Anyway. I turned on some Bruno Mars to cheer myself up, as he never failed me. Sorry thinking about you makes me sad, Frankie.
I went into the courtyard. I snipped some parsley and pinched off the basil blossoms so the leaves wouldn’t get bitter. Pulled a few weeds, picked some zinnias to put in a jar, one bouquet for me, one for Georgia.
Georgia, who was looking so thin these days. Thinner than I’d ever been.
That’s the first thing you think of when you see another woman, isn’t it? Is she skinnier than I am? For a long time, I was the least obese of our little threesome.
Not anymore. When we’d gone out to Hudson’s that night, I had to struggle not to envy Georgia’s smallness, even knowing how she’d come to it: a possible ulcer and the stress over Mason, combined with the eating disorder she’d fought with for years—skipping meals, purging, manic exercise. She’d never gotten skinny enough to meet the criteria for true anorexia, but she’d had all of the demons.
So Georgia was getting thinner, hopefully not because of an ulcer but because of my excellent meals, though to the best of my knowledge, she still hadn’t seen a doctor. Emerson was dead. I was the fat one now, even though I’d done an hour of cardio this morning, followed by an hour of yoga. Still fat. There was no getting around it. And there was no avoiding the fact that I would have loved to be Georgia’s weight right now. Size matters, as much as you don’t want it to.
But while Georgia struggled with food, thanks to her skeletal mother, I loved it. Food was family. I couldn’t divorce food. My mom had taught me to cook, and nothing made me feel as calm and loving as being in the kitchen. I was so glad I’d found a way to make cooking a career. It was Georgia’s ex, the wonderful Rafe, who’d really given me the kick I needed, hiring me as a line chef at his restaurant though I had no experience, telling me which classes would help me. I adored Rafe. There’s something incredibly appealing about a man who’s smitten with his woman. Back then, he couldn’t look away from her, and he touched her constantly. His voice was different when he talked to her, and his eyes always grew soft when she walked into a room.
It broke my heart when they split up. But as I didn’t talk about Frankie, Georgia didn’t talk about Rafe, and I respected that (mostly).
She still loved him. She hadn’t been the same since their divorce. Or no, that was wrong. She went back to being the same. For a little while, though, she’d been someone different, back when they were dating. She’d reminded me of an orchid—their leaves dull and unremarkable, the buds clenched tight for months. But when those buds open up, there’s no more beautiful flower in the world.
Georgia had been like that with Rafe. He’d been the eastern sun, and she opened in the warmth of his love.
Le sigh.
These days, she was back to being a tight little ball.
Le poop.
Well, I had work to do. Seeing my pale sheets of dough come out of the pasta maker in thin strips of linguine, breathing in the smell of basil and lemon . . . I just didn’t understand people who didn’t like to cook. I was grateful to them, since they were my living, but I didn’t get it. Georgia had eaten out of cartons (or not eaten at all) until I moved here. She and Will Harding had been my first clients.
And Emerson . . . God knew what she had eaten.
I should’ve known Emerson was getting worse. I should’ve sensed it.
I hadn’t known Frankie was so sick, either. Granted, we had only been four years old, but you’d think a twin would pick up on these things.
The timer rang, thank God. I turned the heat off under the chicken, laid ten portobello mushrooms on the grill and drizzled them with olive oil, then got out the Bibb lettuce I’d bought at the farmers’ market this morning, so sweet and crisp I could’ve eaten an entire head of it. As it was, I ripped off a few leaves and ate them, the crunch of the lettuce perfect, the smell clean and fresh.
I wished I could’ve saved Emerson. I wished I could’ve given some of my fat and strength to Frankie. I wished I didn’t have to make up for all that Frankie didn’t get to do.
It wasn’t always easy, being the twin who didn’t die.
Now there was this list, and the challenge of going for it, even weighing what I weighed. I’d already checked off two of them—my (personal) photo shoot, and getting a cute guy to buy me a drink.
