by Amber Kizer
“Honey, you know what the doctor said about your heart.” She tries the pleading tone one uses with an errant toddler.
I perk up. Heart trouble? Mr. Toga has a bad heart? Doesn’t he know how insidious that is? He shouldn’t even be breathing in here.
“Don’t nag. I can’t deprive myself, you know what happens when I do that.” Again with the snarling.
She takes out a piece of stop-smoking gum. “One is moderation,” she says, and pops the gum in her mouth.
“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t!” he yells at her, and stomps his foot like he’s three.
Huh, guy doesn’t like to hear “no.” Shocking.
“I don’t want you to have another heart attack. You heard what the doctor said.” She snaps the gum.
“The hospital wanted me to feed my cravings with low-carb crackers. Crackers. Like crackers will do it,” he says, like they put him on the rack and pulled off his fingernails.
“Crackers probably won’t kill you.” Crap, I said that out loud.
They both swivel their heads and gape at me.
“Excuse me?” demands Mr. Toga.
What’s that saying? In for a pound, in for a ton? “My father just had quadruple bypass surgery and he’s the size of your thigh.”
“You little bitch.” Mr. Toga doesn’t appreciate my candor.
I can’t blame him, but I can’t stop either. “He carefully measured out a half cup of oatmeal in the mornings. Never smoked. Never drank. He’s maybe eaten a donut once or twice in his life, but he sure as hell didn’t stand here contemplating the moist goodness of the blueberry versus the tang of the lemon-filled with the expertise you seem to have. So if you got off with a mere heart attack that didn’t scare you enough to at least make an attempt to eat better, then you don’t deserve it. You don’t.” I pant my breath out.
“Gert.” The manager on duty carefully takes my arm and pulls me into the back room as I hear the woman wail, “See, she gets it, why don’t you get it?”
The manager’s face is green and purple, mottled like an Easter egg. “You will not work here anymore.”
I could see that coming. I float up above my body.
“Our customers are our livelihood. We do not judge. We do not condemn. And we do not talk to them like that.” He hands me my paycheck that I was supposed to get at the end of my shift today. “After we give that man any donut in the store he wants and take it out of your pay for today, if there’s so much as a cent left over, which I highly doubt, I will mail it to you.” He grabs the apron from my waist and the King Crown cap we all have to wear.
I nod. I know I messed up, but I don’t care enough to grovel.
And you know what? That damn check smells like grease and that awful secret mix.
Mike’s car is in the driveway and so is Mom’s. I let myself in the front door quietly, in case they’re sleeping.
I hear voices and then I hear my name. I stop in my tracks and listen. Obviously they didn’t hear me arrive.
I don’t make a practice of eavesdropping; I only do it when it’s absolutely necessary, which is whenever I get the feeling I’m not getting the whole story. When I’m getting the censored, you’re-not-old-enough version.
“Mike, I don’t know how we’re going to do it.”
“Mom, we’ll figure it out.”
“But it’s Gert’s college fund. All of it. All of our savings. Do you know what that woman said to me? She asked what I thought my husband’s life was worth and said obviously I didn’t value it very highly or I wouldn’t be in her office asking how I’m supposed to pay the bills. Can you believe that?”
Anger vibrates in Mike’s voice. “No. I wish I’d been there. I have money saved up. I’ll take out a loan. We just need to get Dad home and better and then we’ll take the next step. What about insurance?”
“Ten-thousand-dollar deductible and then they pay fifty percent. The premiums were so high. Oh, Mike, we should have paid them. We should have paid whatever they wanted.”
“Mom, you did the best you could.”
“It’s not good enough. Don’t you see, it’s not good enough. What do I tell Gert?”
“Right now, nothing. She can get a break on tuition at Simon Randalph. She can take student loans. There’s scholarships. She’s capable of working. She’s got a job now.”
Great, now my being fired has capital “L” loser implications. I’m going to make my mother cry. I know it.
She sniffles. “But she’s just a kid.”
