by Zoe Fishman
Saving Ruth
Zoe Fishman
Epigraph
We’ll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
—“To a Butterfly” by William Wordsworth (1801)
Contents
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Acknowledgments
P. S.: Insights, Interviews & More . . .
About the author
About the book
Read on
Also by Zoe Fishman
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
“Please turn your iPod off,” the flight attendant barked as she made a counterclockwise motion with her finger. I nodded in response and pretended to press the Stop button as I inched down in my seat and gazed out the window. Red dirt, pine trees, swimming pools, giant churches, and car dealerships—all encased in a wall of shimmering heat. Summer in Alabama.
Reflexively, I smoothed my hair. As soon as I stepped off the plane, it would take on a monstrous, frizzy life of its own. And then there was my outfit. If I had deliberately planned to look this way, I could see how my parents might take it as a giant “fuck you.” My ratty, navy blue Michigan sweatshirt hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in an easy six months. I could smell the pot and cigarettes emanating from its fabric from just sitting on the air-conditioned plane. Once I stepped into the humid heat, the stench was going to envelop me and everyone in my path. Innocent bystanders were going to tumble to the ground, covering their mouths with their hands and gasping for air.
My jeans were just as abused—the same jeans that I had begged my mother for right before school had started.
“Mom, everyone has skinny jeans. If I show up for college without at least one pair, I’m doomed, I’m telling you.”
“A social outcast. Ruth, really?”
She fingered the price tag in disgust, but I could tell I almost had her.
“Mommmmmmmm, please? I mean, c’mon, they look good, right? You can tell I lost some weight.”
“Don’t tell your father about this,” she whispered, surrendering to me.
I had never owned fancy jeans before, mostly because I’d never really been able to fit into them. I could get them buttoned and zipped, but my flesh would bulge over the waistband like raw dough. Last summer had been the beginning for me. Ten pounds came off before I left for college. My mom told me that I was a late bloomer and lit up like a Christmas tree every time I entered the room. I hated that phrase, “late bloomer.” It conjured up Georgia O’Keefe paintings and kumbaya circles. Blooming? Please. I had just laid off the McDonald’s.
Looking down at those same jeans now, I cringed. Thirty-five pounds later, the term “skinny jeans” was a joke. They hung on me, with ripped knees and frayed hems that trailed behind me like seaweed. I hadn’t showered in days. Well, two days.
I had planned to wake up early that morning, pack the rest of my belongings that hadn’t already been shipped home or stored elsewhere, and make myself presentable. Up early and on to the airport. All it took was one phone call, however, and good-bye plan. I had been out all night. What I had envisioned as a civilized taxi ride to the airport (some indie crap on the radio; me looking out the window as we drove through campus, smiling slyly as a rousing pictorial montage of my freshman year flashed through my mind) had turned into my roommate Meg yanking me out of bed and us both running around our dorm room like maniacs, trying to stuff everything into my too-small suitcase. I had made my flight, but just barely.
The plane’s wheels hit the runway, and I was officially home for three months. It seemed like an interminable amount of time. What the hell was I going to do? I made a mental list: lifeguard, coach, and not gain weight. Hang out with Jill and M.K. Be nice to my parents. Really. And David, of course. My brother. This year I’d spoken to him less than I had spoken to even my most random acquaintance. You know, the girl that you sat next to in your humanities class but never saw elsewhere on campus? Yeah, that girl and I had a deeper bond than the one that I had with my flesh and blood.
The seat belt light went off, and everyone immediately jumped up as though we were actually going to move in the next ten minutes. In front of me, a family of blond and permed mullets—mom, dad, and two sons—struggled with their suitcases in the overhead bins.
“Dangit, Bobby, I done told you to help me!”
“Mama, can we git corndogs on the way home?”
“Not now, Bobby.”
“Mammmmmmmmmmaaaaa!” The littlest one’s mouth was ringed in red. Kool-Aid mouth—a hallmark of the Deep South. I was home.
I filed out of the plane and walked toward baggage claim. The airport was quiet—a ghost town almost. Black-and-white photos of football teams and debutantes in frilly cupcake dresses holding parasols lined the walls.
My phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, Ruth?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s David. Can you speed it up? I’m circling the pickup point because they won’t let me park.”
I picked up my pace. “They won’t let you park? No one is even here. Who are you blocking?”
“I know, I know. So speed it up, okay? I’m getting dizzy.”
“Okay, okay.”
I reached the baggage carousel, and there she was—my destroyed suitcase. Misshapen and split, with electrical tape encasing it in its entirety. My mom was going to kill me. I grabbed the handle, which poked out of the silver cocoon apologetically, and rolled/carried it out the door. The air hit me like a bucket of melted peanut butter. In the distance, I could see David’s car chugging toward me. He honked a hello, and I waved, feeling strangely shy.
