by Liza Palmer
Also by Liza Palmer
Seeing Me Naked
Conversations with the Fat Girl
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Liza Palmer
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: December 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-55828-0
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
Epilogue
About the Author
For Alex
acknowledgments
I am the proud owner of a very special dog with very special needs. Recently I realized that—not unlike how dog owners start physically resembling their dogs—I am very similar to Poet in many very special ways.
My epiphany came when I realized that it was the care and feeding I received as a child from a very special mother that made me the moderately functioning person I am today. Another set of parents and… well, I’d be out in the back biting some wooden fence in the rain. Looking back on my childhood, I think there should be a Nobel Prize for Parenting.
The people that follow are the village it took to turn me from the idiot who gleefully dwelled within its walls ignorant of the stories I had to tell.
Thank you to my family: Mom, Don, Alex, Joe, Bonnie and Zoë. Christmas mornings with cowboy breakfasts and television yule logs are memories I hold near and dear to my heart.
Thank you to Megan Crane, Jane Porter and Paz Stark: the three women who had the unfortunate task of reading the first drafts of this book. Your dear friendships are something I treasure—until you say my writing sucks, then… we’ll just play it by ear.
Thank you to Kerri Wood-Einertson: my shiny penny of a friend—and to her family—Siena (the milk of human kindness) and Erik (thank you for the inside dish on corporate America).
Thank you to Christy Fletcher: for talking me off ledges and giving me a reason to buy little pink baby shoes. Thank you also to the amazing team at Fletcher and Company—a truly class act of an agency.
Thank you to Caryn Karmatz Rudy: the bestest editor a girl could have. I mean—I think she may have a bone to pick with a few of my English teachers growing up, but… I’m sure it was them and not, you know, my… uh… lack of educational… ahem… okay, I was a horrible student and now poor Caryn is paying the price. There. I said it.
Thank you to Araminta, Sara and Isobel: another dinner of unexplainable cocktails is definitely in order—followed, of course, by a trip to Wagamama.
Thank you to Marissa Devins and Howie Sanders at UTA for everything they’ve done… it’s exhilarating just having agents in the same part of the country.
Thank you to James Newton Howard for writing “The Healing” off the Lady in the Water soundtrack—final tally, I listened to your song 460 times during the writing of this novel. Genius.
Thank you to Lyn Nierva at Auntie Momo Web Designs for an awesome website.
Thank you to Kim Resendiz and posse, Lynn and Rich Silton, Bill Gallagher, Juanita Espino, Judy Kelly, Henry Glowa, Norm Freed, Michelle Rowen, Levi Nuñez, Kristin Harmel, Carrie Cogbill, Larry, Ricca, Matthew and Adam Wolff, Peter Riherd, the Bad Girls’ Bookclub, Marilyn Marino, Phoebe and Dave Einertson, Pauline Callahan, Nita Millstein at the Peach Café (more her Belgian waffles, but…), Susan and Tim and finally the staff at the Starbucks for putting up with me hour after hour after hour after hour after hour…
And my mom wants me to thank her dogs—Lulu, Leo and Roxy—because “when they read the book their feelings will be hurt if they’re not mentioned.”
“I’m fractured from the fall, and I want to go home.”
—Ryan Adams from Two
Once upon a time we were a family.
chapter one
Aaaand to the left,” Tim instructs, bending over his outstretched leg. His salt-and-pepper curls, now soaked from the torrent of rain, dribble down over his forehead. I pull my hood tightly around my head and can’t help fearing I resemble a giant sperm. Just the professional message I want to send. I look at all the members of Tim’s team following his every move. This Fun Run was optional—the brownie points, however, were too good an opportunity to pass up. Tim Barnes is a name partner at Marovish, Marino and Barnes and, in their eyes, not a man to disappoint. To me, he’s the man I’ve been dating for several months and am confident have already disappointed on a far more personal level. Tim leads his entire group of sodden money managers down into the deep stretch.
Something about being ordered to bend left makes me want to bend to the right. I let out a sigh as I envision the chaos that could result from such a rebellion. Tim shoots me a look of deep concern. Apparently, I’m not taking this “stretching circle” as seriously as he’d hoped. It’s a 5K, honey, we’re not carrying the Olympic torch. I press out a smile and lean slightly to the left. Tim softens, smiling to himself as we all are finally able to bend to the right.
With my head to my right knee, I feel the vibration of my BlackBerry in my pocket. I’m surprised the damn thing still works, considering how sopping wet my entire body is. I let it go to voice mail as our group is allowed to return to a standing position. We all start walking toward the now deflated red-green-and-white balloon arch that stretches languidly across Santa Monica’s Ocean Avenue, marking the beginning of the star-crossed Fun Run.
“Are you one hundred percent, Grace?” Tim asks as we approach the starting line. Even after several months of dating, far beyond the time we could credibly keep the relationship a secret from our coworkers, his voice still drops when he says my name.
