Seeing Me Naked

by Liza Palmer

  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 © 2008 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.

  5 Spot

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.5-spot.com.

  5 Spot is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The 5 Spot name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: January 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-51120-9

  Contents

  Praise for Liza Palmer’s first novel

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  About the Author

  Five Recipes You’ll Find in Seeing Me Naked

  Praise for Liza Palmer’s first novel, Conversations with the Fat Girl

  “Kudos to Liza Palmer.”

  —People

  “Engaging and poignant and heartbreakingly real . . . a winning conversation.”

  —Jennifer Weiner, bestselling author of Good in Bed, In Her Shoes, and Little Earthquakes

  “The descriptions of Olivia’s catty pals are priceless.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Smart, funny, and heartbreakingly honest . . . This is one conversation I never wanted to end!”

  —Johanna Edwards, author of The Next Big Thing

  “Will connect with women everywhere . . . Palmer’s quick wit keeps you laughing.”

  —Pasadena Star News

  “Reflective yet riotous, sardonic yet compassionate . . . An accomplished and wonderful debut.”

  —Amanda Stern, author of The Long Haul

  “Excellent . . . We can’t wait to read Palmer’s next book!”

  —BestsellersWorld.com

  “Touching, funny, and oh, so human . . . This is a conversation I felt lucky to be a part of!”

  —Caren Lissner, author of Carrie Pilby

  “A fantastic novel, a heartwarming, funny romantic comedy that breathes new life into the often flooded chick lit genre. I found myself laughing out loud several times . . . I look forward to reading more by Palmer.”

  —BookLoons.com

  “Filled with deliciousness . . . Liza Palmer has created, to borrow her own heroine Maggie’s phrase, a ‘pink pastry box o’magic.’”

  —Gayle Brandeis, author of Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write and The Book of Dead Birds: A Novel

  “A fresh, bold voice . . . excellent characterizations . . . Don’t miss the ending. It’s priceless!”

  —MyShelf.com

  “In this touching story, Maggie learns to let go, move on, and—finally—trust herself. This is a from-the-heart debut you won’t soon forget!”

  —Megan Crane, author of English as a Second Language and Everyone Else’s Girl

  “An excellent story . . . you won’t be is disappointed!”

  —ChickLitBooks.com

  “A powerful novel . . . witty and honest . . . one of those books you won’t want to put down.”

  —NightsAndWeekends.com

  “A wry, dry, and ultimately winning novel featuring a saucy heroine to whom all girls (fat and thin) will relate.”

  —Wendy Shanker, author of The Fat Girl’s Guide to Life

  “Brilliant—packed with humor, emotion, and lifelike characters. I can’t wait to see what Liza Palmer comes up with next.”

  —RoundtableReviews.com

  For Grammy and Jack

  Acknowledgments

  In my first book’s acknowledgments, I recounted my habit of taking time right as I was falling asleep to give thanks, with held breath, for the people in my life. This habit continues to this day. But with age comes a certain seriousness in those seconds, a seriousness that knows how lucky I am and how families and people like the ones in my life just don’t come along that often. Words, my stock-in-trade, can’t seem to ever harness my absolute adoration for the people who follow.

  • As with all things in my life, all good stems from my mom.

  • For Don—the shoes have been filled, and they’re yours forever.

  • For Alex—cups of coffee and early-morning trips to the airport; our yin-and-yang everything seems to only bring us closer.

  • For Joe—your success is a testament to the strong man you are. The girlies are lucky to have a dad like you.

  • For Zoë and Bonnie—you melt me with your beauty, make me laugh with your luscious quirks (I now say “easy peasy, lemon squeezie” with regularity). My love of you two has actually messed me up a little. I honestly didn’t know I could love like this, that love could be this big.

  • For Kim Resendiz (or, as one particular business refers to her, Keen Resendig)—you’ve made me feel a part of something, and not just the New York Times crossword. Your strength is riveting, and I hope to someday come as close as I can to it.

  • For Tito, Nico, Ely, Rodrigo, Diego, David, Xavier, Nadine, Antoine, Denise, Kwon, Michael, Bill Gallagher, and Lynn and Rich Silton—you make me walk in this world a little taller, a little less freaked out, and thankful that I belong to such a majestic tribe.

  • For Christy Fletcher—I constantly marvel at how it was that I happened upon you—oh, wait, I was querying agents desperately. Okay, let’s rephrase: I constantly marvel at how it was that you happened upon me (better). You took a chance on a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, and by “tracks,” I mean outside of Brooklyn and not named Jonathan.

  • For Amy Einhorn—Without your all-important checkmarks, how would I ever know how funny I am? I’ve now taken to just checkmarking everything, particularly my own witty one-liners. I’ll make a sign of a checkmark in the air, accompanied by a little sound effect (a chh-chh of sorts). So, thank you for turning me into a slightly Tourette-ish, highly dependent person who now uses bizarre sound effects, as well as an abundance of ellipses and dashes—just because I can. But not in books, you know, because you’ll just take ’em out. Chh-chh. ← You’re dying to edit that last line, huh?