He pulled up beside me and got out.
“Hey hey, stranger,” he said, stopping for a moment to take me in before reaching in for an awkward hug. He looked good, but then, he always did. Brown hair, blue eyes, and lean muscles. Beyond having the same face shape—square, but easily turned round thanks to ample cheeks—we didn’t look anything alike. My girlfriends had always swooned for him—something that annoyed the hell out of me when I first realized it but then became amusing as I got older. Watching them strut and giggle in his presence had become a sort of sociological study for me. The line between intriguing coquette and desperate clown was a thin one, and I had seen many girls teeter on its precipice in his presence.
“You look good?”
His appraisal was more of a question than a statement. This happened a lot. People who knew me as my former, larger self were uncomfortable when they saw me now. It was hard to tell whether they were jealous or concerned. Most likely it was a little bit of both. My reaction to their reaction was mixed as well—what I knew was probably a perverse sense of pride along with immediate defensiveness.
“Thanks,” I answered.
“Skinny,” he added.
“You look good too,” I offered.
“Jesus, what the hell happened to your bag?” He took the handle from me, and it rolled on its side like a sev
enteen-year-old basset hound.
“Long story.”
“Mom’s gonna kill you,” he said, surveying the damage. He looked up at me and laughed.
“I know,” I sighed. “Let’s go already. This heat is brutal.”
He tossed my bag in the back, and we got in. The interior smelled like Febreeze, French fries, and cigarettes.
“You smoke?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Since when?”
“Since whenever, I guess.”
“But what about soccer?”
“What about it?”
“Your lungs? Athletes don’t smoke. It’s weird.”
“Okay, then, I’m weird.”
I examined him. This close, he looked tired. Gray circles ringed his eyes, and his fingernails were gnawed to the quick. Strange. Or maybe it had just been a while since I’d sat this close to him.
“Take a picture, it will last longer,” he mumbled. I fiddled with the radio.
“How long have you been home?” I asked.
“Since yesterday. I got in around dinnertime, I guess.”
“How was the drive?”
“Fine. Long. A lot of traffic.”
“How’s Mercer?”
“Same.”
I sighed. It was going to be a long summer. We passed a Super Wal-Mart, and I thought of the mulleted plane family. Did Bobby ever get that corndog? And how did Kool-Aid come off human skin? Soap and water seemed impossibly mild. I grimaced, thinking of poor Bobby’s teeth.
“You seen Jason yet?” I asked.
“No, not yet. Gonna go down to the pool and meet him later, actually.” Jason was the head lifeguard and pool manager—the year-round keeper of all things pool-related. You’d get an email from him about Fourth of July relay ideas in February. He lived for summer.
“Cool. And do you know when swim practice starts?”
“We have a kickoff meeting on Friday—kids and parents. School ends next week, so we’ll start right up, I guess.”
I was already tired, thinking of the kids. I was in charge of the six- to ten-year-olds. The first few weeks were always the toughest—getting them used to me and the routine was hard enough, never mind teaching them to swim the entire length of the pool. Seeing them hold up their ribbons when swim meets were over—their excitement oozing out of every tiny, water-pruned pore—always made it worth it, though.
David was in charge of the older kids, which was its own mess of hormone-fueled distraction. There was nothing like seeing a fifteen-year-old boy in a Speedo to remind you why being a teenager sucked. The combination of skinny limbs, errant pubic hair, and giant Adam’s apple was almost blinding in its awkwardness.
He made a left into our neighborhood. There was the Smith house in all of its manicured lawn glory. Felicia Smith and I had played Barbies together as kids. She always wanted Ken and Barbie to go to church. I was more from the Ken and Barbie having lots of sex school, and thus our friendship was pretty much over before it began.
“Do the Smiths still live there?” I asked.
“Naw, they moved out a couple of years ago. I think to Tampa or something?”
“Oh. Who lives there now?”
“Not sure. I think a black family. I saw a kid playing in the yard on my way out to pick you up.”
A few houses down was the Crawford place. Its front yard was carpeted in orange pine straw, and no fewer than five cars were parked on the front lawn at any time. The eyesore drove the whole neighborhood crazy, but the rumor was that the dad was in prison, so they were left alone. I’d never seen anyone go in or out of there. I imagined the inside to be straight out of Hoarders. They were probably all buried alive under an avalanche of Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwich boxes and velvet paintings of wildlife.
And suddenly, we were making a right into our driveway. I was home. It looked so much smaller to me now, as if college had turned me into a giant. My dad had mowed the yard for our arrival, and the earthy smell of grass clippings hung in the humid air.
“Here we are,” said David. “Home sweet home.” We looked at each other then, and in everything we did not say passed a history that only the two of us would ever understand. I guess that’s what family is. Awkward car rides and stilted conversation aside, you would always have that.
