herb garden. Dirk, home for lunch, kept poking my arm to see his white fingerprint. Dad didn’t even see me; he was staring at something imaginary crawling up the wall. “Will ya look at that,” he said over and over. When Mom came in she winced and asked, “Want some Noxemawema for that?”
Shrugging everybody off, I sa
t down to eat. “What smells so good?”
“Grilled chicken and avocado wrap with pecorino romano and garlic mayonnaise,” Nana said, quietly rubbing aloe juice on my hot red arms and angry red forehead.
My eyes teared up with joy.
By evening, my eyelids were practically swollen shut. My lips were huge chorizo sausages and my thighs were blistered. Mom came into my bedroom and placed a cool, wet cloth over my face. She kissed my head.
“Poor little red riding face,” she said.
I tried to smile beneath the face cloth, but my skin felt prickly and stiff. Soon I noticed it didn’t hurt as much when I didn’t move, when I lay flat on top of my bed in the blast of the air-conditioner. Which is exactly what I did. All night. And the weekend, too. The only time I got up was to go to the bathroom.
Oddly, it felt as if I was watching myself instead of being myself. I didn’t feel the sunburn as much as notice it. Briefly, I wondered why life had decided to singe my skin – particularly my lips, when I really needed them to taste Nana’s food – but then I chalked it up to the Master Plan. How can you question a Master Plan? Besides, my old life was over anyway. Clearly, the new one included pain.
Mom appeared periodically with fresh face cloths, Nana with fresh food (cold, of course). Grateful, I tried to say “thank you” but my huge lips could only say “Fwank eh,” so I chose to be silent. Until mealtimes, when Nana checked on me and I managed to lift my head and whisper, “Is there any honey-baked ham weft?”
My world shrunk to the size of my bedroom ceiling. I stared at it so long, it began to look like the white sands of Zuma Beach where Nadine romped in the waves without me.
TWENTY-ONE
My face looked much less scary Monday morning.
“You going to school?” Mom asked.
“I doubt it.” At Nana’s breakfast table, I was devouring Cajun sausages and poached eggs.
“Let me rephrase that,” Mom said. “You’re going to school.”
I looked up from my plate. “How can I let life flow in the confines of high school?”
Mom’s face knotted itself into a mixture of exasperation and bewilderment. She said, “All I know is, you’re going to flow your duff right on to that bus today. And you have twenty minutes to get ready.”
Life told me I ought to listen to my mother or else.
Desert Valley High looked completely different to me. It was still ugly, but I didn’t care. The low concrete buildings resembled bunkers huddled in the desert. Beyond the rusty chain-link fence, the Mojave spread out flat and wide over a mile to the foot of the dirt-brown mountains.
As I walked through campus in my green Wal-Mart shoes (what did I care?), I noticed that the biggest difference between Fernando and Desert Valley was the atmosphere. D.V. High was much more retro than my old school. The cafeteria (yes, there was one, but it was old and disgusting) served meat loaf sandwiches instead of Big Macs. Many of the male teachers had scruffy beards and wrinkled ties. Most of the women wore Birkenstocks. Teacher-wise, it’s that kind of place: A school that time forgot. Student-wise, it was more like Boyz N the Hood, that old movie about South Central L.A. Lots of macho strutting and angling for position, the girls both scoffing at and standing by their boyz. I’m not saying it felt like there might be a drive-by or something. There weren’t metal detectors or roving video cams. But there was a lot of posturing – guys and girls who stood around and sneered at everybody and thought they were more than cool. To me, with my new perspective, Desert Valley High School seemed like a decrepit old pit bull – more bark than bite, hopelessly past its prime but unwilling to admit it. I mean, nobody even rode skateboards. It’s like they don’t know what’s going on in the outside world.
“Welcome back.” Barbara Carver met me at my locker. It was so dented it looked like my old locker at Fernando.
“Thanks.” I smiled at her, stashed the roasted red pepper and mozzarella sandwich Nana had made me, and headed for class.
“Meet me here at lunch, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. What did I care? Barbara was as good a friend as any. At least she wouldn’t dump me for a cheerleader in less than a week.
My pastel canvas shoes squeaked on the cement as I walked away. Across the quad, a guy with eyes as black as his hair was staring at me. I smiled, but he just nodded. His gaze made me feel like a walking X-ray, as if he could see my rib cage expand with each breath. There was something about his intensity that made my face flush instantly. There was also something about him that made me feel good. His eyes weren’t judging me, they were simply taking me in. Later that day, I found myself scanning the desks in all my classes, disappointed that he wasn’t there.