“I’m just not awake yet,” I say, grabbing my ankle behind me and stretching one leg and then the other, like this will somehow show a higher level of commitment. My BlackBerry vibrates again. I let it go to voice mail, shaking it off… get your head in the game, Grace. The rain and the wind are now whipping sideways. No hood in the world can stop them from stinging every inch of my face. That and I feel suddenly compelled to run toward some giant ovum I know is waiting for me at the end of this race. Resigned, I pull the hood off and let the rain fall.
As the crowd settles in behind the me
lancholy, sagging balloon arch, I pull my BlackBerry out of my pocket, trying to shield it from the rain, and listen to the messages.
“Grace, it’s Abigail. Dad’s had a stroke. It’s time to grow up and join the family again. I’m serious. Call me back.”
No. This cannot be. My stomach drops. My legs feel numb, my fingers waggle around the keypad, fumbling with threes and ones, unable to stop atom bomb number two from playing.
“Grace—Abigail again. I will keep calling. And I won’t stop like I did when Mom died. Like we all did before. Not going to happen. We need you. This family needs you. Call me back. Talk to you in another ten minutes wh—” I finally control my digits enough to successfully stop the message from continuing. This is not possible. I simply can’t let it be.
I turn my face back to the group as the announcer cuts in, “Welcome to the Winter Fun Run!” Tim motions for me to fall in with the rest of the crowd. I oblige, but can’t focus. The messages. I’m not surprised it’s Abigail who’s urgently summoning me now—about Dad, of all things. It’s been—well, since Mom died, so, almost five years since I’ve spoken to her or either of my brothers. When I pictured reconnecting, it wasn’t over a man who was no father to us when he was healthy and certainly doesn’t deserve that distinction now.
The announcer continues, “Runners! Phase One! Phase One are the runners who will finish the 5K in eight minutes or less! Please approach the starting gate! Phase One! Runners who will finish in eight minutes or less!” I get as far away from Phase One as is humanly possible. Tim and two of his hangers-on leap forward.
“Is this your first?” asks an older woman holding an umbrella. Could her umbrella possibly be aerodynamic?
“Oh… yeah,” I answer, hopping up and down trying to keep warm. Concentrate. All I can picture is Tim and his cadre of ass-kissers getting trampled by the legitimate Phase Oners when the starting gun sounds.
“Me and my husband are getting ready for the LA Marathon in March. He’s running the half-marathon today, but I’m not there yet,” she adds, motioning to the steadily approaching herd of runners who are waiting their turn. Wait… twenty-six miles?
“The LA Marathon?” I ask as the announcer tells Phase Two to approach the starting gate. Phase Two are the people who will be finishing the 5K in twelve minutes or less. I take yet another step back.
“I walked it. Took eight hours, but I finished,” the woman exalts.
“That’s awesome,” I say, absently.
“The rain’s nice,” the woman adds. My normally straight blonde hair is hanging in spaghetti-like tendrils around my shoulders and I’m sure my face has the pallor of a long-term shut-in’s. Is this woman retarded?
“Phase Three! Runners who will finish the 5K… well, runners who just plan on finishing! Phase Three!” I wave at the umbrella-ed marathon machine with a forced “Good luck!” and approach the starting gate shaking my frozen legs out one at a time. Get my head in the game. I can’t… I still can’t focus. The vibrating reminder on my BlackBerry indicating I have yet another message is driving me slowly insane. It hasn’t even been ten minutes.
“On your mark! Get set! Go!!!!” My mind clears. My legs start moving. My breathing steadies.
The rain is nice.
Thirty-two minutes, twenty-seven seconds and six messages from Abigail later, the drenched volunteer cuts the time chip from my shoelaces. I find the group after being presented with my little medal and a complimentary bottle of water.
“I pulled a groin muscle,” Tim announces to all who will listen. No medal. No complimentary water.
“You gave it your best,” a particularly buxom money manager oozes.
“Thanks, Laura,” Tim replies politely.
As I down my complimentary water, I can’t help but marvel at the hardest-working sports bra in the Los Angeles area. That Fun Run couldn’t have been easy on it. Laura takes this opportunity to shoot me a particularly pointed look. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and sigh—taking Tim’s hand in the process. He pulls me close. Laura crosses, or at least attempts to cross, her arms across her chest. As one of the lowly mathematicians at the firm, I’m technically not even supposed to be here. This Fun Run was for money managers, not for us quants who formulate the models and earnings reports for the money they manage. It’s because of my relationship with Tim that I’m here. And everyone knows it. Laura looks away.
I’ve grown accustomed to Tim’s iconic heartthrob status with the women at the firm. Our relationship seems to have zero impact on this phenomenon. Suits me fine. The few times I’ve sat among Tim’s harem in the break room, I’ve been tempted to stick stale donuts in my ears just to make their cloying voices stop.