“She’s more mature than you give her credit for. And she’ll have help.”
“Mike, what if we die before she’s ready? We never thought about it, but it’s possible now. We’re getting old and—” I hear Mom crying, but it’s muffled, like she’s holding on to Mike.
“Stop. Please, Mom, stop crying,” Mike pleads with her. He’s not big on tears.
I can’t catch all of what Mom says, but I hear, “I can’t lose him. I’m not ready.”
“Dad is going to be fine. He is. And Gert’s sixteen. She’ll be officially an adult before you blink.”
“I’d feel better if she knew what the world was like. If she’d been exposed to more—”
“You’ve done the best you can. And Heather and I will always be there for her. Always. She’ll be fine.”
Tears cloud my vision as I listen. I had no idea Mom worries like that about me. I tiptoe past the living room door but stop and meet Mike’s eyes over the top of Mom’s head. She doesn’t know I’m here, so I just keep tiptoeing up to my room.
A few minutes later, Mike knocks and pokes his head in. “Hey, kid.”
“Hey.”
“She’s tired. She’s worried. Don’t think about it.” He sits on the edge of my bed.
“Mike.” I sit up. “I’m going to think about it. I didn’t know they worried about money. I’ve never thought about it.”
“Gertie, they’re fine. The hospital is expensive and not all of it is covered by insurance. It adds up quick. But you don’t need to worry. Look, you’re working, which is great, and Dad’s proud of you for taking that on with such authority.”
My face falls and I tear at a Kleenex. I mumble, “I got fired.”
Mike goes still. “Are you going to tell me it wasn’t your fault?”
I think about it. “No, it was completely my fault.”
“Criminal?” he asks.
I snort. “No.”
“Then you’ll get another job and you won’t make that mistake again, right?” he asks.
“Right.”
“You’re taking responsibility for it, that’s big. That’s good.”
I nod. Still feeling like I should have kept my mouth shut. I didn’t do the guy any favors and I certainly shouldn’t care enough about his health to get fired over it. Especially if Mom is so worried about my place in the world.
“You holding your own in school?” Mike asks.
“Yeah, break’s almost over.”
“Don’t worry. You don’t need to take this on, okay?” Mike stands up and ruffles my hair.
“ ’Kay,” I say, not really believing him.
Days blend into weeks and before I blink we’re well into May. I slide into my seat for art just as the bell rings. I seem to be ten steps behind everyone else.
“You look like hell.” Adam sniffs me.
“Thank you.” I pull away, wondering if I forgot deodorant this morning. I can’t remember.
“You smell funny.”
“Cut it out.” I grit my teeth. That’s not helpful.
“I’m not trying to be rude, but have you washed those clothes recently?”
To tell the truth, I grabbed clothes off my chair. I don’t have the energy to fold the laundry, so it all gets piled in my room. “Of course.”
“Cuz they smell like the hospital.”
It’s been weeks since Dad’s attack and it’s taking me that long to catch up to my life. “Okay, maybe I haven’t worn this since then.”
“Do y
ou want me to come do your laundry?”
“No, things are getting better. I’ll get to it.” Soon. Sometime. Maybe. All these words are applicable. Frankly, if I’m not so disgusting that people run screaming from me, I have other things to worry about.
Ms. DaVoe starts class. “I’d like everyone to take a flower crown from your table group.”
I glance at the pile of daisies, pansies and green stuff. “That?” I whisper to Adam.
“I guess.”
We each gently touch a circle of flora like it’s infectious.
“Place one on the person next to you.” Ms. DaVoe crowns a kid in the front row, who looks like he’d like to slide down to Mother Earth’s level and hide. “It’s come to my attention that someone in the family of a student in our class has suffered a heart attack.”
I pause midbreath. Who?
“Ms. Garibaldi’s father was stricken recently, and he has inspired this assignment.”
I turn to Adam. “How does she know?” I try to talk without moving my lips.
He shrugs. Baffled too.
