Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (32 page)

I think I counted to ten before sliding toward him. I placed one hand on his chest, rested my head on the pillow next to his.

“Please don’t be angry with me,” I whispered.

“I’m not angry, Hen,” he said.

“Don’t be disappointed,” I pressed. He said nothing.

“You’re disappointed,” I said.

“Well, yeah,” he said. Impatience in his voice. “You could call it that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. He slid one arm under and around me. He wound his fingers through my hair.

“We should get some sleep,” he said. “It’s a long way to New Jersey.”

When I emerged from the steamy bathroom, a towel wrapped around my wet head, he was back. He had opened the curtains. Two Styrofoam cups steamed on the round table in
front of the window. There was a paper bag with the Dunkin’ Donuts logo on it. He smiled at me.

“I got us some breakfast,” he said.

“Ooh, I hope it’s sugary and loaded with trans fats,” I said, eagerly approaching the bag. He shook his head.

“Nope. Two sesame bagels, cream cheese on the side,” he said. I picked up one of the Styrofoam cups.

“Caffeine?” I asked hopefully.

“Oh, yes,” he said. He pulled two large Nantucket Nectars from the bag. “And juice.”

We didn’t speak as we unwrapped the bagels and took our first tentative sips of the hot coffee. I could make out traces of blue sky through the gauzy privacy curtains. It promised to be a good day for driving.

“What time did you get up?” I asked him.

“I don’t know. Five? I couldn’t get back to sleep. My mind was working overtime.”

“Don’t you hate that?” I agreed. “It’s like you know you have to sleep some more, but you just keep
thinking
.” He was quiet when I said that. He cleared his throat.

“Actually, Henry.” A statement. I waited. Blew on my coffee. “I’ve been thinking.”

Not a good intro.

“I think we should go back.”

My lungs, instinctively, sucked air. Deep, sharp intake of breath. The way, so I’ve heard, your body clutches at air when you’ve plunged into icy water.

“What do you mean?” There was a dead look in his eyes. It made me sick.

“I know that Eva is your best friend, and you think she needs you right now …”

“I don’t think it. I
feel
it. Like, in my bones. This is not a question, David.”

“Fine, you feel it,” he said. Patiently. Like you would speak to a child. Something dark stirred inside me. “But Henry, be honest. What can you really accomplish up there? She’s got her family and a whole hospital’s worth of doctors looking out for her.”

“I don’t want to accomplish anything. I just want to be there for her.” What part of this doesn’t he
get
? I thought.

“I don’t know, Hen,” he said softly. “Are you sure you don’t want to be there for
you
? Are you sure this isn’t just some grand gesture because you feel guilty?”

“Why would I feel guilty?” I demanded.

“Because things are going well for you and not for her,” he said. “Because you’re happy and she’s not. I don’t know, you tell me. Because in the cold, clear light of day, this whole thing is starting to look pretty irrational. And I don’t think I can hang with it anymore.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. After making it halfway up the East Coast, he wanted to turn around? A light went on in my head.

“You’ve been talking to someone,” I said. Scripted. It explained the tone. The rehearsed expression. He placed the coffee cup carefully on the round table.

“If we head back now,” he said, “no recriminations. No sanctions, no problems. We’ll be able to play in the Friday tournament. I mean, I think we’ll be a little road-weary, but first round shouldn’t be too bad.…”

“Who?” I interrupted. “Who told you ‘no problems’?” He sighed.

“Harvey,” he said. “Missy. I checked my phone messages when I went out. They’re pretty upset, but I managed to calm them down.”

“Because you told them we’re heading back,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. He took one step forward, eagerly. “Henry, I know how you feel, and I totally respect that …”

“No, David, I don’t think you have a clue how I feel,” I said, my voice shaking. “I can’t believe you would go behind my back. I can’t believe you wouldn’t talk to me first. What else aren’t you telling me? Besides, by the way, about the car.” It slipped out. Not the way I’d hoped to bring up the topic.

He looked confused.

“What?”

“The Cayenne. I know your dad owns it.” David sighed again.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t up front with you about that. I just … hate … for people to judge me. To put me in the ‘rich kid’ box before they get to know me.”

“You could have told
me
the truth,” I said.

“I can tell you the truth now that you know me,” he corrected. “But when we were just getting together? Don’t say it
wouldn’t have colored the way you see me.” I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to give him a single point.

He stepped closer to me.

“Henry, I swear, that’s the only, only lie I’ve ever told you. So please believe me about this Harvey and Missy thing. Please appreciate how much slack they are cutting us. Ditching out of the program like that, without permission? Anybody else would have been sent home.”

“Exactly,” I snarled. “Chadwick’s rising stars. They’d let us get away with murder as long as we keep winning.” I couldn’t contain the bitterness in my voice. He frowned.

“That’s not what’s going on,” he said.

“Of course that’s what’s going on!” I snapped. “Why don’t you see it, David? Let me ask you something: don’t you ever feel
owned
by these people?”

“I feel lucky. These people support me,” he said, incredulous. “They support us.” I couldn’t help it; I snorted.

“Oh, that’s bull! You’re not their family, David. You’re their
investment
. Earn a top-ten ranking someday and they’ll love you. But say you break an ankle tomorrow? Then it’s welcome to oblivion.”

He crossed his arms tightly and stared at the carpet. When he spoke again, I could tell he chose his words carefully.

“I’m going back.” Something inside my chest split open.

“David. Please. I need to see her.” I couldn’t bear the thought of turning around. Not now. He nodded.

“I understand,” he repeated. “Listen. We’re about thirty minutes outside of Raleigh. You can pick up Amtrak there,
which will take you to Newark. From Newark you can get a bus to Ridgefield.”

