The Thing About Leftovers

by C. C. Payne

  Mom interrupted, “No, of course not, and he never will.”

  I told her about the woman I’d overheard at Keene’s family reunion, and how she’d gone on and on about how sweet Keene was to let me live with him, as though he’d made some sort of incredible sacrifice or something. “Am I really that terrible?” I asked. “So terrible that people just can’t imagine letting me hang around?”

  Mom didn’t answer me right away, so I turned to look at her.

  Her face was pinchy and angry. “Who said that? At the reunion, who said that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mom took a deep breath and looked at me. “Well, whoever she is, she obviously doesn’t know you—she obviously doesn’t know anything about anything.”

  It was true that we didn’t know each other and that did help a little.

  “Has Keene done anything to make you think he doesn’t want you?”

  I shrugged. “He hardly ever talks to me.”

  “Have you ever thought that maybe he’s just as scared as you are, just as afraid of making a mistake or saying something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, he is,” Mom said.

  Wow. I’d never thought of that, but it made sense, didn’t it? I mean, Keene didn’t usually say—or do—the right things.

  “We’re all a little nervous,” Mom said. “It’s just going to take some time for everybody to get used to living together—even me. It’ll get better, you’ll see.”

  “But it won’t be the same, will it?”

  “The same as what?”

  “The same as it was with Dad,” I said, and then I told her how I felt like I had lost an important grocery bag, the one with all the important ingredients. For my life.

  “It can be good, Fizzy, but it can never be the same. Because you haven’t been given substitutions for an old recipe; you’ve been given new ingredients for a whole new recipe, a new life.”

  “But I didn’t want a new life,” I told the box of tissues in my lap.

  “I know,” Mom said, putting her arm around me. “But life changes whether we want it to or not. No matter what. Life is change.”

  Yuck.

  Mom gave me a sympathetic little squeeze. “What about Suzanne?” she asked. “She doesn’t talk to you either?”

  “Huh? Oh. No, ma’am, she does.” I told my mom about the picture in the bedroom then.

  Mom thought about it and then finally admitted, “I’m sorry. I don’t know the answer to that one. I could understand if you hadn’t been there for the pictures, but . . .”

  I nodded.

  “But I do know your father well enough to know he feels the same way I do about family. And if Suzanne didn’t feel that way, too, he wouldn’t have married her. Trust him, okay?”

  I guessed I didn’t have any reason not to trust my dad.

  “And if the picture bothers you that much, then I think you should talk to your dad about it.”

  “Maybe.”

  Mom snapped her fingers. “I know exactly what we need.”

  “What?”

  “Brownie batter.”

  I couldn’t disagree.

  But room service disagreed—strongly. When Mom called them, they told her they absolutely could not, under any circumstances, bring us brownie batter, due to the raw eggs in it from which we might contract salmonella poisoning, for which they would be held responsible—in a court of law. Mom told them we’d settle for two warm brownies and some milk.

  Meanwhile, I disposed of all my snotty tissues, put the tissue box back in the bathroom, and washed my face with cold water—so the room service person would know that I was fine.

  Mom parked the room service cart at the end of a bed and pulled the desk chair up to one side. I sat down on the other side of the cart, on the edge of the bed. Once we were into our brownies, Mom ventured, “Anything else on your mind?”

  I shrugged. “I guess not.”

  “I’m not convinced,” Mom said, and she spooned warm brownie into her mouth.

  I put my spoon down. “It’s just that . . . you always say love means compromising.”

  Mom swallowed. “That’s right.”

  “But you aren’t compromising with me, Mom. I used to cook dinner all the time, and now I hardly ever get to. I used to watch TV with you, and now I never do—now you watch with Keene. I used to have lots of time with you, but now I never have any time with you.”

  Mom stopped eating and lowered her eyes while she thought about it. “You’re right,” she said sadly. “And I did notice you withdrawing to your room more and more . . . but I thought—hoped—it was just your age.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess . . . I guess I’m scared, too. I just want everything and everybody to be all right. But you aren’t.” She closed her eyes and shook her head in a way that made her seem . . . defeated.

  I felt bad then and sort of wished I hadn’t said those things.

  When Mom looked up at me, her eyes were pleading. “I wish you’d said something sooner, Fizzy. Why didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “You’re my mom.”

  “Yes . . . and?”

  “And I’m your daughter. I’m not supposed to question you or be disrespectful or rude—it’s not like I can just start taking out my earrings, you know?”

  “Taking out your earrings?” Mom repeated, looking confused. “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, that’s how you know when two girls are about to fight at school—one of them will start taking out her earrings.”

  “At LVMS?”

  “No, ma’am, I saw it at my old school. Once.”

  Mom thought about this, laughed a breathy little laugh, and shook her head. “Fizzy, I want you to keep your earrings on—always—and to be respectful, but more than that, I want to know what’s going on with you. I’d rather you talk to me than be polite to me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And you’re right about compromise: You should be allowed to do all of those things more often. I’ll work on it.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling a lot better all of a sudden—probably it was the chocolate.

