Читать книгу Perfect - Natasha Friend - Страница 7

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THAT NIGHT I MADE IT THROUGH an entire dinner without talking to Ape Face. I wanted to drive her bonkers.

“If you think the silent treatment bothers me,” she said, “think again.”

“Mom?” I said. “Would you pass the peas, please?”

“You can ask your sister for the peas, Isabelle. They’re right in front of her.”

My mother had about six peas on her plate, and a piece of chicken the size of her thumb. This is how much she eats. Before Daddy, she ate real people’s meals. Now she eats doll meals.

Ape Face held up the bowl, balancing it on one hand. “Would anyone like some peas? . . . Anyone?”

“So, Mom,” I said, completely ignoring Ape Face. “How was your day? Any exciting papers to grade?”

My mother is a college professor. She teaches American literature. There are piles of her students’ papers all over the house. People say, “Wow, your mother’s pretty messy.” But they don’t know she used to be neat.

“Isabelle,” my mother said. “April is offering you the peas.”

“I changed my mind,” I said. “I’m not in the mood for peas after all.”

“Honestly, Isabelle,” said my mother.

“Honestly, Isabelle,” said Ape Face, frowning and shaking her head.

My mother shot April the look that means Enough.

“Mom, do you hear anything?” I asked. “I don’t hear anything. . . . What’s that? . . . Is that a fly buzzing in my ear?”

“Isabelle,” said my mother quietly, spearing exactly one pea with her fork. “Stop it.”

“Fine,” I said.

There was a moment of silence. Then Ape Face said, “Mom, guess what? I’m writing a story. ‘Group of Frogs,’ it’s called. How’s that for a title?”

Mom reached over to ruffle the Ape’s hair. “An excellent title. I can’t wait to read it. What’s the plot?”

This is the way it goes with them. They are their own mother-daughter book club. If you want to join, go right ahead.

I got up to clear my plate. On my way to the sink I did what I always do: try not to look at Daddy’s empty chair, but can’t help myself. This time there was a big, messy pile of papers on top of it. I couldn’t believe it. A lot of people put piles of stuff on chairs and pass right by them, not thinking a thing. But looking at this pile, my stomach hurt so much I felt like someone punched me.

In my room, I ran straight to my closet. That’s where I keep my stash, under one of Daddy’s old flannel shirts that nobody knows I have. For the longest time after he died, I kept the shirt under my bed, wrapped in a paper bag. I would take it out whenever I missed him because it had his smell. Clean and warm, like grass.

This shirt was a legend. My mother was always trying to throw it out because of the missing buttons and the pocket that got ripped off in a football game. But every time Mom tried to get rid of the shirt, Daddy would rescue it just in time. It was their special game. “There you are,” he would say, dragging it out of the Goodwill bag and slipping it back on. And Mom would wag her finger at him, pretending to be angry. “Jacob Lee. You are impossible.” This was his cue to chase her all around the house until he caught her and wrapped her up in his arms, in that big soft shirt that smelled like him.

One time last year, right before my birthday, I took the shirt out from under my bed and jammed my face in it, hard, because I missed him so much. That’s when I realized it was all smelled out. I breathed in, and . . . nothing. It was just a shirt. Just a ratty old shirt that could have belonged to anyone.

There wasn’t much left in my stash, only a few packages of Fig Newtons and a half-eaten bag of Doritos. I didn’t bother pushing the bureau against the door this time because I knew Mom and Ape Face wouldn’t be up for a while.

I sat on the floor of my closet while I ate, breathing in that mothbally closet smell. One hand on the Fig Newtons, the other on the chips. When I was finished, I put the empty wrappers back in the box and the box back on the top shelf of the closet, under the flannel shirt.

Before going to the bathroom I stood at the top of the stairs and listened. I could hear Mom and Ape Face laughing together. Who knew “Group of Frogs” was a freaking comedy?

In the bathroom I drank a glass of water as fast as I could. I lifted the toilet seat and stuck my fingers down my throat, so far down my middle knuckle was touching that little wiggly piece in the back. I felt my stomach contract hard and my shoulders hunch up to my ears. Abracadabra, out came the Doritos, the Fig Newtons, the milk, the pasta, the chicken cacciatore.

Just like magic.

Later, my mother knocked on the door. “Isabelle? May I come in?”

“It’s a free country,” I said. I was lying in bed with A Separate Peace, this book we’re reading for English.

“A Separate Peace?” Mom said. “That’s one of my favorites. Have you gotten to the part where Finny shows Gene the tree?”

“I’m only on chapter one,” I said.

“Oh. Well, I didn’t ruin anything for you by telling you that. But the tree does become an important symbol in the novel. Let me know when you get there, and we can discuss it.”

“Uh-huh.” I picked the book back up and pretended to be very busy reading.

