Blue Plate Special (20 page)

Granddaughter.
The word sounds strange and familiar at the same time.

Mom opens her mouth, but no words come out.

“Think about your answer,” Green Mountain tells her. “Just don’t hate me if you can help it. I hated my mother for years and the only person it hurt was me. Hate poisons you. It makes you bitter.”

“I don’t hate you,” Mom says. “Maybe I did, once, but now…well, I’m still figuring out how I feel. I need time.”

“Sounds fair.” Green Mountain reaches in her drawer, pulling out the black-and-white photos she showed me earlier.

She holds them out for Mom, who looks at them like she’s seen a ghost. “Oh my God, I—I saw these before. A long time ago.”

Green Mountain forces a smile. “I know. There was a lot more room for ’em in my shoebox after you took off.”

I have no idea what she means. I watch Mom’s face for a clue, but there isn’t one.

“When I was a teenager,” Mom says, “I looked just like this girl. Who—?”

“God, Mom,” I say, “don’t be so dramatic, it’s—”

“She’s
me
,” Green Mountain interrupts.

Mom’s head jerks up. “You?”

“Yes. Me. With your father. I was young once too.”

“I know, but—”

“When you were a teenager, Desiree, it was painful to look at you. Every time I did”—her voice cracks and she clears her throat to cover it—“I’d see myself. The person I used to be. The person I’d never have a shot at being again.” The lines in her face soften. “I saw everything I’d lost.”

Mom’s voice is barely a whisper. “We
both
lost a lot.”

Green Mountain nods. “Yes, I suppose we did.”

When Mom reaches out to hand back the photos, Green Mountain holds up her hand. “Keep them, Desiree.”

“But you said they’re the only pictures you have of you and my father.”

“I have an idea,” I offer. “My friend Olivia has a scanner and a really nice photo printer. I can get her to print a copy for Mom and me then mail the original back to you.”

Green Mountain smiles. “I’d like that, Ariel. Thank you.”

Outside, the overhead lights in the parking lot blink on.

A cart clatters down the hall, stopping near Green Mountain’s door. I smell pasta and my mouth waters.

“That’ll be my dinner,” she explains. Reaching in the drawer again, she removes a strip of yellowed tickets. She separates two, handing one to Mom and one to me. Below a picture of a wagon wheel, in grayed print, it says:

The Second Chance Diner

12 River Road

Elmira, NY

And on the back:
GOOD FOR ONE DAILY BLUE PLATE SPECIAL
. Whatever
that
is.

“Tad gave those to me on one of our dates. But I could never go back to the diner after he died.” She tips her chin toward the window. “It’s just a few blocks from here. Have supper there, why don’t you? Maybe they’ll still accept the tickets.”

I
pace from the front hall
to the living room to the kitchen then back, over and over again, repeating Tad’s exact words.
I care about you, Madeline. I want to know everything about you. Everything.

“Tad,” I practice, “I have something to tell you…” But I can’t seem to force out the end of the sentence, the part that goes: “I’m pregnant.”

When the phone rings, I dive at it. “
Tad?
”

“Hi, Madeline. Sorry I’m running late. You sound funny. Are you okay?”

I stare down at what I’m wearing—a sea foam green turtleneck, Jordache jeans, and a pair of Frye boots. I put a dent in my shoebox savings for this outfit—which I bought brand-new at Sears and Roebuck instead of the thrift store—but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need college anymore. I’m not going to be a nurse, I’m going to be a mother. And a wife, I hope. Mrs. Thaddeus Leary. And after we have the baby I’m carrying, we’ll have more. Tons of kids. Because that’s what Tad wants.

“Don’t worry about being late,” I tell him. “I’m fine.” Then I toss in a lie to make him feel better. “I haven’t even done my hair
yet.” I glance in the mirror at my perfectly formed curls, the pale blue shadow lining my lids, my pink tinted lips. The cosmetics were a present from Muralee for going with her to Ithaca. It’s the nicest gift I’ve gotten in years. Okay, it’s the
only
gift I’ve gotten in years. Unless you count the Chinese handcuffs Tad won for me

Studying my reflection, I realize I’m as thin as Muralee now. Except I won’t stay that way for long. I grip the phone between my chin and shoulder and slide both hands beneath my sweater. Palms out, I stretch the fabric to fake a baby swell. Staring at the green hill, I say, “Tad, I have something important to tell you.”

