In Her Shoes 105
"Rose, I'm trying to help you," said Maggie, sounding affronted. "I figure it's the least I can do, since you've been so generous." She stared at the floor. "Sorry I upset you," she said. "I just wanted to help." Rose opened her mouth, then closed it. This was part of her sister's particular genius—just at the moment when you were ready to kill her, to throw her out on the street, to demand that she pay back your money and return your clothes and your shoes, she'd say something that would catch in your heart like a fishhook. "Fine," she muttered. "Just put everything back when you're done." "You're supposed to go through all of your stuff every six months," said Maggie. "I read it in Vogue. And you, obviously, have fallen behind. I found acid-wash jeans," she added with a shudder. "But not to worry. I threw them away." "You should have taken them to Goodwill." "Just because someone is poor," declared Maggie, "does not mean they must be unfashionable." She extended the bowl of corn toward her sister. "Niblet?" Rose grabbed a spoon and helped herself. "How do you know what I'm wearing and what I'm not?" Maggie shrugged. "Well, some of it's obvious. Like those size twelve pants from Ann Taylor?" Rose knew the ones. She'd bought them on sale, and squeezed into them once four years ago after a week's worth of nothing but black coffee and Slim-Fast. They'd been hanging in her closet ever since, a silent reproach, a reminder of what was possible if she'd buckle down and stop eating french fries and pizza and . . . well, pretty much everything else she liked. "They're all yours," she said. "They're way too big. But maybe I could have them taken in," Maggie said, and turned her attention to the television set. "When are you going to put everything back?" asked Rose, imagining trying to sleep atop the litter of her wardrobe. "Shh!" said Maggie, lifting one finger, and pointed toward the
106 Jennifer weiner
TV, where a small, wheeled hunk of red-painted metal was menacing a bluish object that had a rotating blade protruding from its center. "What is this?" "Television," Maggie replied, stretching one leg out in front of her, and turning it this way and that, inspecting her calf. "It's this box, with pictures, and the pictures tell a delightful story!" Rose thought about reaching for her wallet. This is a paycheck she'd say, holding the object in question out for her sister's inspection. It represents money, which you earn by holding a job. Maggie took a swallow from the open bottle of champagne by her side. Rose opened her mouth to ask where she'd gotten champagne, then realized it was the bottle someone had given her when she'd passed the bar that had been reposing in a back corner of her refrigerator ever since. "How's that champagne?" Rose asked. Maggie took another gulp. "Delicious," she said. "Now, pay attention. Watch and learn. On this show, BattleBots, there are these guys who build robots ..." "That's a nice hobby," said Rose, who tried whenever she could t o encourage Maggie in the pursuit of acceptable men. Maggie waved a dismissive hand. "They're geeks. They build these robots, and the robots fight each other, and the winner gets . . . something. I'm not sure what. Look, look, there's my favorite," she said, pointing at what looked like a miniature trash truck with a spike welded to its middle. "That's the Philiminator," she said. "Huh?" asked Rose. "The guy who made it, his name is Phil, so it's the Philiminator." Sure enough, the camera had panned to a pale, lanky guy in a baseball cap reading "Philiminator." "He's undefeated in three rounds," Maggie said, as a second robot rolled into view. This one was a shiny green and looked like a souped-up Dustbuster. "Grendel," said the announcer.
In Her Shoes 107
"Okay," said Maggie. "You root for Grendel." "Why?" asked Rose, but by then the match was starting. The two robots started off after each other, zipping around the concrete floor like small, crazed dogs. "Go, Philiminator!" Maggie hollered, waving the champagne bottle exuberantly. She looked at her sister. "Yay, Grendel," said Rose. Maggie's robot zipped in close. The spike from its center rose, and rose, and came crashing down like a guillotine, spearing Grendel through its center, as Maggie clapped and shouted her encouragement. "Whew! Close one," said Maggie. The robots wheeled around to face each other again. "Come on, Philiminator. FUCK HIM UP!" Maggie bellowed. Rose burst out laughing, as a spiked wheel on the front of Grendel started whirring. "Ooh, look out . . . here I come!" Now Grendel advanced on his opponent. The Philiminator lifted its spike and speared its opponent through its center. "Yeah!" Maggie cheered. The two robots were locked together now, joined by the spike. Grendel twisted this way and that, unable to get free. "Come on ... come on ..." Rose muttered. Grendel's wheel whirred, striking sparks off the floor. The Philiminator raised its spike for the death blow, and Grendel zipped away. "GO GRENDEL!" Rose hollered, and jumped to her feet. "Yes! YES!" Maggie sulked as Grendel charged at its opponent, wedged its nose underneath the much taller Philiminator, and flipped it on its back. "Noooo," wailed Maggie as Rose's robot ran over hers once, and then again, until the thing was no more than a collection of crushed parts and broken pieces. "Oh, yes. OH YES!" said Rose, pumping her fist in the air. "That's what I'm talking about!" she shouted, just the way she'd heard guys in the row behind her at Eagles games holler after particularly crucial touchdowns. Then she turned toward her sister,
