by Diana Welch
“Your thighs are perfect, Bitsy!” Mom sounded exasperated. “I’m the one who needs to lose weight, not you.”
“What if we diet together?” I suggested. Mom looked at me and smiled.
“I’ll work on losing weight and getting work,” she said. “You just concentrate on being fifteen.”
AMANDA
MOM REALLY DID think Liz could model. Once, Mom was up in our room showing Liz how to pose, pointing one foot in front of her and twisting her leg with her hands on her hips. She was standing in front of a full-length mirror, leaning back and striking these weird poses wearing her horrible red robe, all puffy, her hair uncombed. Liz and I started laughing. We were like, “That’s not modeling, Mom.” And she burst into tears. I hadn’t seen her cry much since Dad died. We were being so mean, she left the room crying. We kept on laughing. We couldn’t stop.
LIZ
AS THE SUMMER was coming to an end, Rita asked to borrow my favorite pair of Guess overalls to take on her family vacation. These pants were really cool—dark brown denim with beige linen patches. I’d bought them at the Denim Mine with babysitting money and was hesitant to loan them out. But I really liked Rita and her big laugh and the mischief in her eyes. Plus, she had helped me get rid of my hickeys. I said yes.
But then several weeks passed, and I wanted my pants back. I called her house and got the machine. “Hey, Rita, it’s Liz,” I said into the tape. “Hope you had a nice vacation and, um, I was wondering if I could come get my overalls.”
I waited a day or two and got no response. So I left another message.
No response. I was getting annoyed. School was starting soon, and I really wanted to wear them the first day. I called again and decided she was not calling me back on purpose. I swore to never let anyone borrow my clothes again and called for the last time, to tell Rita just that.
This time, her brother Eddie answered the phone. He was a few years older than Rita.
“Oh, hi, um, is Rita there?” I asked.
“Who’s calling?” Eddie sounded drugged, as though it was hard to get the words out.
“It’s her friend Liz,” I said.
Silence for a few seconds, and then his voice grew heated and energetic and angry. “Are you calling about your fucking overalls?” he nearly shouted into the phone. “Well, guess what, our parents are fucking dead, so fuck you and fuck your fucking overalls!” He slammed down the phone.
I hung up, shaking, and ran to find Mom. She was doing the Jane Fonda workout in her room, where we had set up the VCR and TV.
“I need to go see Rita,” I said breathlessly.
“What is it, Bitsy?” Mom asked, mid leg lift.
“Her parents died,” I said and started to tremble.
Mom’s whole body tensed, her left leg suspended in midair, and she looked at me with wide eyes.
“Both?” she said.
I nodded, and she dropped her leg.
Rita’s house was filled with people dressed in black. There was food everywhere—nut-crusted cheese balls, platters of cold cuts and cookies. Her aunt was wearing a black lace veil and wailing, her brother Eddie sat in the living room surrounded by more aunts and uncles who were petting him, grabbing hold of his arm, patting his cheek and bellowing like wounded walruses. There were so many tears in that room, such an outpouring of pain. It was terrifying. I finally found Rita upstairs sitting on her bed, alone, floating above the grief boiling below. I understood why she looked more bewildered and shocked than sad. I sat next to her and gave her a huge hug, and she collapsed into my arms and began to sob. “You’re going to be okay,” I said. “You’ll be okay.” I said it again because I didn’t know what else to say. Then, between sharp inhales, Rita told me what happened: On the way back from their family vacation, Rita decided to ride in her aunt’s car. A drunk driver hit her parents’ van head-on. They both died instantly.
“What’s going to happen?” I asked.
She looked at me, shrugged, and said, “I have no idea.”
At that moment, Rita and I became best friends. A month later, she moved in; Mom didn’t hesitate when I asked if it was okay.
Rita was a mess for a while. I’d bump into her in the hallway at school, between classes, and she’d burst into tears. Instead of going to our next period, we’d sneak out of the building and drive Rita’s car to the Brownstone Café in Mount Kisco, where we’d order cappuccinos and talk for hours. I was the only person who understood her grief, she said time and time again. But that was not entirely true; I only knew what it felt like to lose Dad.
