The Thing About Leftovers

by C. C. Payne

  “It’s morning,” Dad said.

  I looked at my still-dark window; it didn’t look like morning.

  “Sunrise and sunset provide the best natural light for pictures,” Dad explained.

  “Well, why didn’t you pick sunset?” I asked. I mean, this was ridiculous.

  “The baby does better in the mornings,” Dad said.

  “Well, I do better in the evenings,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Yes, but you’re not a baby,” Dad said, shooting me a warning look. “So get dressed.”

  Dad does better in the evenings, too.

  • • •

  The photographer, Raul, was a bossy man with a ponytail. He arrived at our house and set up his camera near the big sycamore tree in our backyard, which was surrounded by red coralbells that Mom and I had planted together when I was six. “Perfect!” he announced. “Come! Come!” He motioned to us with one hand.

  Suzanne was put into position beneath the tree first. She held Baby Robert, who was still sleeping, in her arms.

  When that was done, Raul said, “Now the father,” and Dad stepped forward. When the three of them looked absolutely perfect, Raul said, “And the daughter.”

  “Stepdaughter,” I corrected, moving forward. I didn’t know why I’d said it; I guessed I was still mad and it was still too early in the morning.

  “Ah, I see,” Raul said seriously.

  For a while, Raul took pictures of all of us. When he finished, he looked up from his camera and said, “How about mother and child?”

  After that, Raul took pictures of just Suzanne and Baby Robert. “Beautiful,” Raul told Suzanne. “And now the three of you?”

  “Please?” Suzanne said.

  There was no question who Raul meant by “the three.” I knew who he meant and Dad did, too. In his defense, I have to say that Dad looked a little torn, a little sad-ish maybe, but still, he took his place under the sycamore with his new family.

  And that is how I ended up standing alone on the back porch, watching someone else’s family have their picture made, against an orange-sherbet-tinged-with-raspberry-sorbet sky, wishing I had never said “stepdaughter”—and wanting to pinch Baby Robert, just a little bitty bit, because he’d kept us all up most of the night, and now that we had to be up, he was sleeping like an angel.

  As I stood there breathing the scent of fresh mint that we’d planted next to the porch, I couldn’t help remembering all the Derby parties we’d had here. Mom had always served iced tea with sprigs of mint in them on that day—to make them special. Then I remembered that today was Derby Day. Not that it mattered. Anymore.

  After that, Suzanne asked Raul to take pictures of me alone.

  Why? I thought. I know I’m alone. I don’t need pictures of it.

  Something must’ve registered on my face, because Suzanne hurried to explain, “I thought a nice photo of you might make a good Christmas gift for you to give to your mom.”

  Right. Whatever, I thought, but I stepped off the porch and headed for the tree.

  • • •

  When we were done taking pictures, I went back to my room to change clothes. Then I sat down and made a list of all the people I was mad at:

  1)Suzanne

  2) Dad

  3)Aunt Liz

  4)Mom

  5)Keene

  6)Mrs. Ludwig

  Since it was already shaping up to be a bad day, and since I was already mad at him—so he might as well be mad at me, too—I decided to show my math quiz to Dad after lunch.

  “A D?” Dad said, taking off his reading glasses to give me his glare of disapproval in full force.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, “and I need you to sign it.”

  Dad put his reading glasses back on and looked over my paper some more. Finally, he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t sign off on work like this, Fizzy.”

  “But you have to,” I said, trying not to panic, trying not to think about how Keene Adams was going to have to teach me word problems when he could hardly stand to look at me.

  Dad held my paper out to me. “I’ll sign it when you correct it.”

  “But I don’t know how,” I pleaded.

  “Your teacher didn’t teach you how to do this?”

  “Ummmmm . . . she tried, I guess.”

  “And?”

  “Well . . . see, she has this hole in her leg—it’s really distracting . . .”

