Monday I Love You (2 page)

“Anyone can make a mistake,” my mother said. “Look at who I married.”

When my mother and father fell in love, she was quite plump, my mother told me. “Not fat, you understand,” and she eyed me, making me blush and fold my arms across my chest.

“Pleasingly plump,” she continued, frowning at me. “Grace, you must learn not to be ashamed of your form.” Form. What a dumb word for big boobs. “Hold yourself like a queen, like you're wearing a diamond tiara,” she told me. “Be proud of your God-given body.”

“Hey, fat mama.” A thin, ferret-faced boy whistled in my ear last week. “Hey, there, fat mama. Let's us have some fun, fat mama.”

I went to the girls' room and cried.

I started to develop when I was ten. I was the only girl in the fifth grade who had a shape. Right away I knew it was a mistake. I began going around with my shoulders hunched, arms crossed, trying to conceal myself. The piles of books I carried to school grew bigger and bigger until they were so heavy I started getting pains in my chest. My mother took me to the doctor, thinking something was wrong with me. Well, actually, there
was
something wrong, but not what she thought. Not a thing easily cured.

The doctor was a kind woman, about a size nine, I'd guess. She suggested my mother buy me some sweaters larger than the one I was wearing, and, “Be patient, things will get better,” she said. Adding I would grow into myself.

After the doctor we went for a soda. “Well, I must say.” My mother chased her maraschino cherry around and around until she caught it, scooped it out and laid it on the saucer. “I must say my little girl's not so little anymore. What will they think, a great big girl like you with a dainty little person like myself for a mother? What will people think?” and she smiled and patted my hand.

“My little Grace is on her way to womanhood.” Ice cream gone, my mother sucked on her cherry, hanging on to it, not swallowing until she'd got all the good red juiciness out of it. No other mother talks the way mine does. I know because I listen to the way other mothers talk. Womanhood. My mother reads confession magazines and watches
Dynasty
and
Dallas
and all the soaps. No matter how raunchy they are, they don't seem to bring her up-to-date, and she gives it the womanhood bit. She's an anachronism, my mother.

“So.” My father patted my shoulder when we got home. “So my girl's growing up.” She didn't have to tell him about the visit to the doctor. She should've kept it between the two of us. At ten, I was catching up fast with my father. Soon I'd be taller than he was. That should give you some idea of the condition of my life.

Last month while my father was on his most recent search for fame and fortune, my mother called the Goodwill and they came and toted off his recliner. When my father returned, empty-handed, he started to lie down in the place the recliner had always reclined and almost fell on his butt.

Small as he is, it's amazing how my father swells up when provoked. It's like he swallows some mysterious potion that makes him three times his usual size.

“Where is it?” he bellowed, wild eyes raking the room. “What did you do with it, woman?”

My mother ran her tongue around inside her mouth rapidly, and her face got slick and shiny, the way it does when she's warming up.

“Goodwill got it,” she stated. “It was old, anyway. A mess. You said you weren't coming back. What do you expect? I never know where I am with you,” she complained, perching on the edge of the couch, ready for lift-off. “It's more than most people could stand, this on-and-off stuff. Off and on, there you go. My friends say I'm a fool to put up with it. With you. My mother was right. She said never marry a man with small feet. If they have small feet, she said, it's ten to one they have a high opinion of themselves. That's your problem, a high opinion of yourself.” Then my mother's face crumpled and she blew loudly into the tissue she keeps stuffed up her sleeve ready for just such emergencies.

My father, looking stunned but proud, put his arm around her tentatively. She nestled her hairdo into his thin shoulder and they sat on the couch together, speechless with emotion. I left the room, feeling in the way. My mother and father enjoy a roller-coaster relationship—up, down, down, up. Never on an even keel. Just when I think it's all over, they start snuggling. At least they have each other. I don't have anyone. And probably never will.

I went to my room and lay down without turning on the light. The radio was playing a bunch of golden oldies—Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, Glenn Miller. Music to dance to. One thing I never tell anyone—this type of music soothes me, stirs my insides. I guess I'm an anachronism too. I've never been to a dance. I don't know how to dance. But I've seen them slow dancing, bare arms wrapped around the boy's neck, his arms locked around her, holding her. I've seen them. I know how they look.