108 Jennifer weiner
sure that Maggie would be smirking at her, doing a poor job of showing how pathetic she found Rose's excitement. Except Maggie wasn't smirking. Maggie, her cheeks flushed, was beaming at her sister, holding out her hand for a high five, laughing as she offered her sister the bottle of champagne. Rose hesitated, then took a swallow. "Want to order a pizza?" Rose offered. She could envision the rest of the night—pizza and pajamas and fresh popcorn, the two of them on the couch beneath the blanket, watching TV. Maggie did smirk then . . . but only a little. And her voice was almost kind. "You're really living now, aren't you?" she asked. "You should get out more." "I get out enough," said Rose. "You should stay in more." "I stay in plenty," said Maggie, rising gracefully to her feet. She padded into the bedroom, returning minutes later dressed in skintight faded jeans, slung low around her hips, a red top that left one shoulder and arm completely bare, and Rose's jalapeno leather cowboy boots. Rose's hand-stitched red leather cowboy boots, bought on a weekend in New Mexico, where Rose had gone once for a seminar about insurance law. "You don't mind, do you?" said Maggie, gathering her purse and her keys. "I found them in your closet. They looked lonely." "Sure," said Rose. She stared at her sister and wondered what it must be to move through life being so thin and so pretty; what it would be like to have men look at you with Unconditional approval, unmitigated desire. "Have fun." "I always do," said Maggie, and breezed out the door, leaving Rose with the popcorn, the flat champagne, the ruin of clothes strewn across her bed. She flicked the television set into its customary silence, and started to clean up the mess.
FOURTEEN
"Can I help you?" asked Ella. It was Ella's afternoon at the thrift shop, where she passed a few pleasant, mostly uninterrupted hours sorting bags of clothing and putting price tags on furniture and dishes. A young woman in bright orange leggings and a stained T-shirt edged down the aisle that was decorated with fake pine swags and gold and silver tinsel, in preparation for the holidays. "Sheets," the woman said, biting her lip nervously. Ella could see the faint remnant of a bruise high on her cheek. "I'm looking for sheets." "Well, it's your lucky day," said Ella. "It just so happens we got a shipment in from Bullock's. Irregulars, of course, but I don't see a thing wrong with them, except the colors are a little . . . well, you'll see." She started off down the aisle, walking briskly in her black pants and white blouse with her name tag clipped to the front. "Right here," said Ella, pointing to where the sheets were—a few dozen packets in all, some for queen-sized beds, some for twins. They were turquoise and hot pink, but they were new. "Now, they're five dollars each. How many will you need?" "Um, two twins." The woman picked up the plastic-wrapped packages, turning them over in her hands. "Are the pillowcases extra?"
110 Jennifer weiner
"Oh! Actually, no," said Ella. "It's five dollars for the set." The woman looked relieved as she picked up a pair of pillowcases and walked to the cash register. She pulled a five-dollar bill out of her pocket, and three crumpled singles. When she started rooting around for change, lining pennies up carefully on the counter, Ella slipped her sheets into a bag. "That's fine," she said. The woman looked up at her. "Are you sure?" "It's fine," Ella repeated. "Take care of yourself, and come back . . . we're getting new stuff in all the time." The woman smiled—politely, Ella thought—and walked out, her flip-flops slapping on the sidewalk. Ella stared at her back, wishing she'd found a way to slip some towels into the woman's bag along with the sheets. She sighed, and felt frustrated. It had been like that with Caroline—Ella always wanting to do more, to fix things for her daughter, to chase after her, with calls, with cards, with letters, with money, dangling the promise of vacations and trips, saying the same thing a dozen different ways: Let me help you. But Caroline hadn't wanted to be helped, because accepting help meant admitting that she couldn't do it herself. And look how that had turned out. The door swung open again and Lewis walked into the thrift store with a bundle of newspapers under his arm. "Hot off the presses!" he said. Ella tried for a smile and looked at her poem. "I AM NOT INVISIBLE," she read. Not invisible, she thought sadly. Just doomed. Lewis was looking at her closely. "Still want lunch?" he asked, and when she nodded and closed the cash register, he offered her his arm. She walked out into the steamy sunshine, still wishing she'd done things differently. She wished she'd been able to start a conversation, to maybe ask if the woman needed help, and then figured out how to help her. And, she thought, she wished that Lewis would never find out what kind of a person she really was. She hadn't brought up children and, so far, he hadn't asked . . . but
In Her Shoes 11
someday soon he would, and what then? What would she say? What could she say, really, except that she used to be a mother, that she wasn't a mother anymore, and that it was her fault? And he'd stare at her, unable to make sense of it, and she wouldn't be able to explain it properly, even though she knew that it was true, and it was the stone she couldn't swallow, the river she couldn't cross. Her fault. And no matter how she tried to make up for it, what small acts of goodness she attempted, she would carry that around with her until the day she died.
