Letting Ana Go (12 page)

Vanessa heard Coach tell me I was doing a great job, and I heard her sigh really loudly like hearing this was
just so taxing
she simply
couldn’t endure
. I shot her a dirty look, maybe a little dirtier than I should have, and she rolled her eyes. I’d ridden with her and Geoff, so after practice I was just completely silent in the car. Finally, she turned around and asked me what my problem was.

Me: No problem, Vanessa. None at all.

Vanessa: Right. Except for that look you shot me, and now you’re not talking.

Me: You’re the one sighing like there’s a foreign missile crisis every time Coach tells me I’m doing a good job.

Vanessa: And you’re the one
lying
about how much you’re eating.

Me: Vanessa, do you see everything I put in my mouth each day?

Vanessa: All I know is that—

Me: Didn’t ask what you
know
. Asked if you see everything I put in my mouth each day.

Geoff: Hey, you guys. Chill out. It’s not that big a—

Vanessa and me: Shut up, Geoff.

Me: I’m eating plenty. I’m running better than I ever have. You’re just jealous because you’re not beating me in the five-mile anymore.

Vanessa: Oh. Yeah. That’s it. You are such a liar.

Me: What?

Vanessa: You heard me.

I got out of the car and slammed the door. Geoff jumped like he’d been shot at. I was so mad I had to come straight upstairs and write about it. I’m sick of Vanessa’s attitude. I look great, I feel great, I’ve got a great body and a great boyfriend, and she can’t handle it because I’m beating her. Some friend. When she and Geoff started going out last year, I was so happy for her. I’ve been riding around as their third wheel for months now, and all of a sudden when things start to go well for me, she has to get all hot and bothered about it.

Screw her.

I don’t need that noise.

Thank God for Jill. She’s the only one who understands me. I’m going over there for dinner tonight. Rob is staying there this weekend while his parents are out of town for their anniversary. We’re going to have a big cookout. Jill didn’t tell Vanessa and Geoff. I’m glad. I don’t think I could possibly deal with any more judgment from that direction this evening.

Weight:
124

Mom had the day off from work yesterday. When I woke up it was weird because I actually smelled coffee and bacon cooking. For a minute, I was confused because I imagined that Dad was downstairs making breakfast, and before I was really fully awake, I felt this funny excitement and actually smiled, and snuggled down into my pillows under my comforter, waiting for him to rap on the door and tell me the waffles or the omelets were ready.

Then it hit me: Dad doesn’t live here.

My eyes flew open, and suddenly I was awake, and I had this strange sinking feeling. It was like I’d forgotten I was mad at Dad, and it made me feel stupid and sad at the same time;
stupid because I can’t let him off the hook that easily, and sad because . . .

(Why is it so hard to even write this down?)

Sad because I miss him.

There. I said it. I miss him. I wish he’d been nicer to Mom. I wish they could have worked it out. When I was over at Jack and Jill’s the other night having the cookout with Rob and these neighbors of theirs from next door, I couldn’t help noticing how easy Susan and James were with each other. It’s not that they don’t ever have little “moments” where they disagree. It’s just that they’re nice to each other about it. It seems like they rarely have those “moments” at the same time. I saw Susan get briefly frustrated when James set down a knife he’d used to cut up some raw chicken on her clean cutting board, but instead of snapping at him about it, she glanced around the room and just asked him to rinse off that knife. It was a small thing, but it was such a big thing. My dad would’ve cursed under his breath and grabbed the knife and tossed it into the sink or something. Then Mom would’ve looked extra hurt and been crazily apologetic and scurried around trying to “fix” things and overcompensated, which would have annoyed Dad even more until he finally snapped at her to get out of his way. I saw that happen a lot between them, and it didn’t matter who was around.

Anyway, I went downstairs and was thinking about all of
this and was surprised to see Mom sitting there with coffee and . . . bacon. No eggs. No waffles. Just a big plate of bacon.

Mom: Good morning, honey.

Me: That’s a lot of bacon.

Mom: Want some?

Me: Not really the breakfast of champions.

Mom (moaning): I
know
. I just needed a little pick-me-up.