The band played “Deep Purple,” one of my all-time favorite golden oldies. “Deep Purple” makes me feel all shivery and warm. I absolutely love it. When it ended, I switched stations and wound up with a song about damaged relationships. All those damaged-relationship songs make me sick. I've never had
any
kind of relationship, damaged or otherwise, but I think there have to be a few relationships that are good. I guess those kinds aren't worth writing songs about though.

As I was getting drowsy, some guy with a raspy voice sang about surfing, the high he got from riding a big one, with a raucous rock guitar making wave noises in the background. It was so real I almost got seasick.

Long after I heard my mother and father go to bed, heard their door close, heard the hum of their voices, then quiet, I lay with my eyes closed, unable to sleep.

At fifteen, I decided, nobody takes you seriously except yourself.

3

I was eight when I finally figured out I was a kidnapped kid. Watching a TV special after school, it came to me in a flash: My mother and father had snatched me from my carriage when I was an infant. That's why I looked so different, so unlike either of them. I felt a great rush of relief at finally knowing, a sense of triumph at having figured it out for myself.

Be on the lookout, the TV special warned. Constant vigilance is the only answer. Never leave your child alone, not for a second. The world is full of sickos, weirdos, wackos, on the prowl for children left untended. No one is safe. The program told about infants being taken from their mothers' arms in maternity wards, children disappearing from right in front of their houses, children disappearing from park benches, sandboxes or tricycles when the mother's head is turned for only an instant. Children never seen or heard from again. Children snatched by a slitty-eyed stranger driving a foreign car who offers them candy. Tell your children to never talk to strangers, never accept food or candy or a ride from strangers. The candy might be spiked with dope, and when the kid eats it, he falls in a faint and the weirdo shovels the kid into the car and zooms off. Never take your eye off your kid because the world is full of nuts.

Well, you'd think such a program would strike fear into a child's heart. Not into mine it didn't.

“So that's it!” I hollered, although there was no one home to hear. I snapped my fingers loudly in the silence. Then I got a glass of juice and a cracker and sat on the floor to play solitaire. I always played solitaire when I got home from school. I always won, too, though sometimes I had to cheat. What did it matter? I only cheated myself. Sometimes I asked a kid to come home with me and play. Mostly they said no. They never asked me to their houses. Except once. It was a new girl named Monica who asked me to her house, but she never asked me back. I didn't mind a whole lot. Even at eight I was getting used to being alone.

When my mother got home, dragging her suitcase with all her cosmetics inside, I said, “It's okay. I know all about it. You don't have to explain,” and went right on shuffling the cards.

“What are you talking about, Grace?” she asked irritably. “If there's something bothering you, get it off your chest.” Back then, it
was
a chest.

“I know I'm kidnapped,” I said smugly, not displeased by the idea. At eight, I fancied myself telling all my classmates I was a kidnapped child. It might make a difference, I thought, might make me popular. Different, but in a good way. Then when they knew I was a kidnapped kid, they'd ask me over.

“I know where I came from,” I said, slapping down the ace of diamonds.

“Have you been talking to someone about the Facts of Life?” my mother snapped. Even then I knew that nothing bugged her like sex lectures. She figured fifteen, sixteen, was early enough for that.

“No,” I said. “I mean where I
really
came from.” I smiled slyly at her. “You snatched me out of my carriage and brought me home. It's okay, though. I don't mind.” The more I thought about it, the more romantic and touching I found the whole idea. My natural parents were out there somewhere, searching for me, their stolen baby girl. The next time I went downtown, I thought, I'd keep an eye out for them. I'd recognize them immediately, I felt sure.

My father, tall and handsome as ever, would be standing there with his gold cuff links winking in the sun. Anyone with eyes could tell he'd gone to Harvard and had a six-figure salary and a sailboat and flew his own plane. There are certain things that are hard to hide. And my mother would smooth my forehead with her gentle hands, and her sable coat would tickle my cheek as she hugged me to her.