“What is it, baby?”

Baby. Tad said the word. It’s a sign.

“I, um, I want to tell you in person.”

“Okay.” Tad hesitates. “Is it
good
news, I hope?”

I imagine living with Tad and his dad in their trailer until we can get a place of our own. Tad’s room is the biggest, thank goodness. I’ll paint his brown paneling yellow, Tad’s favorite color, and we’ll cuddle close in his twin bed. We can clean out his dad’s junk room and maybe turn it into a nursery. I saw a used crib in the classifieds for ten dollars. “Yeah. It’s good news.”

“Great. Look, I’m gonna jump in the shower. I’ll see you in a little while, okay?”

“Um, Tad, wait.” I swallow hard. “Did you mean what you said earlier? About wanting to know everything about me?”

“Everything,” he answers again.

* * *

It’s been dark for a while now. Tad and I have never gone to the drive-in this late. The first feature has probably ended.

I walk to the window, staring out at our empty driveway. An
ambulance hurries past, darting through the red light at the corner. Its siren slices the stillness, dicing the night into bite-size pieces. I imagine what the pieces might taste like. Baker’s Chocolate, I decide. Bittersweet.

Next, a fire truck rushes past. Then the night is quiet again, returned to its unbroken blackness.

I walk to the kitchen and glare at the phone, willing it to ring. But it doesn’t.

The clock over the stove ticks and ticks. A baby cries in the apartment next door.

I pace again. From the front door to the living room to the kitchen. From the kitchen to the living room to the front door. Twenty-two steps each way. Times ten trips is two hundred and twenty steps. Times twenty trips is four hundred and forty steps.

The baby is still crying. I press my hot cheek against the cool wall, slap the wall hard, and yell, “Pick up your baby, damn it!”

My stomach groans, waking the Beast. I swing the fridge door open and glare at the contents. A box of
AYDS
candy, a head of lettuce, two cucumbers, a lone radish, a quart of skim milk, two cans of Tab. Diet food. I could kill for a package of Ring Dings.

Closing the door, I check the clock again. It’s almost nine thirty. If only my mother hadn’t taken the car, I could drive to Tad’s and see for myself why he’s so late. Nervously, I walk to the phone. I dial Tad’s number, which rings and rings.

Finally, someone picks up. Tad’s dad. His voice is groggy. “Yeah? Who’s this?”

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to wake you, b—but—”

“Madeline?”

“Yes, sir. I’m calling because Tad was supposed to pick me up
and, well, he hasn’t shown up yet. I was wondering, um, if he’s still there.”

“Hell, no,” he answers gruffly. “He left a long time ago.”

“Oh,” I say, and hang up.

I walk down the stairs that lead to our apartment, flick on the porch light, and step outside. The air is chilly. My breath hangs in small puffs in front of me. A boy and a girl walk past, holding hands. The street lamp bathes them in light. “Tad,” I whisper, “where
are
you?”

As I turn to go back inside, a police car slows to the curb. An officer steps out, then opens the door to the backseat. He leans in, tugging on a woman’s arm. A woman who’s dressed in a blue jacket, just like the one I bought, except hers has a huge rip in one arm.

The policeman guides the woman up our sidewalk, toward our apartment. Our porch. Me.

When they reach the top step, she shakes his hand away.

The policeman asks me, “Is this woman your mother?”

She squints at me, attempting to focus on my face. She looks pathetic. But I’m sick of feeling sorry for her. Tired of her needs always winning over mine. For the first time in my life, I admit to myself: I really, truly can’t stand her.

“Mad’line, honey,” she slurs, “please, tellthenicepolicemanwhoIam.”

Turning to the cop, I say, “She’s the person who’s made my life a living hell.”

every wednesday, my day off,

i write a letter to dr. stemple.

my words flow easily,

like water pouring

straight from the tap.

when she writes back,

dr. stemple says kind things,

like how lucky ariel is to have me

and how lucky i am to have her.

once, i ask her if she has kids,

and what she tells me is sad—

that her and her ex-husband

tried really hard to have them

but her doctor said she

couldn’t get pregnant.

that night i cry for her,

hugging my baby girl tight.