Me: Have you been exercising at all? You know working out fires up the feel-good in your brain.

Mom (sighing): I know. I just . . . I don’t know how you do it. I’m so old, and I have no energy, and . . .

Her voice trailed off, and she popped another piece of bacon into her mouth. I ate a couple of hard-boiled eggs and drank a glass of water and a cup of coffee. When I was done, I rinsed out my mug and put it into the dishwasher. Then I picked up her plate of bacon and put it on the counter next to the sink.

Me: C’mon.

Mom: Hey! What?

Me: Put on your tennis shoes and some workout shorts.

Mom: What? Why?

Me: We’re going to go for a jog.

Mom: Oh . . . no. Honey. I can’t jog.

Me: How do you know?

Mom: I just haven’t in like . . .

Me: Now. We’re leaving in five minutes.

I couldn’t actually believe it, but when I came back downstairs, she was lacing up her old running shoes.

The whole attempt was disastrous, naturally. We jogged down the block toward the park and had to walk the next block. Then I made her jog again. We did this all the way there, and the more she stopped and whined about how she was having a hard time breathing, or her ankles hurt, or her knee felt funny, the angrier I got. When we finally got to the park, I walked her over to the workout stations where Jill and I do sit-ups and push-ups, and dips and showed her how to start. I sat at her feet and she did four sit-ups before she lay back on the wooden bench huffing and puffing and said, I can’t!

Me: Yes, you can.

Mom: Honey, you don’t understand.

Me: Yes. I
do
understand. I understand perfectly. I understand that you don’t care enough about yourself to take care of yourself. You don’t care enough about me to take care of yourself. And you
certainly
didn’t care enough about
Dad
to take care of yourself.

I didn’t realize I was crying until I saw that she was crying too. I stood up and took off running across the park. I ran down the street, then turned away from our house and ran toward the mountain. I ran until the tears had stopped, which must’ve been
at least four miles, then I turned around and ran toward home.

When I got here, Mom’s car was gone. She’d left a note that she’d gone out with her girlfriend Pam. Pam is Mom’s truly overweight friend from the hospital. They’ve worked nights together in the ER for years. Mom might have twenty pounds to lose. Pam is obese. She has big sacks of fat that wiggle on her arms, making her elbows just dimples from behind. She’s always wearing sleeveless tops for some reason. Probably because sleeves on her arms look like sausage casings about to explode.

In the shower, I could just picture them sitting at Pam’s favorite restaurant, this sports bar called Dick’s Hot Wing Express. I could smell the buffalo sauce dripping off Pam’s greasy fingers while she poured more light beer for my mom and listened as Mom cried and talked about how hard this has all been on her.

After my shower, I opened my drawer and realized I was almost out of clean clothes. I went down to the laundry room, and there was a load of whites just sitting in the washer, soaking wet. They’d been there overnight, so I set the machine to rinse again, and as I marched back upstairs, I saw the empty bacon plate sitting on the counter. Mom had eaten the rest of it when she got back, I guess. Something about that made me so angry, I wanted to throw it across the kitchen. Instead, I ran over to the couch and picked up a throw pillow off the floor and hit the
couch with it over and over again. The living room was a wreck of Mom’s dirty dishes and old newspapers, books, and ice cream bar wrappers. I thought about Jill’s place. It was always gorgeous. It looked like a page out of a catalog for a furniture store—like Susan had styled the whole place.

Mom is still in bed this morning, but last night, I decided several things:

1. I’m getting a job. Now that Jill has ballet intensives for the next month, I can’t stand being here with Mom all the time.

2. This wasn’t all Dad’s fault. I feel like since he’s been gone, I’m seeing the things that must have driven him crazy about Mom. Maybe I’ll call him this week.

Weight:
122

Turns out it’s not as hard to get a job as I thought it would be.

On Saturday, Jill and I went to the Springs, which sounds like the name of a spa but is actually this big outdoor shopping mall near our neighborhood. They built the place around a big computerized fountain that squirts water in the air synchronized to music, then it splashes down and is pumped through the
whole mall in little troughs along the walkways. It’s sort of nice until you realize that there isn’t a single blade of grass anywhere except for two strips in the medians near the parking deck. The entire shopping center is a giant slab of concrete.

