The Weight of Zero (9 page)

Michael slides a little lower in the seat.

Lorraine sighs and then says in her best Navy SEAL commando voice, “You guys stay put. I'll handle Nonny.”

Nonny stands and folds the chair as the Subaru gets closer. Lorraine pulls into the left side of the driveway, closest to the flagstone walkway to the front door. The old lady darts past the driver's-side window, nimbly sidestepping Lorraine's outstretched hand that frantically waves a yellow plastic ShopRite bag. Nonny raps her knuckles hard on Michael's window. She's about as tall as Lil' Tommy.

Michael clicks down his window. “Hey, Nonny.”

Nonny sticks her head inside. She's got gray hair pulled into a low knot at her neck, and glasses that must have a solid inch of lens. Behind them, her brown eyes are magnified about ten times, making her appear like a geriatric Powerpuff Girl.

“This your friend, Michael?” she asks, staring unsmiling at me. An enormous gold medal of Jesus or somebody dangles from her neck and through the open window.

Lorraine jumps out of the car and places a hand on Nonny's back. “C'mon, Nonny. Here's the garlic.”

Nonny ignores Lorraine.

“Nonny, this is Catherine. We're d-doing a school thing together,” Michael says.

Nonny hasn't taken those mega eyes off me. “Where's her hair?”

I stiffen and my hand flies up to my head as Michael exclaims, “Jesus, Nonny!”

Lorraine says, “Nonny, that sounds rude. That's the fashion now. All the movie stars have that style.”

Nonny nods and then sticks her head farther into the car. “I got braciole and ravioli and gravy.” She taps Michael's chest. “You bring your friend inside.”

“Thanks, Nonny, but she's got to get home,” Michael says, his face flaming red.

“Well, Michael, why don't you ask Catherine?” Lorraine says, trying to gently pry Nonny away from the car. “If her mom is working, maybe she'd like a quick bite.”

That is truly the last thing I want to do. Go through the standard getting-to-know-you drill and all the lying that my life entails. I just don't have the energy right now.

Michael turns to me, sweaty and anxious. “Cath, I'm so sorry about this. I know you probably have stuff to do. I'll get my mom to drive you home now.”

Before I can nod yes, my door flies open. It's Nonny, with the brilliant afternoon sun behind her. She looks like an Italian prison matron in a black skirt, white short-sleeve button-down blouse, knee-high panty hose and lace-up shoes. She reaches down and grabs my clenched hand. Her hand is wrinkly and veiny, the skin worn shiny smooth. But it's warm and strong.

Like Grandma's hand.

Nonny works my fist open. “C'mon. I got icebox cake,” she says, those eyes boring into mine.

I get out of the car.

The kitchen table is set for six. Foil-wrapped dishes, a long loaf of Italian bread and a plate of olives and cheese crowd together tightly in the center of the red tablecloth. On the stove, tomato sauce bubbles in a pot so big you could wash a small child in it. It smells divine in here, better than the kitchen at Dominic's. My stomach roars.

Michael is a nervous wreck. “Uh, Cath, you can sit anywhere,” he says, weakly waving a hand toward the table. Then he turns on Nonny, who's donned an apron and stands on tiptoe stirring the pot on the stove. “I thought you couldn't make gravy because you needed garlic,” he accuses her.

“I'm out of garlic now,” she says evasively. “I need it for Sunday dinner tomorrow.” Putting the spoon down, she hollers, even though we're all standing two feet from her, “Everybody sit down! We don't wait for the other two. Let's eat!” Nonny bangs the top of the wooden chair closest to her. “You,” she says, looking at me. “Sit here.”

I slide into the chair and she pushes me in easily. I say, “Thank you.”

Michael grabs a chair opposite me and mouths the words “I'm sorry.”

I mouth back at my D-day partner, “It's fine.”

And it actually is. Nonny has ripped the aluminum foil off the dishes to reveal a smorgasbord of Italian food. There's ravioli, a bowl of chilled shrimp, a platter of steaming rolled-up beef things and meatballs, a plate of thinly sliced tomatoes wedged between slabs of mozzarella and a bowl of Parmesan cheese, shredded paper-thin.