* * *

in may

when jeremy turns sixteen

and gets his license,

we start saving

to buy a used car.

after three months

we’re proud owners

of an ’82 chevette that

reminds me of a giant green cricket.

on the day jeremy picks up the plates—

just before labor day weekend—

he phones his parents

from the pay phone

outside our room.

i’m inside

folding laundry while ariel naps.

all seems right with the world

until

i hear sudden pounding

and rush outside.

clutching the receiver,

jeremy’s slumped to the ground

slamming his head

against the wall,

crying,
no, no, no.

jeremy
—i reach my hand out

to stop him—
what’s wrong?

he falls forward,

collapsing into my arms.

my ma
, he chokes out.
she
—

she’s in the goddamn psych ward!

* * *

ned offers us a week off with pay—

pretty generous since we’ve only

worked for him nine months—

and charlotte gives us

a long-distance phone card

with 240 prepaid minutes

so we can call whenever we want.

the morning

after jeremy phones home,

he feeds ariel strained peaches

and i make sandwiches for the trip.

as i pack our bags in the hatchback

i notice the
c
on the clover inn sign’s

burned out.
lover inn.

tears sting my eyes.

we haven’t even left yet and

already i can’t wait to come back.

the sun’s rising

as jeremy carries ariel to the car,

perched on his sunburned shoulders.

his hair is the longest i’ve ever seen it,

held back with a twisted red bandanna.

his grunge-black color’s grown out

and my barbie-doll blond has too,

so we look like our old selves again.

dah!
ariel blurts,

slapping jeremy’s head.
dah!

jeremy’s mouth opens in a wide o.

shit! dez! d’you hear that?

she called me da-da. oh, man!

my heart crowds with

so much feeling

i think it might break in two.

as i reach for my disposable camera

jeremy flashes the first smile

i’ve seen since the phone call,

and ariel clutches his red bandanna,

laughing and calling,
dah! dah! dah!

* * *

twenty-two hours later,

we cross the border into new york

and park at a roadside rest area.

i step out, stiff as hell,

squinting into the morning sun,

which seems dimmer than

the sun we left in ocala.

we’re almost home
,

jeremy says, stretching.

maybe you’re home
,

i mumble to myself,

but i’m a thousand miles from mine.

* * *

when we pass our old high school,

i realize my junior year

is starting without me.

i glance at my watch. 8:12.

almost time for first period.

i picture carol ann fluffing

her hair in the bathroom mirror,

no clue where i’ve gone,

who i’ve become.

remembered smells haunt me:

old books,

fresh sweat,

chalk dust.

the bell sounds.

lockers clang closed,

lip-locks end,

kids hurry toward classrooms—

places i thought were unimportant.

i wish i had a regular

school day to do over.

i’d try harder,

study for tests,

hand in homework.

i see what i didn’t see then—

the teachers weren’t

evil brain-sucking tyrants

getting their rocks off

by busting our asses.

they were trying to grow our minds

so we’d turn into people like dr. stemple,

reading poetry and writing books,

instead of becoming losers like mam,

like me.

* * *

an hour later

i’m in jeremy’s old living room

holding ariel while he paces,

mumbling,
it’s all my fault,

it’s all my fucking fault.

his father doesn’t argue with him.

his stare scorches me, saying,

it’s your fault too, you little bitch.

he signals jeremy into a room

i’ve never seen before.

i catch a glimpse as the door opens—

dark, knotty pine paneling,

stuffed pheasants lining the shelves,

a wooden desk shaped like a coffin,

photographs trapped behind glass.

a man’s room.

the door closes,

a hungry mouth that

swallows them both.

i stand, step close, listen.

are you sure that kid is yours, son?

she doesn’t look a damn bit like you.

dad, of course she’s—

because there’s something

about that girl i don’t trust, jeremy.

look, dad, i love her, okay?

and i love my daughter.

now can we talk about something else?

like mom. what happened?

how’s she doing?

silence.

footsteps.

a drawer opens.

a lighter flicks.

cigar smoke reaches my nose.

your mother overdosed, jeremy.

that’s why they’re keeping her there,

to be sure she’s not a threat to herself.

ariel whimpers

and i step back from the door,

shrinking farther and farther away

from the sound of jeremy’s sobs.

upstairs

i lay ariel on jeremy’s old bed

and prop her between two pillows.

i reach in my backpack,

pull out dr. stemple’s card,

dial her number on jeremy’s phone.

an answering machine picks up.

hello, you have reached lee stemple.

i’m not available to take your call

so leave a message after the tone.

beep!

i panic,

hang up.

i lie next to ariel,

imagine jeremy and me

watching
the simpsons,

imagine jeremy imitating homer,

making me worry i’ll pee my pants laughing.

the real jeremy appears in the doorway,

jerking me back to reality.

his eyes are puffy and red.

you and ariel stay in here,
he says.

i’ll make up the pullout in the den.

jeremy, we freaking live together.

why can’t we both stay in here?

not answering, he turns.

i’m going to visit my mom.

you can come along if you want.