AMANDA
WE COULDN’T AFFORD student housing, so I commuted back and forth from NYU my sophomore year. Still, I was rarely home. When I wasn’t in school, I was partying. I had this great clique of friends whose lives were way more fucked up than my own. I loved going to gay clubs; I would lose myself in my own little world, dancing, drinking, and being batted about by buff gay guys as if I didn’t even exist.
Sometimes, I would make enough whiskey sours to fill a gallon water jug, and Anna and I would drive to see David Johansen shows in New Jersey, Long Island, and Martha’s Vineyard. I had just bought a Karmann Ghia convertible for nine hundred dollars with the money I’d saved up from working at Heller’s shoe store and at Abbie’s farm. It was the first thing I could call my own. To me, the Mercedes was always Dad’s car. I’d drive the Karmann to shows, blaring Madonna, Depeche Mode, or “Ride of the Valkyries,” wearing my mirrored Vuarnet sunglasses and rubber bracelets up and down both arms. I thought I was the shit. Anna and I would drive four hours to see a show, then turn around and head back home. I’d be so spent, I’d take cat naps at red lights and tell Anna to wake me when the light turned green.
At that time, Mom was done with radiation, and we thought the cancer was gone. But then Mom started complaining of lower back pain, which she at first thought was gas. It got so bad that on September 27, 1984, Mom drove herself to the emergency room in Mount Kisco. That’s when they found a tumor in her bladder, the size of a grapefruit.
She underwent surgery the very next day. I took Liz, Dan, and Diana to visit her in the hospital, but she was pretty whacked out on Demerol. The medical records describe her as a “very cooperative, markedly pale lovely lady who verbalizes that she misses her children.” She was discharged on October 1, the day after Diana’s seventh birthday. Then on October 4 she was readmitted for her first chemo treatment. She never got a fucking break.
DIANA
STARING AT THE underside of my top bunk, I tried to fall asleep but couldn’t. I hummed a Prince song to keep my mind away from all the scary things I kept thinking of, like Dan’s snake, Herbie, for instance, slithering around in his glass cage right next door. I wasn’t used to sleeping alone, but with Mom in the hospital, there wasn’t anyone for me to sleep with.
DAN
MY ROOM WAS weird. I’m not sure why Mom designed it this way, but I had to walk through Diana’s bedroom to get to mine, which didn’t make any sense. There were skylights above my bed that I snuck out almost every night by crawling through them and onto the roof. Then I’d jump down to the yard behind the house and go meet friends in Mount Kisco to play army. I could have just walked through Diana’s room, down the stairs, and out the front door. No one would have noticed.
By this point, I decided I didn’t need a best friend. Or, rather, I realized I could go from one best friend to the next. I’d stopped hanging out with Curtis, which hurt him badly. And it hurt his mom. They didn’t understand; I didn’t understand, either. I just didn’t want to be attached to anyone for too long. I went from Curtis to Carlos to Tim. It was kind of sad, because I didn’t care about anyone’s feelings.
But every Wednesday night, I stayed home. I’d lie in Mom’s bed with her and Di and watch Wonder Woman. One night, we were lying there and I told Mom how much I missed Dad, and she said she did, too. She had started getting chemo because of the bladder tumor, and she was nauseous a lot and was starting to go bald
. That’s when she told me that she would have committed suicide if it wasn’t for us kids. So I asked her which one was her favorite, and she said, “Well, you’re my favorite son!” and laughed. Then we watched Charlie’s Angels. Dad always really loved Jaclyn Smith.
AMANDA
WHEN THE CANCER came back, Mom was still dealing with Dad’s debt. Her finances were a mess. The Bank of New York was now suing her for the money Dad owed from the oil-rig deal. She was trying to file for bankruptcy, but it wasn’t working, and she was really worried that we would lose the house.
I’m sure Dad didn’t mean to leave Mom with such a mess, but he did. And I don’t remember her ever saying one bad word about him. Ever.
LIZ
THE WHOLE MODELING for money thing never really panned out. Mom got me a retainer for my tooth and then she got sick. Within two weeks, I lost the retainer and gained five pounds, so we never scheduled that appointment for the second round of test shots.