“We've found you at last,” my father and mother would exclaim as one. “I never gave up hope,” my father would say, tears filling his eyes. “Neither did I,” my mother would say, dabbing at her eyes with her pure-linen handkerchief.

Then they'd bring me home to my false parents, who, fearing I was dead, would hug and kiss me, weeping grateful tears for my safe return. I felt very loved suddenly. So that's the way it goes, I thought. All four of them want me.

My mother felt my forehead, testing me for fever.

“Grace, what's the matter? Are you all right? What's this nonsense you're talking? Of course you're not a kidnapped child! How could you think such a thing! You were born right here in Spring Valley. Right over at the Spring Valley hospital, on the fourth floor. Willis delivered you. Of course he's dead now, but he did deliver you. It was such a lovely day, too. Blue sky and a little breeze. I won't hear any more nonsense. Not after the day I've had. Oh, my poor feet.” My mother laid the back of her wrist against her forehead and closed her eyes.

I studied her face a long time. She
was
telling the truth. I could always tell. I was crushed. My moment in the sun, the light of so many people's lives, had been brief.

“Then if you're my real mother,” I shouted at her, not caring about her poor feet, “how come I don't have a brother or sister to play with? If you're my real mother, you would've had someone for me to play with. I want somebody to play with!” I stamped my foot, having a first-class temper tantrum, something I'd wanted to do for a long time. Usually I was a placid child, eating what was put in front of me and never giving any trouble. Now, I felt the blood running high in my veins, could feel my heart thumping and thudding around inside me. I was surprised, looking down at myself, not to see my skin being pushed in and out by my thumping heart.

At last, my mother opened her eyes and stared at me for a long minute. “Calm yourself, Grace,” she said softly. “I've brought us some chop suey for supper. Just what you like—chicken, with noodles. And fortune cookies. Look in the bag.” I opened the brown paper bag she'd brought home, reached in and took out a fortune cookie. When I bit into it, my fortune fell into my lap.

“‘Today,'” I read aloud, “‘you will make a new friend.'”

4

“Well, hi there, Grace. How's it going?”

I was washing my hands in the girls' room, leaning over the basin, letting the warm water run. I had nothing else to do. I found the feel of the water comforting. I squinted up, looking to see who had spoken. The voice wasn't familiar.

It was Ashley. Ashley of the beautiful bones, president of lots of things. Auburn haired, long legged, green eyed, sleek, small bust—in her case, a legitimate bust—small hips. Cashmere sweaters. Ashley had never spoken to me before. Directly, that is. Once or twice, when we passed in the lunchroom or the hall, I had been aware of her, for how was it possible not to be aware of Ashley, and out of the corner of my eye saw her whispering to her friends, who slid their eyes over at me and laughed uproariously.

I ducked my head, wondering why she was speaking to me now, not wanting to meet the full force of her glacial green stare without some preparation. Why? Did she want to know me better? Had she heard rumors that behind this outrageous facade, I was a scintillating, fascinating person? That the truth was, regardless of my appearance, she wanted to ask me to her next slumber party? Or Sunday brunch? I had heard of Ashley's Sunday brunches, and the mere thought of attending one sent sharp stabs of anxiety and longing thrashing around in my insides. What did one wear to a brunch, Sunday or not?

Perhaps we'd sit on Ashley's porch exchanging stories, jokes, anecdotes, full of goodwill and carrot cake. Only the most popular girls, the sexiest, most athletic boys, went to Ashley's, were her friends. Ashley was It.

“I was noticing your sweater,” Ashley purred. “Did you make it yourself?” Her long fingers grazed my shoulder. “It's gorgeous.”

I almost said I didn't know you knew my name. My sweater was from K Mart's winter sale. All sales final. It was fake angora—sort of pale green and pink, with padded shoulders that made me look like a linebacker. I'd bought it for myself, thinking it might make me look less bulky. Instead, it did the reverse. But I was stuck with it. I stared down at her hand upon me, gathering courage to look directly at her. When I did, I saw a girl named Chloe.