“Isabelle.” My mother sat down on the edge of the bed and took the book right out of my hand.

“I’m reading!”

“Well, I’m talking.”

I looked at the ceiling with my eyeballs. My mother could talk all night and still not say a thing.

She reached out to grab a loose thread hanging from my pajama sleeve. She twisted the thread around her finger, yanked. “So. How was it today?”

“How was what?”

“Group therapy.”

“It’s called Group, Mom.”

“Okay. How was Group?”

“Fine.”

“Did you find it helpful?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, give it some time.”

I didn’t say anything. I just kept looking at the ceiling, thinking about my stash in the closet, how it was getting low.

I felt my mother shifting on the bed. I knew she wanted me to tell her I was fine. In her head she was probably saying, How did I get one normal daughter and one screwup?

Well, guess what your screwup was doing while you were downstairs planning Ape Face’s fabulous writing career?

“I need a blank book,” I said. “You know, a journal. For next Wednesday.”

“Oh?” said my mother. I could hear a little smile in her voice. “You’ll be writing in Group? Great! We’ll pick one up this weekend.”

Yippee.

I felt her look at me, then away, then at me again.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Isabelle,” she said. “It’s just . . . well, lots of girls your age begin worrying about their weight. When in fact it’s natural that their bodies start carrying extra fat.”

“Whatever,” I said. It gave me the creeps the way she said that. Carrying extra fat. Like I had a backpack full of butter instead of books.

“Anyway,” Mom continued, “if you’re worried about it, how about trying to eat more fruits and veggies? Less junk? We could probably all do to cut back on our calories around here, eat some healthier meals.” She patted her stomach and smiled. “Your mother included.”

I looked at her, raised an eyebrow.

“There are much less dangerous ways to lose weight than making yourself throw up, Isabelle. How does that sound? We could do it together. Okay?”

I knew she wanted me to say okay more than anything. It didn’t even matter if the okay was a lie.

I didn’t say anything.

“Isabelle? Please. I want to help.”

“Um . . . ,” I said, like I was thinking it over. “Sure.”

“Great! I’ll do the grocery shopping tomorrow. I’ll go to Whole Foods, even.”

“Great,” I said, feeling terrible.

When she leaned over to kiss me goodnight I held my breath. Even though I’d brushed my teeth twice and rinsed with mouthwash, I didn’t want her to smell what I’d done.

In the middle of the night, I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. This happens a lot but it’s worst when I can hear Mom. Most of the time I just put my pillow over my head and hum for a while to drown her out. This time I went and stood in the hallway outside her bedroom. The light from the crack under the door made a long, skinny rectangle on the wood floor, covering the tips of my toes.

She was crying. Not loud, but loud enough. And she was saying his name, over and over again, the way she always does when she thinks we can’t hear her. Jay. Oh, Jacob. Oh, Jay.

I waited outside the door for her to stop crying. But she didn’t.

“Mom?” I whispered. “Mommy? . . . Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer, but I know she heard me. I know because the light went out right away, and everything was silent.

“Mom?”

I waited a while longer. I waited even though I knew she wouldn’t answer, no matter how long I stood there.

Finally I left. I didn’t even try to be quiet. I didn’t tip-toe, I walked like a normal person down the hall, down the stairs, across the living room to the kitchen, and across the kitchen to the refrigerator.

Bread and butter, pasta salad, string cheese, strawberry yogurt, applesauce, more bread and butter, cold leftover pizza, olives, peanut butter straight out of the jar. I ate until my cheeks hurt, until the skin of my belly was stretched tight like a drum. Then I opened a brand-new carton of orange juice and drank the entire thing, standing up. Orange juice ran down my chin and onto the front of my nightgown. It dripped onto my bare feet. Every swallow hurt, but I didn’t care. After a while, it almost feels good, the hurting.

The first time it happened was the day of Daddy’s funeral. Our house was full of strangers, all of them patting my head, talking in whispers. Every so often my mother would come over to me and April and squeeze the breath out of us with her hugs. “Don’t cry,” she kept saying. “We will none of us cry.” Finally some lady I didn’t know came up to me with a plate and said, “Here you go, honey. Try to eat a little something.” So I did. I ate cold cuts and salads and fancy cookies. I ate a whole pile of brownies. Whatever I wanted I ate. I ate until it hurt to stand up. Finally I went into the bathroom and puked three times.

The first time is hard because you don’t know what you’re doing. Now, in the middle of the night, it’s simple.

I stood over the kitchen sink with my fingers down my throat, watching everything come back up. Afterward I went over to Daddy’s old chair. I picked up the big pile of papers sitting there. I walked them into my mother’s study and dropped them on top of her desk, where they belonged.

But I didn’t cry. Not once.