  • For Emily Griffin—P
oor, poor Emily. No one . . . no one . . . wants the task of looking at one of my first drafts, let alone wading through it and making some sense out of it. Emily, with Wellies and a machete, somehow made my first drafts into something rather lovely and gave hope to a nation that this dog just might hunt after all.

  • For Melissa and Kate—thank you for fielding my e-mails regarding anything from tax questions to urgent directions to your office as I’m in a cab somewhere in Manhattan and . . . well, no need to relive it, you poor dears.

  • For Araminta, Sara, Isobel, Emma and Alison—I’m already planning my next trip to the UK. This time I might be able to do more as a tourist than eat biscuits in the Harrods café . . . not that there’s anything wrong with that.

  • For Liza Wachter and the RWSH agency—thank you for all that you’ve done, especially letting me have the ultimate joy of saying, “Hi, Liza, this is Liza.” It’s the little things.

  • For Elly, Kim, Frances Jalet-Miller, Beth Thomas, Dorothea Halliday, Bill Tierney, and everyone at Grand Central Publishing and Hodder who has been integral to putting this book into some kind of order. Thank you so much.

  • For Megan Crane—in this solitary, writerly life, it’s nice to have someone to talk to about all this crazy shit, and doing so driving up the coast of California with a cup of coffee, fighting about the iPod and laughing hysterically, sure isn’t a bad way to do it.

  • For Levi Nuñez—the people I’ve mentioned above have no idea how much they are indebted to you. Your ability to talk sense to me about my writing, and not face the full wrath of my ego, is miraculous. It’s like a gift or something. Like a Dr. Dolittle kind of thing—soothing ravenous, shockingly arrogant animals with a combination of Mexican food and the pleasure of knowing that I was going to be able to give as good as I got with your work. Too bad your stuff is as good as it is . . . I haven’t quite gotten the level of merciless delight I was hoping I would.

  • For Karen Rawers and Bastide—thank you for giving me a backstage pass to your world. It was so phenomenally important, I can’t begin to thank you. Well, I can begin, but I think it’s the ending that’s a little tricky.

  • For Lyn Nierva—the bestest Web site Diva of all time, and not a bad tour guide, either . . . Them ribs are a-calling! You, Cathy, and I have got to hit up Billy Bob’s stat!

  • Thank you to Henry Glowa; Norm Freed; Larry, Ricca, Matthew, and Adam Wolff; David Green; Kerri and Erik Einertson; Carrie Cogbill; Kathie Bradley; Delia Camp; Emily, Steve, and Lucy Marrin-Allison; Paz, Philip, and Jacob Stark; Michelle Rowen; Peter Riherd; Dick, Ann, and Sarah Gillette; the Spa Book Club; Sharon Milan; Brandon Dunn; Amanda Herrington; Marilyn Marino; Tasha Brown; and as always, Poet.

  • Now, let’s see if I can get through typing this without losing my shit. What’s filling my heart most these days is the love, and immense loss, of my grandfather Captain John Dryden Kuser—Jack, to me. He wouldn’t let me, or any of his grandkids, call him anything but Jack. He passed away March 8, and I just . . . well, I miss him. Thank you to the Carmelite sisters at Santa Teresita who made his final days so beautiful.

  Chapter One

  The crowd simmers down as the bookstore owner approaches the podium.

  “I’m very excited to have such an amazing crowd here tonight for one of L.A.’s prodigal sons. I’m extremely pleased to welcome you to a very special night of literature—a night we hope will be a beacon in these, the darkest of days in publishing. This debut novel is a far cry from the paint-by-numbers, just-add-water types of books that are overtaking our bookshelves and best-seller lists. At just thirty-two years of age, this writer commands the publishing industry to sit up and take notice. Real literature is back with the publication of The Ballad of Rick Danko, by Rascal Page!” I visualize a dazzling shower of pyrotechnics from behind the man as he builds to a climax. A girl in the middle of the bookstore lets out a tiny yelp. Rascal sighs.

  I try to push away the insistent drone of my workweek. It keeps bumping up against my consciousness, like a seemingly bottomless hamper of dirty clothes. The perfection of the restaurant is never that far away. Never finished. I can never just sit. But tonight I take a deep breath and try to relax into my brother’s big night with happiness and a splash, a hint, really, of my usual knotted stomach.

  I give Rascal a sympathetic smile as the obsequious, cloying introduction drones on. We’re both waiting for the mention of him. Dad. I peek out into the crowd. Mom is beaming. Her long legs are crossed at the ankles and slanted to one side—nothing out of place. The only untidy thing about her is the overwhelming pride she’s feeling right now for her firstborn. Rascal smiles at her. She snaps a picture of him.

  “So, without further ado, let me present the heir apparent! Scion of one of the giants of twentieth-century American literature! The successor to the throne!” Rascal and I flinch in unison at each sentence. The man continues with a flourish, “Raskolnikov Page!” The crowd goes wild. Mom winces every time someone calls Rascal Raskolnikov. She lost a bet to Dad for the right to name their first son, and believe it or not, Rascal turned out to be the lesser of two evils. Rascal walks up to the podium and looks out into the crowd. I see his eyes fix on someone. I crane my neck to look past the stacks of books.