And yes, I’d gone home with Camden. Drove him home, because he’d been tipsy. He lived in New Rochelle, mind you. That was forty minutes each way.
I’d offered to let him “crash” at my place, but he said he had something to do the next morning. And so, yep, I did the good-friend thing. He fell asleep on the way there, his head against the passenger seat window, and I put my hand on his knee.
The longing to be part of a pair had wrapped around me hard in that moment. I won’t lie. I needed another half.
When we got to his apartment, I tucked him in, put the trash can next to his bed in case he barfed, left a glass of water on the night table and then left.
Seems I’d been downgraded from friend with bennies to designated driver.
That being said, I did get a really cute selfie of the two of us at Hudson’s, and yes, I posted it on Instagram. Out with New York’s Bravest! I’d captioned it. Dante saved the picture from being too romantic by photobombing, bless him. Otherwise, it might’ve seemed like I was trying too hard.
Pause for laughter. I could’ve probably gotten Mark Watney off Mars with the same amount of energy I’d put into being entertaining without being a comedian/friendly but not hitting on/ letting him know you like him/but totally understanding if it’s not the right time.
All that to drive him home and tuck him in.
I’d been in love for five years, and this was what I got. It was getting old. I was getting old. Older, anyway. It wasn’t cute anymore.
Next time, I swore, I’d just tell him. I want to be your girlfriend. I’m enough that you want to sleep with me—now be with me. We can at least try it.
I could do that. Sure.
* * *
• • •
That evening, I made my rounds, evading the Levinsons’ Great Pyrenees dog, who always wanted to molest, drool on and shed on me, making me appreciate Admiral all the more for his extreme politeness, short fur and well-behaved salivary glands. At the Putneys’ house, I rearranged the stuff in their fridge and wiped down their counters, since they were slobs and I couldn’t bear to picture my excellent food on sticky counters.
At the next stop, I chatted with Nellie Ames, a sweet old lady whose grown children hired me to make sure she didn’t subsist on Lucky Charms and Kit Kat bars alone. Though it wasn’t in my job description, I tidied her living room and fed the cats, then showed her how to text her great-granddaughter. (Sorry, kid.) Finally, I kissed her soft, wrinkled cheek and said good-bye.
“You’re wonderful!” she crowed, texting away with her gnarled forefinger.
The last delivery of the evening was Will Harding. If we had our usual three-word exchange, I’d be on time at Mom’s and avoid either a speeding ticket and/or a full-blown Amber Alert.
He was waiting by the door, like . . . well, like a serial killer. As usual, he was dressed in completely unremarkable clothes: khakis and a button-down shirt. He was a plain-looking guy, saved from being completely forgettable by his hair, which stuck up in odd places and gave him a sort of tousled, Jason-Bateman-if-he-played-a-serial-killer vibe.
“Hi!” I said, always exuding more energy with him, the human black hole. “Homemade linguine with basil, asparagus and chicken. The butter sauce is in this container; if you keep it in the fridge, it’ll solidify, so just toss it in a frying pan for a couple minutes if it does. I didn’t want to pour it on too soon or the asparagus will get soggy. Tomorrow’s lunch is that Asian noodle salad you like. I included a side of arugula, too. It’s good for you. Dark leafy greens, you know?”
Will just stood there.
May kill people in his spare time.
“Okay,” I said. “I have to run. Maybe you can pay me tomorrow?”
“I would like to pay you now.”
I glanced at my watch. “Fine.”
He went into the next room and took the checkbook out. Slowly wrote me my check. Slowly came back into the kitchen. My keys were already in my hand.
He didn’t hand me the check.
“I’ll just take that, then,” I said.
“I have a favor to ask,” he said, still not handing over the check. Instead, he looked steadily at my chin.
“Okay. Go ahead.”
“Two weeks from Tuesday, would you make something that’s not on your menu?”
“Sure. Can I call you tomorrow about it?”
“I’d like orange beef teriyaki. The Chinese kind.”
I suppressed a sigh. “You bet.”