It didn’t really matter. Mom stopped talking about my modeling and her dieting altogether now that the cancer was back. By Thanksgiving, she’d lost ten pounds and most of her hair. It fell out in clumps, and she started wearing a scarf. On the days she felt okay, she’d putter around the house and even run a few errands, but mostly she stayed in her room in bed. So every day after school, Rita and I would go tell her about our day. She loved hearing all the gossip. She’d grill Rita on any new boyfriends and ask me how French was going. I was in an AP class and that made her happy. She had only been to Europe once—she and Dad went to the Swiss Alps for their honeymoon—and she often talked about taking us kids back one day. Not just to Switzerland but to France and England too.
After the daily update, I’d make Mom a snack—she was often nauseous but could eat Branola bread, which she liked to dip in milk. Then we’d play backgammon or Scrabble. Mom loved board games. Diana always joined us, and Dan often popped his head in and sometimes climbed onto the bed next to Diana to watch TV. They’d argue over how to position Mom’s new Craftmatic bed, which was like a hospital bed with a handheld panel that had buttons to elevate your feet or your head. It also had a vibrate and a massage button. Diana liked vibrate; Dan liked massage. If you pushed both at once, it made Mom even more nauseated than she already was.
We all spent a lot of time with Mom in that room. And I spent less time babysitting as I had so much going on: physics, trigonometry, Latin, Honors English, and AP French in addition to household chores. Plus, I was playing varsity volleyball, and Rita and I both were elected class representatives for student government. And so the only pocket cash I had was the extra money I added to the grocery bills each week—enough to buy snacks at school and chip in for gas for Rita’s car since she drove me everywhere, but not enough for any new clothes. And I desperately wanted these acid-washed paisley Guess jeans I saw at the Denim Mine, and this thigh-length purple sweater I spotted at the Silo, my favorite store at the Bazaar Mall. One afternoon, I was complaining to Rita, and her eyes lit up.
“Why don’t you charge them?” she said. She pronounced “charge” with a long dull ah and dropped the r.
I had no idea what she was talking about.
“It’s like using a credit card only you never pay the bill,” she said.
I was still confused.
“I’ll show you.” She told me to bring my bag, which was oversized and slouchy. I had bought it that summer on Eighth Street in Manhattan. Then we drove to the Mall. At the Silo, I watched as Rita browsed the racks and nonchalantly carried five items into the dressing room. There, she talked loudly about each as she pretended to try them on while using a letter opener that she had concealed in her bag to pry the metal security tag off the one item she intended to steal. I watched fascinated as she shoved a glittery gold sleeveless turtleneck into her bag and then brought the rest of the items out and told the saleslady they weren’t quite right.
Back in the car, I felt giddy. I could do that!
The following day, we went back to the Silo and I chose two loose-knit sweaters, a pair of ribbed leggings, a plaid blazer, and a silk Nehru jacket. I then mimicked Rita from the day before: “These leggings make me look so fat!” I shouted over the dressing room door.
“How about the jacket?” Rita yelled back.
“It’s cute,” I said, “but I’m not sure it’s the right color.”
Meanwhile, I had tugged the tag off the gray and white sweater before folding and placing it in my bag. As I placed the other items on the reject rack, my blood cells were vibrating beneath my skin.
“Did anything work?” the saleslady said.
“I’m going to think about the Nehru jacket,” I said.
In the safety of the parking lot, Rita high-fived me and said, “You’re a natural!”
I was. Soon, we were driving to the Bloomingdale’s in Stamford, Connecticut, and stealing four or five items at a time. I got the paisley Guess jeans during one haul, a Liz Claiborne thigh-length sweater during another, and leopard loafers during yet another. Quickly, I moved on from clothing: I stole a bottle of Cuervo tequila as Rita tried to convince the old man at the counter to sell her Jägermeister, insisting it was for her dad. We looked at each other, shrugged, and sauntered out the door, the tequila bottle banging against my leg.
Back in the car, Rita hollered. “What an idiot!”