Academically, I quickly discovered I could graduate from D.V. High in my sleep. Geometry? Forget about it. Who needed to know what a trapezoid was if Zack Nash wasn’t the reward? I chose, instead, to take courses I knew I could ace and wear my “loser” label with straight-A pride.
Rif embraced our new high school like they were old war buddies or something. With Rif, it was easy. He simply fell into the group of bad boys. Rebels know how to spot one another instantly. Everywhere he went, guys in baggy army surplus clothes opened their ranks to include him. Everywhere I went, girls in tight tank tops tightened their circles to keep me out.
Except, of course, one girl.
“Follow me,” Barbara Carver said at lunch.
“Where?” Not that I really cared. I just wanted to make sure I had enough time to eat. Nana had baked white chocolate brownies.
“Out,” Barbara said.
Shrugging, I grabbed my lunch, slammed my locker, and plodded along beside her in the direction of the fence.
As we walked off campus, one student puffed his cheeks with air while his friend shouted, “Make room! It’s an elephant and her roasted peanut!” Another yelled, “Nerds of a feather stick together.”
That started a chain reaction.
“The Losers’ Club!”
“Tubby and Cher!”
“Lez be friends!”
I was mortified. I’d never been taunted like that before. My resolve to let life flow dissolved into a desire to shove Barbara away and explain to the gathering crowd, “I’m not who you think I am. I’m in a slump, that’s all. Haven’t you ever had your life ripped out from under you? Haven’t you ever felt like nobody understood you? Haven’t you ever wanted to belong, but nobody would let you in?”
That’s what I wanted to yell, so they would take a second look, stop judging me as the lame-o who fainted on her first day of school, wore a couch cushion on her head, and Wal-Mart canvas slip-ons on her feet because her family couldn’t afford real sneakers. I longed to clarify the fact that Barbara befriended me. I was just going with the flow, you know?
“You talkin’ to me?” Barbara yelled at one of the guys who made fun of us.
“Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, lard ass,” the skinny boy yelled back.
“Ignore him, Barbara,” I said, blushing for her. She ignored me instead.
“You talkin’ to me ?” she said again to the boy.
“If the ass fits, wear it,” he said, doubling over with laughter.
Barbara dropped her backpack and hulked across the dead grass. The boy looked stricken but stood his ground. His friends were all around him. No way was he gonna run from a fat girl.
“Do you have any idea how lardy my ass really is?” Barbara asked him. “Do you have any notion how heavy I really am?”
I swallowed. Or tried to.
Stunned, the boy said, “Like, it’s so obvious. You’re, like, huge.”
“Huge, huge,” she repeated, her fingers rubbing her chin. “So hard to define exactly what the word ‘huge’ really means.” Then her face lit up. “I know! I’m going to show you. I’m going to let you feel how huge I really am. So you’ll know, you’ll know forever.”
In one surprisingly agile wrestling move, she sat on him. Barbara pinned the guy on the dry grass in the middle of
the quad. Red-faced, he wriggled beneath her girth. It was the most hilarious thing I’d ever seen. His friends were hysterical with laughter. A bigger crowd gathered. I glanced around for the boy I’d seen earlier, but he wasn’t there. Barbara sang at the top of her voice, “Can you feel it?” as she pressed her lard ass on top of him.
“Get off me!”
“Say please.”
“Move your butt, you tub of lard!”
“I didn’t hear the magic word.” Barbara didn’t budge. The skinny kid looked like he might suffocate. The rest of the kids were actually cheering for Barbara now.
“Flatten him, lard ass!” one of the Sylvanas squealed.
“Get off !” The boy screeched. Then, in a breathless, buttsquished voice he added, “Please!”
Barbara got up, dusted her hands off, and said, “I just had a baby-sitting job.”
Everybody roared, Barbara bowed. And I felt a feeling I hadn’t even come close to feeling since we arrived in Barstow: pride. As unexpected as snow atop a cactus, I felt proud that Barbara Carver was my friend.
“The best part of Barstow is on the wrong side of the tracks.”
Barbara took me on a tour. “Hurry up,” she said. “We only have an hour.”
Practically running, I followed Barbara Carver down a side street gritty with sand. The midday sun was blistering. I’d decided to help life give me a break and slathered sunscreen all over my face while we hurried across Main Street.
“This side is where all the hideous fast-food places are, the tourist motels, the Wal-Mart.”
“My mother works at Wal-Mart,” I said, ashamed.
“Everyone’s mother works at Wal-Mart!”
I beamed. “Yours, too?”