Jill had to get new tights and toe blocks before she started ballet intensives on Monday, and while she was in the dance supply store, I noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window at this big chain Italian restaurant across the walkway called Parmesan’s. I got an application and the hostess on duty explained that you start as a food runner, and then if it goes well, after a month or so they promote you to hostess. The pay isn’t so great—minimum wage, but you do get “tipped out” by the waiters after every shift, and in my book, it seems that
not very good
still beats
nothing at all
. So I was happy when Melanie, the manager, called me in for an interview on Monday.

Melanie is tall and very excited about her role in management at Parmesan’s, a member of the Brighton Restaurants LLC family, owned by Farnsworth Food Services Group. She asked me a number of the most high-energy, ridiculous questions I have ever heard regarding my strengths, my weaknesses, my overall level of commitment, and my goals in life. I am happy to report that I smiled and nodded and gave the Correct Answer each time. By the end of the interview you’d have thought I had only ever envisioned for myself a career in
running bottomless bowls of salads and baskets of breadsticks to the lunch crowd here at the Springs location of Parmesan’s. Satisfied with my enthusiasm, and after commenting on my clean fingernails and hair, Melanie offered me two starched white aprons, a photocopy of the Parmesan’s uniform requirements and a firm handshake. I was hired on the spot.

My first shift was on Tuesday. Melanie explained that I’d work lunches until I proved I could handle a dinner rush, and filled me in on the Brighton Restaurant laws:

1. A smile on the face equals joy on the plate.

2. Full hands in, full hands out. (Of the kitchen.)

3. No questions asked.

When I first started, I was really nervous, but I just kept a big smile on my face and followed around this other runner named Angela. She showed me how to pop fresh breadsticks into the warmer and make sure they were smothered in butter and garlic salt before we loaded them into baskets. The salad bowls are premixed by the guys on the salad line, but then we have to pour the dressing on and toss it at the table. I’m also responsible for running around with water and iced tea pitchers, and Angela showed me how to approach the tables and serve plates over the person’s left shoulder and clear from the right. In
that sense the service flows like you’d read a book in English—from left to right. Serve to the left, clear from the right. I was worried I might drop something, or spill something, but I didn’t. I did accidentally try to clear a salad bowl that had a single leaf of lettuce in it and looked empty to me. The woman at the table nearly fell out of her chair, covering the bowl with both hands:

Her:
No!
I’m not finished with that!

Me: Oh! I’m so sorry.

I blushed really hard, but I kept a big Parmesan’s Team Smile on my face and picked up an armload of other dirty dishes from the table so that I could go back into the kitchen. That’s what full hands in, full hands out means: on the way in I have to be carrying dirty dishes to the dish room, and on the way out I have to be carrying clean dishes full of food.

Andy was the waiter at that table, a smiley college guy who was studying premed. He spotted me refilling two more breadstick baskets for that table a few minutes later and told me not to worry about it.

Andy: I don’t know where she put that extra bite of salad.

Me: Probably the same place she’s going to put these two baskets of breadsticks.

Andy (laughing): I should check her purse.

Me: She’d try to stop you, but I think she’s stuck in her chair.

As I carried the breadsticks and a fifth glass of Diet Coke to this table, I looked around and really noticed who was eating in this restaurant. Almost every single person was overweight except for the waiters. There were four women at Andy’s table including the one whose salad I’d tried to clear, and each one of them seemed to spill over the arms of her chair. Suddenly, a wave of nausea swept over me. The smell of the butter and garlic on the breadsticks turned my stomach. I will
never
look like these people. I heard Susan’s voice echo in my head. One night on the lake she’d watched with an approving grin as Jill refused a bite of Rob’s dessert, and said something that now made total sense to me:

Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.

For the rest of the shift, those words rang in my ears. I picked up the pace while I walked around looking for dishes. I realized my new job is almost all exercise! I’m going to buy a pedometer to see how far I actually walk during a shift. I’m burning calories the whole time.