“The crowns are to help you find your inner self. And we will be making self-portraits of our hearts. You’re welcome to use any of the materials you find in the room. I don’t want Valentine hearts, people, I want beating hearts.”
I raise my eyebrows. First, how did she know about my dad? And second, how in the world did he inspire this activity? It’s like saying Jimmy Carter inspires consumption of dumplings. One does not rationally beget the other.
“We will be working on this all week. Feel free to take your time and personalize your masterpiece. For those of you who need time to center yourselves, please come to the front of the class and we’ll begin with a session of yoga.” She whips off her scarf skirt to reveal shiny Lycra pants topped by a tank top desperately trying to keep her parts hidden. It’s a tired tank top.
Adam leans in. “I swear I didn’t tell her.”
I shrug. I can’t work up the energy to care. But I do know what my self-portrait looks like. I walk over to the materials cupboards and rummage around.
“What are you searching for?” Adam appears beside me, shuffling through cardstock and a jar of buttons.
“Remember those macaroni necklaces?”
“From kindergarten?”
“Yeah.”
“What about them?”
I’d like to go back. I’m not ready for adulthood. I’m just not. “That’s part of my heart.” I pick up a bottle of red food coloring and a bag of pasta.
“What’s the other part?” Bless Adam for not questioning my idea.
“Money.”
“Uh-huh. You’re going to put money on this heart?”
“Color copies.” Lord knows I can’t afford to glue money to posterboard, at least not until I find another job.
“ ’Kay.”
“You?”
“Froot Loops.” He smiles.
I giggle. “That’s good.” I hand him a big bottle of paste. “I think you’ll need this.”
WHO AM I?
PART THREE
I am not graceful. I’ve always wanted to be a lithe ballerina type who glides instead of walks and who only bumps into boys on purpose to twitter, instead of accidentally, like me. Pick the most attractive guy in the room and I can guarantee I will somehow manage to dump liquid on him, trip on an invisible boulder in front of him or give him a concussion by passing too closely.
I have a sixth sense. I don’t see dead ghosts. My sixth sense comes from instinctively knowing where the sharpest corners on furniture are, where the carpet is peeling just a wee bit, where the doorjambs zig into walkways so I can run into them.
It’s not that I’m terribly clumsy. I would even go so far as to admit to being rather coordinated, if you define “rather” as “occasionally.” It’s more than a pure clumsy. It’s a hybrid form of self-flagellation: monks use that whip thingy; I use whatever is most handy. It’s a trait I was born with. Really wish I’d gotten a different recessive gene. Like red hair or deep green eyes.
I am not a people person. It’s clear to me that I would not be the one to build the ark or throw myself on the grenade for just anyone who might become collateral damage. Nope.
I don’t like people in general. In mobs the collective IQ drops to a negative number; common sense, if there is any, runs in the opposite direction. I’m fairly certain I don’t care about people for the sake of their peopleness.
Take polite conversation. I suck at it. I hate it. I don’t want an answer to the “how are you?” question. I certainly don’t want you to answer me. I don’t care about your dog’s gallbladder, your aunt’s bad back, the cost of a postage stamp or Oprah’s latest hot topic. Just say “fine.” Really. That’s all I want.
If we lived in another culture, I’d ask “are you well?” and you’d probably give me a list in minute detail. Don’t. Resist the urge to honestly answer. Say “fine.” Or “well.” “Well” is okay, too. I don’t want to hear about your hemorrhoids, the boss who hates you, the trash that you think is filling the airwaves and corrupting young minds. I don’t care. I like my corrupted mind.
I really should have known this about myself before I applied to the donut shop. Because I’ve learned something. I think I could go days without speaking. Really. I’d like to try it, but Mom would probably ship me off to a boot camp in Arizona for ornery teens. Retail is obviously not for me. It requires the ability to act like you give a crapping buttock about the person holding the debit card.