“In the brown sauce. The rice should be sticky.”
“I’m sure I can make that. But, Will, I have to leave now. My family has an event.”
“Also, would you . . .” He broke off.
“Would I what?”
“Would you make enough for two?”
“Of course.” My portions could always serve two, but I’d double it. I held out my hand for the check.
“And would you stay and eat with me?”
I couldn’t help twitching in surprise. “Oh! Um . . . uh, what day again?”
“Two weeks from Tuesday,” he said. “Are you free?”
“I don’t know. Um, I really do have to—”
“Would you check? I imagine your calendar updates to your phone.”
He was right, of course, but I could practically hear my mother wringing her hands. “I’m old school,” I lied. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He looked down. “Fine.”
It occurred to me that I had never seen Will Harding smile. I had never seen him have any expression, really, just that same face, a little tense. It was possible that he had Asperger’s, maybe, not that I knew about those things.
He had never asked me to make dinner for two.
It occurred to me that he might be a little . . . lonely.
“I’m free,” I found myself saying. “I’m almost positive. I’ll see you tomorrow. Now, I have to leave, or my mother will call the police.”
“Thank you,” he said, finally handing me the check. “Good-bye.”
Traffic was not great. I clenched the wheel, zipping around slow, non-native New Yorkers, and walked into my parents’ house at 6:33, just three minutes late.
“Where have you been?” Mom asked. “She’s here, everyone! Finally. We were so worried.”
“Hi, Ma,” I said, kissing her cheek. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hello, muffin,” Dad said, giving me a hug. “How’s my girl?”
“Just fine,” I said. I put my food contribution—a salad—on the counter.
“You said you’d be here at six thirty,” Mom said.
I ignored her and made the rounds, hugging Dante and Louis, who were holding hands on the couch in their newlywed bliss. “So good to see you the other night,” Louis said. “Did you have fun?”
“So much fun,” I lied. “I’d never seen that video of Dante before. Very exciting.”
“Which video of Dante?” Mom asked.
“Something about him rescuing a little girl?” I winked at the boys.
“Of course you’ve seen it! We had a screening party here! I was going to put it on later so we could watch it again.”
“I was being sarcastic, Ma. I have it memorized. It’s burned on my soul.”
“Well, it should be. Not everyone gets to save a baby like that.” Her voice got choked up as she gazed with puppy eyes at her son.
“Hey, Eva,” I said, patting my sister on the shoulder. She wasn’t the hugging type, which made her a freak in our family.
“You’re late,” my sister said, looking up from her phone.
“A hundred and eighty seconds.”
“Sinner.”
“I hope dinner’s not too cold,” Mom said. “I was hoping to eat at six thirty, and now it’s six thirty-seven.”
“Can I at least change out of my work clothes?” I asked.
“No. Here’s your wine.” She pushed a glass into my hand. “Come on, everyone.”
The boys got off the couch, and Dad came into the living room so we could toast Frankie.
Her pictures were fading. Maybe Eva, who did something complicated and brilliant in the computer world, could scan them and pop the color up a little.
I hated this ritual. Hated it and participated in it every time I was here, which was really far too often.
Even in pictures, you could tell Frankie was failing to thrive. Too small, too delicate, too pale. I looked at Ebbers the Penguin, his flat black eyes filled with judgment.
For a second, I almost remembered the feeling of Ebbers between us on the nights when I slipped into Frankie’s bed. Or maybe that was just my wistful hope—to have a memory of Frankie that was more than a story I’d been told.
“To our beautiful Francesca,” Mom said, her voice quivering. “We miss you, angel. We love you.”
“We miss you, Frankie,” we all echoed, even Dante and Louis, who’d never met her. Eva was stone-faced. We had never talked about Frankie, she and I. Not once.
In an Italian family, you talked about everything except what really mattered.
I chugged my wine, and we trooped into the dining room. Mom wiped her eyes, and Dad gave her a hug and kissed her temple. My parents held hands wherever they went. In some ways, Frankie’s loss made them into just one person, like two trees that had grown into each other over the years, wrapping around and protecting each other.