  It turned out that Dad couldn’t understand how a bullet hole in your math teacher’s leg could prevent you from learning word problems. But he could understand word problems. Actually, he was a word-problem whiz. The trick, Dad told me, was to underline the important words—the math words—and to ignore all the other unnecessary information.

  By Saturday evening, I was pretty good at word problems, too. I felt like I’d accomplished an impossible feat, like I’d mastered a foreign language in a single day—and I sort of had, because before today, to me, word problems had read something like this: At 4:00 p.m., Sally gets on a train traveling 35 miles per hour. She has three pencils and two pens. How many waffles can she make before polar bears become extinct? Answer: Pink. Because it doesn’t rain on Mars. But not anymore! When I brought my last practice paper downstairs for Dad to check, I found him sitting up on the couch, sound asleep. His head had lolled forward and his chin rested on his chest.

  I turned to go—back to my room.

  “Fizzy,” Dad said.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I said, even though you woke me up in the middle of the night, I thought.

  “You didn’t—I wasn’t sleeping—just resting my eyes,” Dad said, holding out his hand for my paper.

  I gave it to him and waited while he looked over each problem, pen poised, ready to make Xs.

  Without making a single mark, he gave the paper back. “Very good.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I was almost to the kitchen when Dad said, “By the way, Aunt Liz told me you wanted to come to the hospital when the baby was born and I appreciated that. But . . . Baby Robert was premature, so there were extra precautions and tests, and I had my hands full—with Suzanne and the baby in the hospital, Suzanne’s parents flying in from Virginia at the last minute and staying here, and my practice and patients still needing me.”

  I nodded my understanding: You were too busy with your perfect new family to be bothered with your old leftovers. Yep, got it.

  On Sunday, Dad dropped me off at Mom’s right after church so that I could attend Keene’s family reunion with him and Mom. I didn’t want to go, but since nobody had asked me, I figured I didn’t have a choice.

  Mom met me at the front door. “Hi, sweet pea,” she said, hugging me.

  “Hi.”

  “Did you have a nice weekend?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m glad. Listen, we’ll be leaving for the reunion in about an hour and you’ll want to change clothes—it’s just a backyard picnic.”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, and this came in the mail for you yesterday,” Mom said, grabbing a blue envelope off the table in the front hall.

  I took the envelope and immediately recognized Aunt Liz’s lovely, loopy handwriting on the front. I started for the stairs.

  “Don’t forget your suitcase,” Mom said helpfully.

  “Right. Wouldn’t want to leave anything out on the floor,” I muttered, “because it might remind somebody that I live here.”

  “Fizzy, I don’t like your tone,” Mom said.

  I plodded up the stairs, thinking, Just add it to my list.

  I closed my bedroom door behind me, plopped down on my bed, and tore open the envelope. There was a card inside. On the front was a picture of a sad dog looking out the window. Inside, the card read: I miss you. Lov
e, Aunt Liz

  Truthfully, I missed her, too. But then I imagined Aunt Liz giving me the tired look; my throat tightened and my nose stung. I decided not to think about Aunt Liz any more right now. I replaced the card in the envelope, dropped it into a drawer, and shut the drawer—quick.

  • • •

  Keene’s sister, Hadley, lived across town in a historical house with a big backyard. The yard was swarming with picnic tables, lawn chairs, and people—people I didn’t know. Oh, sure, I’d met a few of them at Mom’s wedding, but I didn’t really know them. I didn’t really want to know them, which turned out to be a good thing, because they didn’t seem like they wanted to know me either.

  Well, except for Hadley herself, who pinched my cheeks, hugged me, and told me I should call her Aunt Hadley in a voice so sugary, I could practically feel a cavity coming on.

  “Aucune possibilité,” I said, which meant “no chance” in French. Did I mention the woman actually pinched my cheeks? Also, she wore way too much perfume.

  “Oh! She’s bilingual!” Hadley gushed. “Fabulous!”

  Mom shot me a warning look.