it FIFTEEN
"There's someone to see you," said Rose's secretary. Rose looked up from her computer and saw her sister, resplendent in black boot-cut leather pants, a cropped denim jacket, and the red cowboy boots, waltz into her office. "Good news!" Maggie said, beaming. Please let it be a job, Rose prayed. "What is it?" "I had a job interview! At this great new bar!" "Terrific!" said Rose, trying to match her enthusiasm to Maggie's. "That's great! When do you think they'll let you know?" "I'm not sure," said Maggie, who was lifting and replacing books and folders from Rose's bookcase. "Maybe after the holidays." "But wouldn't the holidays be their busy time?" Jesus, Rose, I don't know!" Maggie picked up the small plastic replica of Xena, Warrior Princess—one of Amy's birthday gifts— and stood it on its head. "Do you think you could maybe try to be happy for me?" "Sure," said Rose. "And have you made any progress on putting my clothes back?" For the past several nights, the pile of clothing had shifted from her bed to the floor, but had not yet made it to the closet. "I started," said Maggie, flopping into the seat across from Rose's desk. "I'll take care of it! It's not such a big deal."
In Her Shoes 113
"Sure, for you it isn't," said Rose. "What is that supposed to mean?" Rose got to her feet. "I mean, you're living with me rent-free, you haven't found a job . . ." "I told you, I had an interview!" "I don't think you're trying very hard." "I am!" Maggie shouted. "What do you know about it?" "Shh!" Maggie slammed the door and glared at her sister. "I know that it can't be that hard to find a job! " Rose said. "I see he lp-wanted signs all over the place! Every store, every restaurant..." "I don't want to work in another store. I don't want to waitress." "So what do you want to do?" Rose demanded. "Sit around like a princess, waiting for MTV to call?" Maggie's face reddened as if she'd been slapped. "Why are you so mean?" Rose bit her lip. They'd done this dance before, or, rather, Maggie had . . . with her father, with well-meaning boyfriends, the occasional concerned teacher or boss. Different partners, same steps. She could gauge the precise instant when Rose was going to apologize. And a heartbeat before Rose opened her mouth, the instant she began to inhale the air that would form the words I'm sorry, Maggie started talking again. "I'm trying," she said, swiping at her eyes. "I'm trying very hard. It's not easy for me, Rose, you know? It's not easy for everyone the way it's easy for you." "I know," Rose said gently. "I know you're trying." "I try. Every day," said Maggie. "I'm not a freeloader. I don't sit around and feel sorry for myself. I go out and I look for a job ... every . . . day. And I know I'm never going to be a lawyer like you ..." Rose made a protesting noise. Maggie cried a little louder. "... but that doesn't mean I just sit around and do nothing. I'm trying, Rose, I'm trying so h-h-h-hard ..."
114 Jennifer weiner
Rose crossed the room to hug her. Maggie shrugged away. "Okay," said Rose. "Okay, don't worry about it. You'll find a job ..." "I always do," said Maggie, segueing seamlessly from her weepy Renee Zellweger into strength-through-adversity Sally Field. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, straightened her back, and looked at her sister. "I'm sorry," Rose said. "I'm really, really sorry." Wondering, even as she said the words, precisely what she was apologizing for. It had been over a month now. Maggie showed no signs of leaving. Her clothes and toiletries, compact disc cases and cigarette lighters, were still tossed all over Rose's apartment, which was feeling smaller by the day, and the night before Rose had burned her finger after dipping it in a saucepan that she thought held hot caramel sauce, which turned out to be Maggie's eyebrow wax. "Look," she said helplessly, "have you had dinner yet? We can go out, maybe see a movie ..." Maggie wiped her eyes again and squinted at her sister. "You know what we should do? We should go out. Like, really out. To a club or something." "I don't know," said Rose. "You always have to wait to get into those places. And they're so smoky and loud . . ." "Come on. Just once. I'll help you pick out an outfit . . ." "Oh, fine," said Rose reluctantly. "I think there's some law firm thing going on at one of those places on Delaware Avenue." "What kind of thing?" asked Maggie. Rose rifled through her mail until she found the invitation. " 'A holiday cocktail party,' " she read. " 'Finger food, free games.' Maybe we can go there." "To start with," said Maggie. She opened the door and bounced out of the office. "Let's go!" Back at Rose's apartment, Maggie pulled a blue sweater and a black skirt from the pile beside the bed. "Go take a shower," she said, "and be sure to moisturize!"