“You,” Nonny says again, her big eyes focused on my face. “You got those allergies? Like Tyler? He can't eat no nuts. Every time he come over, I make sure no nuts. I don't know about you, so I make nothing with nuts.”

“I'm not allergic,” I say. “But thank you anyway.”

“For you,” Nonny says, piling my plate high with ravioli, meatballs and one of those rolled-up meat things. She adds shrimp and tomatoes and mozzarella, splashing them quickly with balsamic vinegar.

“This looks great,” I say to Nonny as she deposits the heavy plate in front of me. “Thank you.”

But she doesn't take a step back. “Go ahead. Try the braciole,” she says, pointing to the meat roll-up. “I make it the best.”

The beef falls apart under my fork and I can feel her eyes on me as I bring the first bite to my lips. The meat is tender and rolled inside it like a pinwheel is some kind of amazing cheese mixture. “Mmm,” I say. “This is awesome.”

This might be all I need to do to earn Nonny's approval. She squeezes my shoulder before seating herself in the chair next to me.

“You like dogs?” she asks, deftly inserting a braciole into a hunk of the crusty Italian bread. Before I can answer, Nonny commands, “Michael, go get Mitzi.”

“I don't think that's a good idea, Nonny,” Michael says, “You know how she is with new—”

He's interrupted by the sound of the front door opening followed by a guy yelling, “Yo, I'm home.”

Lorraine yells back, “Anthony, we got dinner on. C'mon and eat.”

Heavy footsteps clomp down the hall and a young guy who sort of resembles a shorter, stockier Michael walks into the kitchen and straight to the table, snatching a piece of bread out of the basket.

“Anthony, wash your hands and pull up a chair,” Lorraine says. “We got company. This is Catherine, a friend of Michael's from school. Catherine, this is my oldest, Anthony.”

Anthony gives me a friendly smile as he half turns to the kitchen stove and dunks his piece of bread into the pot of tomato sauce. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

“Anthony, sit down,” Nonny barks, while Lorraine starts filling a plate for her son.

Anthony slams the bread into his mouth and shrugs apologetically while pointing to his grass-stained jeans and filthy green Paoletti's Landscaping T-shirt. “Can't right now,” he says with a full mouth. “I gotta shower first. Going out tonight.” He swallows and then says proudly, “Did seven houses today. All-time high! I got two hundred twenty bucks just for today. And it'll probably be like that until, like, early December. Chris said once fall cleanup starts, we'll be raking it in.”

“I hope your father sees some of that,” Nonny mutters.

If Anthony heard Nonny, he ignores her and focuses on me. “So, you a junior like Mike? Go to Cranbury?”

I nod. “Yeah.” There's an awkward silence, so I ask, “Did you go there too?”

Anthony drops his eyes to the table and says quickly, “Yeah, graduated a few years ago.” He bites off half of his sandwich. “So why do you hang out with Mikey here?” he asks. “I can't stand the kid.” He smiles, stuffed mouth and all, and Michael whips a balled-up paper napkin that hits Anthony squarely in the face.

“All right, enough!” Lorraine says. “Anthony, either sit down and eat like a human or go take your shower.”

Anthony raises his hands. “Okay, I know how to take a hint.”

“It's not a hint, Ant. You reek,” Michael says.

“I'm going, I'm going,” Anthony says, walking backward out of the kitchen, hands raised in mock surrender. “Catherine, nice to meet you.”

Lorraine calls to him, “Anthony, where are you going tonight and who's driving?” Her voice carries an undercurrent of something. Anger? Fear?

Anthony continues down the hall, yelling back, “Hanging out at Rob's. Elliot's driving.”

“It's okay.” Nonny nods to Lorraine. “Elliot a good boy. An Eagle Scout.” From her skirt pocket, Nonny whips out an iPhone cradled in tissue like a gyro sandwich. Peeling back the Kleenex, Nonny pecks at the cell phone. “I'm texting you brother,” she tells Michael, eyes glued to the phone screen. “Go…get…Mitzi.”