  I ignored Mom and said to Hadley, “May I use your restroom?”

  In the bathroom, I tried—unsuccessfully—to wash the lingering scent of Hadley’s stinky perfume off me.

  I spent the rest of the time hidden under the long branches of a willow tree, sitting in a woven blue-and-white lawn chair that made the backs of my legs itch, reading a cookbook I’d borrowed from the kitchen. That is, until I heard my name.

  “. . . very sweet of Keene,” said a woman’s voice, oozing with sympathy, “to accept a child that isn’t his—he lets Fizzy live with them and everything.”

  I felt my whole head go hot, like someone had lit a fire under my chin. I was burning with anger and hurt and shame—not to mention stinky perfume—but mostly anger. I mean, for someone to actually say that Keene lets me live in my own home? I was there first! As far as I was concerned, it was very sweet of me to accept a man that wasn’t my father and let him live with me!

  I slammed my book shut, got up, and went looking for Mom.

  The closer I got to the grill, the more people I saw eating cheeseburgers. Then I spotted Mom, who was just about to take her first bite of one.

  I marched right up to her and blurted, “I need to go home.”

  Mom removed the cheeseburger from her mouth, set it down on her yellow plastic plate, and exchanged uh-oh looks with Keene.

  Uh-oh is right, I thought. I was prepared for an argument. In fact, I was prepared to repeat what I’d just heard, and not quietly.

  But I didn’t get an argument. Instead, Mom handed her plate to Keene, wiped her mouth, and said, “I just have to get my purse, okay?”

  Mom thanked Hadley for having us and told her that I wasn’t feeling well.

  Hadley gave me a pouty look and said, “Bless your wittle face.”

  I gave her the squinty eyes.

  • • •

  Keene stayed at the reunion while Mom and I went home.

  Once we were in the car, on our way, Mom said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said as a lone tear slipped out of my eye and streaked down my cheek. I swatted it away with the back of my hand.

  Mom nodded and kept her eyes on the road.

  By the time we arrived home, I understood that I truly was a guest in my own home. That the roof over my head wasn’t really mine, and that the man who considered it his was unrelated to me, not responsible for me, had no obligation to me, and didn’t love me—he’d said so himself. And people knew it, felt sorry for Keene, and thought he was “sweet” to tolerate me—sweet!

  Knowing this made me want to leave, but where else could I go? Maybe I could stay with Dad and Suzanne. Maybe poor Suzanne would be “sweet” and tolerate me. Maybe. But what if Suzanne wasn’t feeling so sweet? What if she was tired and cranky from all that awful colic? Or what if she let me move in, but then she got tired and cranky and changed her mind later?

  What if Keene changed his mind? Could I quit school, get a job and an apartment? I would do it now if I could—that really seemed like the best option for everybody—but I was pretty sure there were laws against it. So what if neither Keene nor Suzanne could stand me for one more second?

  Would I be . . . homeless? Sent to live with strangers in foster care, like Zach?

  I didn’t know, but I figured I’d better clean up my act. No more Ds. And no more Bs either. I had better start being perfect—like Miyoko.

  I guessed it was because we were alone in the house—for once!—that Mom finally decided to let me have my own sort of family reunion.

  I’d just crawled into bed when she came into my room, lugging a box marked Photo albums.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Mom set the box down on the floor and nodded at it. “Make a place for this in your closet or something—I don’t want them left lying around.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  But still, Mom stood there wringing her hands and looking worried.

  I sat up. “I understand that you don’t want Keene to see them. I’ll make a place for them right now.”

  Mom exhaled. “Thank you,” she said, and then she left, closing my door behind her.

  I worked for a solid hour, making room for the box in my closet. But before I slipped it into its new space, I pulled out an album and sat down on my bed with it.