2
The screen door opened and my mom peeked her head out.
“Helloooooo,” she sang.
“Hi, Mom!” I yelled back. She looked like Mom—roundish, medium height, with the same dark hair and eyes as me. Her hair was shorter than I had ever seen it—a kind of Mia Farrow meets Blanche Devereaux mom-do—and curled softly around her face. Pretty.
As she got closer, I watched her features freeze in a mask of worry, and my hands balled themselves into fists reflexively.
“Ruthie.” Her voice trembled a bit.
“Mama,” I whispered back as I hugged her. “What are you crying for?” I pulled back and looked into her eyes, which were welling up behind her glasses.
“Oh Ruth, I’m just glad to see you.” She paused. “Are you sick? I mean, what is this?” She gestured toward my body, her hand flipping up and down its length.
“I’m not sick!” I flew into defensive mode. “Can we please not talk about this for the thousandth time? I went on a diet and I lost weight. Funny how that happens.”
For as long as I could remember, my mom—and my dad, actually—had been trying to get me to go on a diet. Not in a passive-aggressive way either. Aggressive-aggressive was a Wasserman trademark. Now that I had gone too far in their eyes, they both took turns giving me shit for it. Christmas break had been one melodramatic confrontation after another. I had found my mother up to her elbows in a box of Oreos late one night, only to have her blame me for her demise. I’m eating for you! she had cried, with chocolate lodged in the corners of her mouth and capping one of her front teeth.
“Okay, I’m sorry. There’s no need to be a smart-ass. You know me, I can’t help it. I say what I think. Forget it.” She sighed. David dragged my suitcase around to us. I braced myself.
She bit her lip, and I imagined her anger brewing like a pot of coffee. Few things enraged my parents more than our abuse of things they had bought us. She hadn’t gotten a good look at my jeans yet. Between that and the suitcase, it was going to be a tense welcome-home lunch.
“Ruth, why?” she asked.
I dug my hands into my pockets and imagined lighting a cigarette. “I’m sorry, Mom. I overslept and packed like a jerk.”
“You know you’re going to have to buy yourself a new one, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, as long as we’re clear on that one.”
I nodded.
“And the next time you beg me for million-dollar jeans, I am going to ignore you. Are we good on that too?” Wow, she had already noticed. She was quick. Quick-Draw Marjorie.
“Roger that, Mom. I’m sorr—”
Her hands flew up in front of her chest, palms out. “Not going to talk about it anymore. I’m glad you’re home, Ruthie.” She hugged me again, and I relaxed into her softness. “Even if you’re ungrateful.”
“I’m really not, Mom. Just careless. I’ll try to be better.” She sighed again and gave me a final squeeze.
“Where’s David?” she asked.
“He went inside.”
“Well, pull that sad thing in the house, will you? And where’s your father? He’s probably passed out from the excitement of you coming home. He’s been up since daybreak, I am telling you. Running around the house like a maniac and driving me crazy.”
I followed her inside, lugging the suitcase up the two concrete stairs by the back door and into the kitchen. Home.
“Close the door, for goodness’ sake, we don’t want to let out all of the air conditioning!” yelled my father
as he shuffled around the corner. “Ruthie girl!” He held out his arms and walked toward me.
“Hello, Dad,” I whispered as I melted into his hug. He was wearing what I liked to call his dad weekend uniform—a knit Polo and tennis shorts. He released me, and we looked at one another in silence. Same dad—blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, big smile.
“You’re too skinny,” he offered.
“Bet you never thought you’d say that,” I replied.
“It’s not a joke, Ruthie.” His smile faded as he switched gears into stern mode. “Every time I see you this year, you’re smaller. Enough already. You looked great ten pounds ago.” He smoothed my hair. “Enough already,” he repeated.
I nodded. How could I tell him that the mere thought of gaining weight gave me a panic attack?
“Hey, where’s Maddie?” I asked, changing the subject. Maddie was our Shih Tzu. We’d gotten her on my eighth birthday when a client of my dad’s couldn’t take care of her any longer. Tiny even for a Shih Tzu, with a caramel and white coat that badly needed brushing, at first she had strangely terrified me.
“Ruth, what’s your problem?” David had asked in all of his nine-and-a-half-year-old wisdom. “It’s a little dog. Look! Look at how cute she is.” My stiffness didn’t break until we got home and let her run through the house. She had careened into every room, sniffing around their perimeters and nodding to us in approval, until she got to mine. She trotted around the Barbies and the baby dolls, looked up at me, and proceeded to pee right in the middle of my floor. You’re mine, she was telling me. And from that point on, I was.
“Here she comes,” said my dad. Tiny nails tapped tentatively around the corner. She was getting old—eleven years now—and it showed.