I tried to picture Camden here, as my other half. He’d fit in nicely. I knew he was close to his younger sister. This past summer, he’d gone to the Adirondacks with his whole family. He liked to eat. He was even Italian, which would make Mom and Dad happy.
We took our usual seats—Mom closest to the kitchen, Dad at the other end, Dante and me facing the living room, Eva and Louis across from us.
The table was barely visible under the food Mom had made, and as ever, the sight and smells of food cheered me. Eggplant Parm, my favorite! Meatballs, Dante’s fave, made with ground veal, beef and turkey. Chicken oregano, Eva’s favorite and a close runner-up for me. Sausage and broccoli rabe, Louis’s favorite. Garlic bread, everyone’s favorite. The green salad I’d brought—the one hint of healthy eating. Caponata with pignoli nuts, ziti with sauce, fresh mozzarella cheese.
“We gonna say grace?” Dante asked around the meatball already bulging in his cheek. Eva was tearing into the bread, dunking it in salted olive oil, and Dad was shoveling a slab of eggplant Parm onto his plate.
“Dear Lord, thank you for our beautiful children and my amazing wife,” Dad said cheerfully.
“Aw! You two!” I said.
“I hope Dante and I are half as lucky as you two, Tony,” Louis said, getting a smile from my father.
“Do you mind? I’m eating,” Eva said, getting the middle finger from Dante.
“When are you boys gonna have a baby?” I asked. “I want to be an auntie.”
“Since you mention it in that subtle way of yours,” Dante said, “we’re thinking next year, maybe we’ll start looking at adoption. Right, babe?”
“That’s right,” Louis said. They exchanged a look of mutual adoration.
“There’s no pasta e fagioli?” Dad asked mournfully, since we only had enough food to feed Europe.
“I told you, Anthony, I’ll make it tomorrow!” Mom said, wounded. “You said you wanted fresh moots”—our way of saying mozzarella—“so I found it, and l
et me tell you, it wasn’t easy, mister, I had to go to four grocery stores and paid eleven dollars for it at Whole Foods, honestly, who can shop there, don’t they have children to put through college?”
“Speaking of kids, Eva, do you ever think about adopting?” Louis, bless his heart, asked.
“No, I hate children,” she said. “People, too, now that I think of it.”
“Don’t say that!” Mom said. “Shame on you, Eva.”
“She does,” I confirmed. “You’re new to the family, Louis. You’ll learn.”
“I hate people except for those sitting at this table,” Eva amended. “I’ll love your kids, Louis. Just don’t ever ask me to babysit. Ma, pass the eggplant. Please.”
My sister was an odd duck. A wonderful duck, but strange. She’d recoil when our cousins offered their offspring for her to hold, skipping every baby shower and most weddings. I knew she belonged to a science fiction book club. Otherwise, what she did in her time off was a mystery.
Like me, she was heavy. No. She was really heavy, a lot heavier than me. But she didn’t seem to mind a bit, whereas I was already cutting myself off from the bounty of my mother’s table and would run five miles tomorrow to cancel out the calories I did pack away. Eva had never had a boyfriend (or girlfriend) that I knew of, never mentioned wanting one. Freakishly, our mother didn’t give her a hard time about it, whereas I was reminded of my tragic, childless, single state at least once a day through a variety of media.
“Well, I hope you do adopt,” Dad said to the boys. “I’d like a grandson.”
“I’d like a niece,” I said.
“I’d like the ziti,” Eva said. “Ma, this food is amazing.”
Mom beamed. “Well. I did work all day and my feet are killing me, and I’m so hungry because I did want to eat at six thirty but Marley was late, and now my food is cold, but I’m glad you like it.”
“Marles,” Dante said, “you coming to the fun run in Central Park?”
“What fun run?”
“You said you’d come. Remember?”
Good Luck with That Page 15