He was not alone. Idiots surrounded us. I once stole an entire case of Amstel Light from ShopRite. I placed two six-packs side by side at the bottom of my bag, grabbed a box of tampons, and then went to a register manned by a pimply-faced boy. His embarrassment overpowered the sound of bottles clanging in my bag. When I came back for the other two six-packs, he looked perplexed. I placed a bottle of aspirin on the counter and said, “Cramps.” His face went raspberry red, I paid for the pills, and the bottles clinked with every step I took out the automatic glass doors into the parking lot, where Rita waited for me in the Jeep, engine running.
I always said I’d stop if I ever got caught, but I never thought I would. I was too good at it. Rita taught me the basics, but I quickly turned it into an art form, and soon we were skipping school and heading to Manhattan. One day, we went to Macy’s at Herald Square. As I walked out of the busy department store with more than five hundred dollars’ worth of clothes in my bag, I looked right at the security guard and said, “Have a nice day!” Rita blanched then quickened her pace. Once outside, she seemed more concerned than triumphant when she asked, “Liz, do you want to get caught?”
She didn’t understand that I was simply perfecting the facade. Just as I did not look like a fatherless daughter with a sick mother, I did not look like a school-skipping kleptomaniac. And my stealing added credence to my ruse: My closet was stuffed with all the latest fashions, and because everyone at school thought I was rich, no one questioned my of-the-moment wardrobe. Except Mom. Whenever she saw me in a new outfit, she’d ask, “Where did you get that, Bitsy?”
“It’s Rita’s,” I’d say.
More than once Mom noticed the holes, too. In my haste to pry the security tag off items, I’d often rip the clothing in one spot. But I had an arsenal of explanations: “It got caught on my locker at school,” or “I closed it in the car door,” or “It got snagged on the cafeteria table.” And every time Mom seemed to believe me. Once, though, I told her I tripped in the parking lot, and she looked at me, slightly suspicious, and said, “You should be more careful.”
DAN
LIZ STOLE US a six-pack of beer from the ShopRite, and then she and Rita dropped Tim and me off at his girlfriend Beth’s house one night while her parents were at the movies. Beth had a friend over named Holly, who liked me. So we showed up with the beer and went into separate rooms. Holly and I had the lights and our clothes off when we heard Beth’s parents come into the house. Beth’s mom opened the bedroom door and saw me pulling up my pants. Behind her, I saw Tim race by followed by Beth’s dad. By the time I ran out the door, shouting “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” to Beth�
�s mom, Tim was already down the road with Beth’s father running after him.
I knew that Larry Williams lived nearby. He had graduated from Fox Lane the year before, and had stuck around to be a lacrosse coach. Even though I was only thirteen, we got along great. When I got to Larry’s house, a party was in full swing. All of the black football and lacrosse players were there, getting high, dancing, drinks raised up in the air. I knew everybody from hanging with Curtis, whose older brother Mike was the most popular guy in high school. Everybody was like, “Hey, little dude,” clapping me on the back. Finally, I found Larry and was like, “Larry, you gotta help me find Tim.” I told him the whole story: the crash, the dad, everything.
Larry was like, “But it’s my party, man.” He felt bad for me, I guess, because he left his party and drove around for a while looking for Tim before he finally drove me home. He was such a sweet guy.
When we pulled up to the house, I saw Mom through the dining-room window. She was so frail looking, bald and skinny in her robe, creeping toward the kitchen with a golf club raised above her head. Then I saw Tim crawling through an open window in the kitchen. Mom thought he was an intruder! Luckily, I beat him in and reassured Mom that everything was all right. I told her that I’d explain everything in the morning, and she was so relieved that she just said okay and went back to her room.
The next day, I told her what happened. She was quiet for a second, then said okay, and then turned to Tim and asked, “Do you want to tell your parents, or shall I?” Tim said he would tell his parents, but of course never did. He didn’t have the honesty with his parents that I had with Mom. Then he started to blame me for things. One time, I invited him over, but he said he wasn’t allowed. His parents thought I was a bad influence. I was like, “How’s that even possible? You’re a fucking nightmare!”