  “See?” Mom said. “I’m not perfect. I’ve made some mistakes. Do you want me to move out of the house?”

  I smiled. “No, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure? Are you sure you can forgive me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I forgive you and I love you.”

  Mom smiled. “Of course you do, because that’s what families do.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “Anything else?”

  “I still want to take karate lessons,” I offered.

  “All right, I’ll call about karate lessons as soon as we get home. I promise. Is that all?”

  I searched my brain and found one last—bothersome—thing: “Miyoko’s mom is mean.”

  “To you?”

  “No, mostly to Miyoko.”

  Mom sighed. “Sweet pea, we all do the best we can for our children—even Miyoko’s mom—I’m sure she’s doing what she thinks is best for Miyoko.”

  “But it isn’t . . . best.”

  “If you’re sure about that, then remember her mistakes and try not to make the same ones when you’re a mother.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but I wish I could help Miyoko.”

  “You can, you do, just by being her friend and loving her.”

  That didn’t seem like enough.

  “Just remember, Fizzy, we all make mistakes, even when we’re trying our hardest and doing our very best.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After we’d finished our brownies and milk, Mom said, “Now go brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”

  I knew for sure then that I was still me, so I said, “I c
an’t believe the cook-off is over and I’m still just plain old freckle-faced Fizzy Russo, the leftover kid . . . who is nobody special at all!”

  Mom stopped pushing the room service cart and stood up straight. “Did you say ‘leftover’?”

  I hadn’t realized I’d said it, but I had. I nodded. Then I explained the thing about leftover spaghetti and leftover kids.

  Tears filled Mom’s eyes as she stood frozen and she was quiet for a good long while.

  Then she said, “I guess you are a kind of leftover, Fizzy, but you’re certainly not spaghetti. If you’re a leftover, then you’re lasagna. You get better every day. You learn every day—sometimes by making mistakes—and you get better.”

  It’s true that lasagna gets better every day that it sits in the fridge. I have no idea how or why this works, but it does. Even so, I had never considered lasagna leftovers; I thought of “refrigerate for twenty-four hours” more like the last step in the process of making really excellent lasagna. But I guessed that twenty-four hours in the refrigerator technically made anything leftovers—even lasagna. Who knew?

  Mom continued, “Think about it, Fizzy. Just a year ago, you were merely experimenting with our dinners, and today you are a Southern Living Cook-Off winner.”

  I nodded.

  Mom sat down beside me on the edge of the bed and covered my hand with hers. “But none of that has anything to do with how much I love you or why,” she said. “Fizzy, I love you just because you’re mine. You don’t have to do anything to earn it. It just is . . . it always will be. Okay?”

  Relieved, I exhaled and said, “Okay.”

  Mom smiled, patted my hand, and stood. “Go get ready for bed now.”

  I thought about what Mom had said and couldn’t help wondering if the reason Keene didn’t love me was just because I wasn’t his—because that wouldn’t be my fault—right? That’s what I was thinking as I rooted around in my bathroom bag, looking for toothpaste. When I came across a big, black plastic spider, I plucked it out and held it. Did Suzanne love me a little bit? Even though I wasn’t hers? I thought she might, and not in a way that was forced—by Dad. I thought Suzanne might actually love me, all on her own, just because she found me . . . lovable. It was hard to believe, but . . . if true, then . . .

  Maybe, in time, Keene would love me, too. And if he didn’t, well, that probably wouldn’t be my fault—and that’s what’s important.

  Chapter 39

  On the last Sunday of summer vacation, I was at Dad’s, holding Baby Robert and humming his favorite lullaby, “Nenneko yo.”

  Now that Baby Robert was past all that awful colic, he was happy. He always smiled with pure delight when he saw me—like when Aunt Liz sees me. With Baby Robert, there was no question that I belonged; he made me feel like part of the family—an important part of the family. I loved him for that, and for his cheerful chirpy sounds, his warm, sweet baby smell, his fat pink cheeks. I just loved him.

  Dad took Baby Robert from my arms and I let him—even though I didn’t really want to—while Suzanne continued to clear our dishes from the table. Then he sent me upstairs to collect my suitcase and stuff.

  I did as I was told, but on my way back down, I stopped in Dad and Suzanne’s bedroom. As I stood there looking at the picture of Dad, Suzanne, and Baby Robert, I decided once and for all not to ask Dad about it. I’d given it a lot of thought: What did I hope to get out of it? What could Dad do or say to make me feel better? Nothing. I mean, if having a picture of the three of them—the three people who lived in their house and were part of their family every day—made Dad and Suzanne happy, then I wanted them to have the picture. I wanted them to be happy, because I love them. Both of them.

  But even if I hadn’t cared about their happiness, making them take down the picture wouldn’t change the reason they put it up in the first place. It wouldn’t change who I am or how they feel about me or the way I feel about them any more than winning a cooking contest had—which is not at all. I mean, if Dad and Suzanne love Baby Robert way more than they love me, there isn’t much I can do about that, is there? Besides, I could understand: Baby Robert really is the best thing since cupcakes.