  On the very first page was a photo of Mom, Dad, Gamma and Grampa Russo, Aunt Liz, Uncle Preston, and me, taken at our house on Christmas morning. It was the last Christmas morning we would all be together, but I’d had no idea and it showed: The ten-year-old girl in the snowflake pajamas bubbled over with joy. I actually remembered being her, feeling exactly the way she felt: full to bursting with the happiness of all my favorite people and foods and things. And then I realized I would never feel that way again.

  Suddenly, I felt like I was looking at a picture of dead people. And I sort of was, because none of us were the same people we’d been that day, especially not me.

  Below that was a shot of me gleefully opening a gift. Mom and Dad both faced me, but they looked at each other, smiling little secret smiles, the way they used to whenever I did something they enjoyed. With their eyes, they said to each other, Isn’t this great? Or, Isn’t our girl cute?—or funny?—or smart? Are you seeing this? Yes. Great. Cute. Funny. Smart.

  But Mom didn’t give Keene—or anybody else—those secret, knowing looks now. Keene surely didn’t give them to Mom. Dad and Suzanne didn’t share happy glances either—at least, not over me—maybe over Baby Robert. Apparently leftovers just aren’t that great or cute or funny or smart.

  I felt something wet on my shirt. It was only then that I realized I was crying. For that unsuspecting little girl in the snowflake pajamas. I felt as though I were watching her have the time of her life, in the middle of the street, with a big truck speeding straight at her. I wanted to warn her. And then I didn’t want to warn her. No, let her have her last bit of pure happiness, because there was no stopping that truck—it would hit her no matter what. And then she’d be gone.

  I put the albums away, crawled back into bed, and cried myself to sleep. I’m just tired, I thought over and over, and I promised myself I’d be better—stronger—when I woke up.

  But when I opened my eyes, nothing had changed, except that my room was dark and Genghis glowed an angry, red 8:42. I didn’t feel any better. I felt exactly the same. I couldn’t remember ever feeling worse than this. It was either cry—some more—or cook.

  I tiptoed to the bathroom, washed my face with cold water, wiped the counter and sink, and then folded the towel and hung it back up exactly the way it had been. Then I went downstairs and waited for a commercial. When one came, I plastered a smile on my face and said, “If yo
u’ll let me cook, I’ll make anything you want.”

  Mom looked at her watch.

  Keene said, “Anything?”

  Mom turned and gave him a look.

  “What?” Keene said. “She said ‘anything.’ And I’ve been craving pineapple upside-down cake all day—we usually have that at family reunions.”

  Before Mom could respond, I said, “One pineapple upside-down cake, coming right up!” and hurried into the kitchen.

  After I’d made the caramel, as I whisked flour, almonds, and baking powder, I felt myself relax, just a little.

  • • •

  Keene took one bite of the cake still warm from the oven and said, “Oh. Fizzy, you’re like an artist in the kitchen. This cake is a work of art. For the mouth.”

  I smiled a real smile.

  “Thank you,” Keene said like he meant it, like he was really glad that my cake and I were there.

  Note to self: More cakes and less mistakes.

  Chapter 31

  Over the next two weeks, I received a few more phone calls from Aunt Liz. I’d almost broken down and called her back, too, because I was in a weakened state—on the verge of tired-tears all the time—being perfect is exhausting work.

  I’d been getting up twenty minutes earlier every morning to make my bed and straighten my room before school. After school, I made cake. At night, I spent extra time on my homework and studied harder for tests. Plus, I cleaned the tub after I used it and tried to make the bathroom look like I’d never been there, because surely Keene wouldn’t mind having a guest he hardly noticed—a guest who made good cakes.

  But as tough as things were at home, they were a little better at school.

  Mrs. Ludwig had been wearing pants more often, so I wasn’t as distracted by the hole in her leg. My math grades improved, although I still made the occasional B.

  But today, I was having trouble concentrating on my math because Mara kept tapping me. I made a huffy sound and finally turned around.

  “Look,” Mara said, pushing back the hair around her ears. “I got new earrings.”