The conversation had changed direction so quickly I actually felt dizzy. I sat on the edge of the bed, still clutching my coffee.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I had Missy check the trains. I told her I’d do my best to bring you back with me, but if you wouldn’t come, we needed a Plan B to get you home.”

I could hear a little “oh” escape my lips. Suddenly the anger I’d been riding evaporated, and I just felt … abandoned. My eyes filled.

David took the coffee from me, placed it on the floor and held both my hands in his. He knelt before me.

“Please, Henry. Let’s go back. Let the doctors do what they’re supposed to do, and we’ll do what we’re supposed to do.”

Supposed to do.

Who the hell decides
that
?

Chapter Thirty-Six

T
he tube is out. Breakfast is plain toast and juice. Along with this maroon plastic bottle of something called Boost. I’m trying not to freak out over what must be in it. I read the nutrition information on the label: 360 calories packed into eight fluid ounces. Plus enough vitamins and minerals to sustain a team of Clydesdales. You know, those enormous horses that pull the beer wagon?

The voice in my head shrieks, especially over the Boost. Every time I lift it to my lips, Ed unleashes on me.

Fatty, fatty two-by-four, can’t fit through the bathroom door! Here comes chunky monkey Eva drinking her Boosty woosty! Loser. Big baby. Big baby who does everything they tell her
.

Only Wendy understands Ed. She tells me she hears him behind my sarcastic jokes and nervous questions and anger. Especially the anger. She says the shrieks are Ed’s death cries. When I eat healthy food, it’s like pouring holy water on a demon. Make him sizzle, she tells me.

I don’t know how to tell her that every bite I take is like
flames to me. Guilt that burns all the way down. And on good days, I can believe that Ed is some nasty guy living in my head. But most of the time … there is no Ed. It’s me. That voice is my own.

If I can’t tell the difference between me and this so-called Ed, who do I believe?

Wendy is due in to see me this afternoon, but Rhonda has shown up for breakfast this morning. Wonderful. Someone always sits with me when I eat (they call it “support”), and today I’ve won the jackpot and get Mommy Dearest. She’s slurping something she picked up at Starbucks. Caramel Macchiato, she calls it.

“Would you like a sip?” she offers.

I stifle the impulse to hurl the Boost at her head.

“You really aren’t
getting
this, are you?” I say.

“Getting what, Eva? I offered you a sip of Starbucks.”

“Right. Trans-fatty, sugary, caramel crapulous whatever.” She looks nervously out the window.

“I’m sorry. I just thought you’d enjoy it more than the shakes they’re giving you. I mean, those Boosts already have eleven grams of fat in them, so I thought …”

“FUCK!” The Boost hits the wall. A brown stain explodes, drips.

Now THAT’S my girl! Next time, peg her
.

“Eva, my god, why did you do that?” She looks frightened. She yanks some tissues from the box on my night table and swabs the wall. Smears the brown even more.

“These are not SHAKES! They’re supplements, okay? Get
with the lingo, Mom. And can you
not
talk about … calories? Or fat grams? It is so unbelievably triggering!! Why don’t you understand that? Does Wendy need to beat you over the head or something?”

She returns to her chair and stares at the floor. A long minute passes before I notice her shoulders shaking. She is sobbing without making a sound.

“Not this again,” I mutter. Her head snaps up.

“I’m sorry. Is it upsetting to you that I’m crying?” she demands, her face streaked with tears. “Are you the only one around here allowed to express your feelings?”

“When have you ever
not
expressed your feelings?” I fire back. “It’s been the Rhonda Show in our house since the dawn of time.”

She laughs. Not in a mean way. More like I’ve told a great joke.

“Oh, Eva, how little you see. The Rhonda Show! Starring the Invisible Woman, I suppose. The drudge, whose entire existence is spent in the service of her amazing daughter!” She falls back in her chair, laughing and crying. Which I guess means she’s hysterical.

“That is so lame!” I fire back at her. “You are, like, the stage mother from hell, and somehow that’s my fault?” She shakes her head.

“Nothing is your fault, Eva. I’m just saying it’s been anything but the Rhonda Show all these years. It’s been the Eva Show.”

“Yeah, and you loved it,” I say bitterly. “Every braggy minute of it.”

“I did love it. Because you loved it,” she says softly. “And we love you.”

“You love the way I dance,” I correct her. “Face it, Mom. Without
pointe
shoes, I’m not particularly interesting to you.” A fierce expression comes over her face. She stands up.

“Someday you’ll have a child and realize how incredibly unfair that comment was.”

“Hey, you’re the one paying for all the therapy. Sorry if the truth hurts.”

She folds her arms across her chest tightly, her lips a thin line. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about what to say, or trying to hold back things she knows she shouldn’t say.

“From the moment … the moment … you were born and they placed you in my arms, I have loved you. I looked into your beautiful little face, and it was as if I recognized you from another life, and you had been returned to me. I loved you naked and screaming and red and helpless, and there wasn’t a
pointe
shoe in sight.” Her voice trembles as she speaks.

“
You
love dance, Eva. And because we love you, we’ve done everything we can to give you what you want. I know I’m not perfect, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why you’re so angry. But here’s the truth: if you never, never dance again? I will still love you.”

She walks out of the room. I know she’s coming back; she’s left her bag. She’s left her Starbucks. She’s left me, with this
adrenaline rush I can barely contain. With tears threatening to pour from my own eyes.

Because I want to believe her. I want so badly to love my mom again.

*   *   *

Wendy arrives that afternoon with a blank spiral notebook.

“A present,” she says. In addition to the notebook, she dumps a dizzying assortment of writing implements onto my lap. Colored markers, felt-tipped pens, iridescent purple pencils … I gasp in delight. I love funky writing stuff.

“This,” she explains, pointing to the notebook, “is going to be a journal. But not just any old journal. It’s a counter journal.”