“You’re going to have to share that medal,” Tim jokes, as we walk to his car later.
“Absolutely,” I answer, reaching up to his sopping wet face and smoothing a rogue salt-and-pepper curl down with the rest. He smiles and walks back to the trunk of his car. He pulls two large towels out, passes me one and folds into the driver’s side. I take the towel and can’t help pulling my BlackBerry out of my pocket. Six missed calls. All Abigail. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. I shove the phone back in my pocket and look up, letting the rain sting my face. I pull my hoodie tight, set the towel down on Tim’s leather interior and climb into the passenger side. We follow the caravan of luxury sedans to the predetermined Noah’s Bagels right next to the freeway on-ramp in nearby Westwood.
As we drive, Abigail’s messages become this echoing symphony somewhere deep in my consciousness—like I’m standing on the street outside an opera house listening to the faint music. By the time we find a parking space, my brain has already processed and compartmentalized the information in an almost Chutes and Ladders type of way—sending her voice down, down, down—through a trapdoor and into the depths, out of reach. After five years of tamping, repressing and numbing, I have it down to an exact science. Not even Abigail can pry that trapdoor open. Not even Abigail can make me buy a ticket and hear that opera live.
Maybe this is an evolution. Maybe time does heal all wounds. Maybe now I can move on and somehow forget that I’ve lost my mom. It’s been difficult, but I’ve managed to put it away for five years now, split in two like a magician’s assistant without that whole other part of me: past, history, family.
Maybe I’ve come to terms with things? Or maybe I’ve finally snapped and completely shut down every emotional response I ever possessed? Whatever the truth is, Abigail’s relentless calling means I’m about to find out.
chapter two
Can I help you?” the man behind the counter says.
“I’ll have a plain bagel with lox and cream cheese, please. And a large coffee,” Tim says, handing the man a twenty-dollar bill.
The man turns to me. “Can I help you?”
“This is for both of us,” Tim adds, motioning at the twenty-dollar bill.
“I’ll have a blueberry bagel with just really light… like super-light cream cheese—” I say, making a bizarre sweeping hand motion. Apparently, this is now the international gesture for “schmear.” “And a… what black teas do you h… okay, the Earl Grey.”
My BlackBerry buzzes again.
“They’re just going to keep calling,” Tim points out. I didn’t even know he noticed. Tim takes his change. I pull my BlackBerry out as the man behind the counter hands me a large cup and an Earl Grey tea bag.
“It might be important,” Tim urges, squeezing my shoulder. The BlackBerry buzzes again. The man behind the counter points me in the direction of the hot water. In a haze, I check the caller ID. The phone buzzes again. I look back at Tim. He nods at it emphatically.
“You really should get that.” Easy for you to say, I think. You’re not the one about to vomit in public. The phone buzzes again. A chill runs up my spine as I check the caller ID. Abigail’s sent in the Closer.
“Hello?”
“Grace.” Huston. My big brother. Without Abigail in my life, I quickly
realized I couldn’t fold a bedsheet by myself or do much of anything practical. Fine, no one need see the pandemonium that lurks within my linen closet. But with no Huston, it was worse. Without Huston, I couldn’t believe in heroes.
“I know, okay?” I sputter, finally stepping out of the line, clutching my large cup and eyeing that hot water like it was the North Star.
“You know about what?” Huston presses.
“I know about Dad. The stroke,” I say as the activity of Noah’s Bagels buzzes around me. Tim looks over. A look of genuine concern sweeps across his face.
“Abigail says you won’t take her calls,” Huston accuses.
Huston’s voice cuts through a chink in my armor. I can feel the tip of the sword sinking in deeper and deeper. Noah’s Bagels melts away. It seems like only twenty minutes ago, not twenty years, it was just the four of us sitting around a game of Sorry!, absorbed in what we were certain were the important issues of the day. Abigail’s voice cuts through the din.
“Grace isn’t going to do her own laundry! She’ll just wear my stuff! And then I won’t be able to wear it anymore because she stains everything!” Abigail yells at Huston.
Mom is at the flower shop. She’s their main floral designer and it’s the holidays. So we’re on our own.
“Gracie…” Huston begins, looking up from the Sorry! game we’ve stopped playing. Leo takes a drink of his milk, annoyed with our chronic bickering intermissions. It’s a testament to not being allowed to watch television that we’re still playing these afternoon Sorry! games at ages ranging from Huston’s sixteen years old to Leo’s arguably more age-appropriate eleven. I’m always yellow. Huston is always blue. Abigail is red. Leaving Leo with green. He says it’s his favorite color, but once I caught him playing Sorry! with a group of neighborhood kids. He snatched up the red pieces like they were gold… well, red doubloons.
“I don’t have to do laundry if I don’t want to! Leo doesn’t have to do his laundry!” I retort.