  I guessed I could’ve asked Dad about this, but I really didn’t want to know for sure that he loves Baby Robert more than me. And if he said he didn’t, would I believe him? I mean, what kind of parent tells you he loves your brother way more than he loves you?

  That’s what I was thinking when Dad snuck up behind me and cleared his throat to announce himself.

  I lowered my head, feeling somehow ashamed that I’d been caught looking at the picture.

  Dad placed a warm hand on each of my shoulders and said, “Sometimes, when you love somebody, and you know they love you, you let little things pass.”

  I nodded at the rug.

  “Suzanne said she didn’t see the point of buying and hanging two identical photos any more than she would see the point of buying and hanging two identical paintings in the house.”

  I thought about this.

  Again, Dad said, “Sometimes, when you love somebody and you know they love you, you let little things pass. You know we love you, right?”

  I decided to let it pass. I wasn’t going to think about it anymore. I really wasn’t. Because family doesn’t keep score, which is why I also tore all Suzanne- and Keene-related lists out of my journal and threw them away—because they’re family.

  • • •

  On the way home, Dad stopped and took me shopping for school supplies. Now, there is a big difference between shopping with my mom and shopping with my dad. Mom is practical. She wants things that are well made and built to last. But Dad just wants to be done. So he didn’t inspect the things I picked out. He barely even looked at them. Instead, he just kept saying, “Put it in the cart.” And that is how I got the coolest school supplies ever!

  Keene was out of town on business, but I told him about my supplies when he called, and he sounded happy for me. Then he asked where my shoes were.

  I panicked as I tried to think: Were they by the front door? Again?

  “Fizzy—” Keene started, but I interrupted him.

  “Keep your earrings on,” I said. “I’ll put them away as soon as I hang up.”

  Keene chuckled. Mom and I say “keep your earrings on” all the time now—instead of “keep your panties on” or “calm down”—and Keene is in on the joke.

  I put all of my shoes away as soon as we hung up.

  After that, Zach called to say he was having a campfire in his backyard tonight and there would be roasted hot dogs and s’mores. He wanted to know if I could come.

  “Is Miyoko coming?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Like who?”

  “Like . . . I don’t know . . . Buffy Lawson?” I teased.

  “Fizzy, I gave you an alarm clock,” Zach said, as if “alarm clock” and “engagement ring” meant exactly the same thing.

  I smiled and said, “I bet you give alarm clocks to all the girls.”

  “Just you,” Zach said.

  I agreed to come, so long as Zach agreed not to build the campfire without me. I’ve learned lots of fire-building techniques from Survivor Steve, and I figured this was my big chance to try some of them out.

  Keene, Mom, and I watch Survivor Steve together now. According to Survivor Steve, I’m a survivor, too, because I accept change, adapt to it, and move forward—quickly—and I’m getting better at it.

  Even Mom seems to recognize this. She let me buy my own phone with some of my cook-off winnings because she said that I’d already learned to accept that I can’t always get what I want “in other ways.” I also bought two pairs of designer jeans and some new flannel shirts. But Mom wouldn’t let me buy any—mini-miracle—makeup. She said that I’m still too young for makeup and that I
don’t need it. So, the rest of the money went into a college fund for me—which, of course, is really a culinary school fund—but I’ve accepted, adapted, and moved forward. I now think of college as the code word for “culinary school.”

  So, for the most part, things are pretty good. I cook dinner twice a week, and Mom and I do the grocery shopping—just the two of us—every other Saturday morning. Granted, though, the ugly, puke-green recliner is still in our living room and I still hate it. But maybe it’ll grow on me—or match something someday. Things change.

  Even I change. I actually like leftovers now. I’ve liked them ever since I discovered this website where I can type in all the ingredients I have—leftovers—and then it spits out all the new meals I can make with them. Some of the best, most beautiful meals I’ve created lately have been leftovers! Yesterday, for example, I chopped up our leftover chicken and made the best chicken salad in chicken-salad history, with diced pickles and grapes, which are the perfect balance of sweet and sour—who would’ve guessed?—and toasted slivered almonds to add a crunchy texture! And I love brussels sprouts—when they’re tossed in olive oil, garlic, and spicy mustard, roasted until crisp, and then salted—they’re best salty and hot, like French fries.

  When I’m happy, I try to really pay attention, because things are bound to change. When I’m unhappy, I try to wait it out, because things are bound to change.

  But at all times, I try to keep my list of Notes to Self in mind:

  1)Church shoes are important to Dad, too—remember them—nobody likes Sunday sneakers!

  2)Chewing gum is not only unattractive, it’s dangerous!

  3)When you’re scared, don’t talk—you’ll probably say something obnoxious.

  4)It’s never smart to mess with a girl who has a pimple with an eyeball—or her friends.

  5)Everybody else is too worried about their own Ogles to notice yours. Probably.

  6)Suitcases don’t have to say, “My family is a big, broken mess and so am I!” They can also say, “I am a totally normal person who has friends, and I’m sleeping over with one of them! Yay!”

  7)Makeup is a mini-miracle. Get some. (As soon as you turn sixteen, Mom says.)