And I don’t compare to anyone else. It’s not as if I think I’m better than Cleopatra, Princess Diana or Mother Teresa. I’m not. In fact, I’d bet money that I’m more flawed, more screwed-up, less deserving than all of them. But I’m me. I will not spend my life comparing myself to other people, who live other lives, walk in other shoes, shuffle their butts into other jeans. Cuz, see, what’s the point in comparing us? At best I’d feel inferior and at worst I’d feel superior. What’s the point? Besides, we all know you don’t give As on this project, Mr. Slater. There are lines. This is mine. I don’t want to be anyone else. I can’t be.
So I guess we know I’m not a terribly good actress, either. Not a people person and not an actress. There are things I won’t do even for an A. And my heart is made of uncooked red macaroni and photocopied dollar bills. What enlightening revelations will tomorrow bring? Can’t wait. Goody.
I throw myself down next to my friends at lunch and put my head on the table. Ten minutes of sleep. Sleep would be good. What day is it? Crapping buttocks, I don’t know.
“What day is it?” I ask without raising my head.
Clarice pokes her head under and looks at me. She squints like I’m a roach. Kafka, here I come. “What?”
“Day?”
“Friday.” She draws this out like I’m a freak. I feel freakish. Since Dad’s come home from the hospital and school’s back in session, I’m a zombie. I can’t even work up the “p” in “perky.”
“Friday?” I close my eyes. Good, another week. I think I’m caught up on homework. I’m holding my own. “Wake me up when the bell rings?”
“Sure.” Clarice taps my head like I’m an orangutan dressed up like a teenage girl. She might not be far off.
I throw my book bag on the kitchen table and grab a glass, fill it with four ice cubes, ginger ale and a little cranberry juice, grab a bendy straw and a yogurt and glide toward the living room, where Dad’s propped up on a hospital bed they moved in so he won’t have to do stairs for a while. “Hi, Dad. How’s it going?”
This is our routine. I don’t ask how he is, because it’s clear he’s been better and he’s bored out of his mind.
He nods and takes the glass from me. “How was school?”
“Okay.” I peel back the lid of the yogurt and hand it to him.
He wants to argue about eating it. Nothing tastes good to him, but we’re supposed to get lots of little snacks into him until he feels like full meals again. I wait u
ntil he’s finished sipping the pop, then hand him the spoon. “Cherry,” I say. “Mom?”
“Napping. She went upstairs about ten minutes ago.” This too has become our routine.
I kick off my shoes and pull up a chair. “Who’s playing?”
“Marlins. You have homework?”
“I’ll get to it.”
He nods. “Why aren’t you working right now?”
I haven’t exactly told Dad I got fired. “Uh, I got fired.”
“Why?” He doesn’t react with the explosion I’m expecting. People in our family don’t get fired.
“I told a customer that he shouldn’t be eating donuts if he’d had a heart attack. He was on his way home from the hospital.”
“That’s all?”
Isn’t that enough? I nod.
“I got fired from my first job.”
“What happened?”
“I was working in a grocery store. I left early with friends and a delivery of ice cream didn’t get put away.”
“Really?” I’ve never heard this side of my dad.
He nods. “It melted. I had to clean it up and work another two months to pay for it, then I got fired.”
“Seriously?”
“You looking for another job?”
“Yeah, I’m hoping there’ll be something in today’s paper.” I can’t take time off. Mom’s counting on me. I know this. But she doesn’t know I know she needs me to. Secrets are so complicated.
“That’s good. Don’t worry about it.”
“You need anything?”
“I think I’ll just close my eyes for a while. You go get to your homework.”
“Want the TV on?”
“Yeah.”
I nod, but he’s not watching me. “Thanks. For, you know, telling me about the ice cream.”
“Stuff happens.” His eyes are already closed.
“Hi, hi. I’ve got dinner.” Heather lets herself in, carrying bags of deli food from the place my dad likes. This too is the new routine; every other day Heather brings dinner. On the off nights, I’m learning to warm things up and throw them together. The sad part is that my efforts are actually tastier than anything Mom’s ever made. “How’re you?” Heather asks me as I walk into the kitchen.