  A wave of recognition rolls through the audience. He leans casually against one of the bookcases at the back of the store. Mom looks over her shoulder, gives him a small wave, and quickly turns her attention back to Rascal. I watch the people as they slowly realize whom they’re standing next to.

  Ben Page. My dad.

  The kind of cultural icon that doesn’t exist anymore. I remember for my best friend, Laurie’s, eleventh birthday, her parents took us to Disneyland. Later that year, when my eleventh birthday rolled around, Laurie asked what I was doing to celebrate. I said I was going to New York to watch my father receive his second Pulitzer Prize.

  Rascal clears his throat and takes a long drink from the bottle of water set out for him on the podium.

  “Thank you for coming out tonight. I’m going to start by reading a passage from the novel, and then I’ll take some questions before we call it a night,” Rascal says as people in the audience shift and contort in their chairs. Who will they look at? It’s an embarrassment of riches. Rascal’s pale skin contrasts with his mop of dark brown curls. His features are delicate: pinkish lips, gentle blue eyes. His build is slight, with thin, long fingers, and his shoulders look as if a wire hanger is poking through his threadbare sweater. People always tell us we could be twins, much to Dad’s chagrin. We both got Mom’s patrician genes. We were built for an aristocratic existence. Neither one of us inherited Dad’s workhorse build, that olive skin, the coarse hair, or his almost black eyes—which, as he grows older, are beginning to turn to sunlit amber and, in the innermost circles, the lightest of blues.

  Rascal begins reading.

  My body relaxes as my brother’s voice fills the room. The audience is drawn in and can barely keep up. His prose is hot and fast, like a come-on to a one-night stand. He reads only the opening chapter, and even live, it won’t be enough for them. The crowd applauds as Rascal closes the book and looks up.

  “Okay. Any questions?” Rascal takes a drink of his water. Several anxious hands shoot into the air. He points to a twentysomething young man in the third row who has more product in his hair than I do, and I believe he’s wearing a velvet blazer.

  “I just want to say that, first off, you are like a god, man,” the guy oozes. The crowd titters. Rascal forces a smile. I can see him look toward the back of the room at Dad. Is my brother embarrassed? I glance quickly at Dad. He’s rubbing his eyes like he has a headache. Ahhh—the unwashed masses and their inconvenient adoration of our family. I’ve always wondered why Dad was so bothered by people whose only sin was simply enjoying and connecting with his work. I’ve never made a big fuss to Dad about his writing, even though his brilliance awes me—humbles me. I was afraid it would open up an unwelcome dialogue about what exactl
y I was doing with my life and, more importantly, what am I doing to change the world? I’ve found the best and safest method in dealing with my father is to keep a safe distance and watch the fireworks from a remote mountaintop.

  “I just want to know if, like—you know, coming from the family you did helped you get published. I mean, it probably didn’t hurt having Page as your last name, right?” The guy looks eagerly around at the crowd for validation. Everyone in the room has silently asked this question in his or her mind. But now they all act horrified that this guy had the nerve to ask it, especially as the first question. Rascal is unimpressed. He’s used to it—the constant comparisons to Dad in every area of his life.

  “Let’s see.” Rascal draws it out like a pitcher’s windup before hurling a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball. He continues, “My father is perhaps the greatest writer of his generation, and I roll up and say I’ve written this manuscript that I think is pretty good. Now, any other writer, on his best day, doesn’t get constantly measured against my father. But in every single review of my book, I’m compared, head to head, with him. So, yeah, I probably moved right to the top of the slush pile in my agent’s office. But after that, I’m kinda fucked, huh?” The crowd laughs nervously. Everyone checks to see if Dad is laughing. His face is expressionless and focused. The same look is mirrored in Rascal as he points to a woman in the front row who’s raised her hand. I’ve spent so many years trying to free myself from these great shadows. The hitch is, I’m equal parts repulsed and enticed by them.

  “Who are your influences, Raskolnikov? Who inspired you to—I mean, besides the obvious, of course—who inspired you to write?” The woman sneaks a coquettish look back at Dad.

  “Ma’am, my own mother doesn’t call me Raskolnikov,” Rascal corrects with the slightest of edges to his voice. Mom tenses. In turn, Rascal flashes a conciliatory smile to the woman. The bookstore owner who introduced him shifts in his chair. Rascal continues speaking. “I went through the usual list of rebellious-guy literature—Burroughs, Thompson, Bukowski, Rollins, just like every other zit-faced kid with a constant hard-on. I found Milan Kundera because one of his covers had a naked lady on it. A lot of Richard Ford. I went through a whole Pynchon thing. Hope that answers your question, ma’am . . .” Rascal trails off. Mom is wincing. She didn’t bargain for “constant hard-on” talk. I’m unfazed by it. My brother and I are the truest blend of our two parents: We’ll tell you to fuck off but then apologize profusely, call you “ma’am” or “sir,” and follow that up with some kind of card and/or flower arrangement.