* * *

the elevator stops

at the behavioral sciences unit.

jeremy empties his pockets

into a clear container and

a silver-haired nurse buzzes

him through a metal door

that closes behind him

with a deafening clang

i feel echo in the space

between my ribs.

i sit in the waiting room

next to the pill station

in the second of six ugly chairs,

joined at the hip like siamese sextuplets.

i tuck ariel’s face in the

hollow below my chin

so she won’t have to see

what i see—the man in the

dirty green bathrobe pulling

patches of hair from his scalp,

the lady with slippers on the wrong feet,

chanting the same seven words over and over:

faze-days-blaze-mayonnaise-craze-polonaise-gaze,

faze-days-blaze-mayonnaise-craze-polonaise-gaze.

at a minute past five,

the metal door buzzes open.

jeremy stops at the counter,

refills his pockets,

flashes a leather wristband.

it’s from my mom.

she made it for me

in crafts hour.

the letters that form his name are

punched in the thick tawny hide.

the spacing’s uneven,

the
m
is up too high,

and the band is huge

for his wrist.

it’s nice,
i lie,

because i know jeremy.

he’ll keep that stupid thing forever.

* * *

the next morning,

i phone charlotte.

take your time, she says.

family comes first.

your jobs’ll be waiting for you

whenever you’re ready to come back.

i don’t tell her

that i’m ready to come back now,

and i miss florida and the clover inn

like i’ve never missed anything before.

* * *

that afternoon

ariel pulls on her ear, crying.

by the time jeremy leaves

to pick up hoagies for dinner,

her forehead is burning.

he drops me off at wal-mart

so i can buy ear drops

and baby aspirin.

ariel’s strapped in her carrier,

riding in my shopping cart,

tugging her ear again, whimpering.

i get what i came for and step into line.

a woman with dark squiggly hair who

reminds me of scary from the spice girls

totals and bags my order.

as she hands me my change

i hear,
jesus, dez, is that you?

i recognize the voice.

shaking, i turn.

and a few feet

behind me

there

she

is.

there
they
are—

mam in a striped shirt and shorts,

looking fatter than ever,

and larry with a stupid john deere hat,

a toothpick clenched between his teeth.

their fingers sport matching gold bands.

glancing from mam to larry,

ariel sucks in a sudden, sharp breath

and lets out an earsplitting scream.

her face goes red

as she bunches

her tiny white fists,

punching the air around her.

good instincts,
i whisper,

stroking her small, damp head.

mam steps toward me.
dez,

where the hell’ve you been?

i was worried about you.

i back toward the exit.

get away from me

or i’ll scream.

she winces,

but i don’t care.

ariel tugs at her ear again.

i pull a bottle from my bag

and she takes it,

blubbering softly.

larry looks straight at me,

rolling that goddamn toothpick

from one side of his mouth to the other.

pretty little girl you got there, desiree.

bet she’ll be fighting off the boys,

just like her mama.

then he winks.

he fucking winks at me.

i’m not sure what i throw first.

something i yank off a display

in the center aisle—a tonka

truck, i think—then i grab

whatever’s beside it.

a war tank. a model car.

i whip them in larry’s direction,

but he manages to sidestep every one,

laughing like it’s so freaking funny,

which pisses me off even more.

ariel drops her bottle and cries.

mam reaches forward.

stay away from her!
i holler.

you’re not allowed to touch my daughter!

as i pick ariel up

two guys in suits race toward us.

they look like the blues brothers,

minus the shades.

i read their badges:
security.

jeremy appears out of nowhere,

stepping between them and me.

it’s okay,
he tells them.

we’re leaving.

he slips an arm around my shoulder,

guides us toward the exit, fast.

i collapse on a bench outside.

i’m shaking and my hair’s wet with sweat.

jeremy pushes my bangs back.

what the hell happened in there?

do you think your dad

will watch ariel?

i ask jeremy.

we’ve gotta go

somewhere and talk,

just you and me.

there’s something

i really need to tell you.