Michael bursts into laughter. “No, don't do it, Ant!” he yells up at the kitchen ceiling.

Nonny waves at Michael. “She in her crate for over an hour. That's not right.”

Lorraine taps Nonny's hand. “Let's not bring Mitzi out yet. I'd hate for her to bite Catherine the first time she's here.”

“Oh yeah”—Michael nods emphatically at his mother—“the second time would be just fine.” He rolls his eyes at me and a small laugh escapes me.

That may be my what? Fourth? Fifth laugh of the day? It feels good and weird and foreign all at the same time.

“Mitzi just need to warm up, that all. And all she got is one tooth anyhow.” Nonny shrugs, apparently sensing defeat. “But nobody don't have to worry. I'm going to my girl.” Nonny grabs a small plate and takes two meatballs, one shrimp and one ravioli and dices them up so finely a baby could gum them down. She stands and yells loudly, “Here I come, Mitzi girl!” She then focuses those jumbo eyes on me—she's so short we're just about eye to eye even though I'm sitting and she's standing. “Bye, Michael's friend. I'm going,” she says. “I gotta feed my baby. You meet her next time.” She walks out of the kitchen bearing the gourmet mush.

Lorraine smiles at me and then shakes her head. “I'm sorry about Nonny. I love my mother-in-law, but she is certifiably crazy.”

Certifiably crazy.
Her words are lightly said but they slice me, sudden, hard and deep.

And just like that, Zero seeps inside the Pitoscia kitchen and wraps around me, weighing me down and sucking out the color so everything fades to gray. It makes no difference where I am or who I'm with or what I'm doing. I can't escape; I can never forget that I am sick. That my illness will always be a joke for normal people. Or a clever line for a pop song. (Riley used to sing a line from an old song, “Hot N Cold,” whenever I walked by: “Got a case of a love bipolar.”)

No, Lorraine,
I want to say.
I am the crazy one.

Suddenly I'm exhausted. I want to burrow deep under my soft white comforter and go to sleep.

And never wake up.

Michael's chair screeches loudly as he bolts to his feet. He looks alarmed. He must know a little something about my mental health history because he hurries over to my side. “Hey, Ma, Catherine and I should make a phone call for our project before you drive her home. Is it okay if we do that now? Cath, you up for that?”

I stand. “Um, Lorraine, can I help you clean up?” I ask. Meet Catherine Pulaski, the world's most polite depressed-bipolar dinner guest.

Lorraine shakes her head, unaware of the abrupt deterioration of my mood. “Oh no, sweetie, not necessary. Anthony will eat after his shower and my husband should be home pretty soon. Go ahead and do what you have to do for school.”

Michael leads me to the center hallway, its walls covered with annual school portraits of the Pitoscia boys from kindergarten on. He opens the door to the basement. I can feel my phone buzzing through the canvas skin of my backpack. Oh shit. I never texted Mom.

“I just need to check my phone,” I mumble to Michael, pausing at the top of the carpeted basement steps. There are four texts from her. The last one, from five minutes ago, reads, “I can pick u up from Michael's. Text me time.”

Undoubtedly she has tracked me here with her handy-dandy phone app.

I text, “Come in 10 min”

Mom immediately responds, “See u soon! xoxo”

I say to Michael, “My mom has to pick me up in ten.”

He nods grimly. “Should we even try to call those Waterbury people?”

“Sure,” I say, and we head downstairs to the finished man cave of a basement.

There's a beat-up sofa facing a ginormous TV that's wired to some kind of gaming system, a Ping-Pong table, darts and a foosball table. We sit down on the huge, squishy sofa. Michael takes out his phone and folder and stares at them for a second before abandoning them on the coffee table. He groans as he leans back heavily against the sofa and runs his hands through his short hair.

“Oh man…,” he begins. “Cath, I am so sorry about tonight. I know you didn't plan on coming over, but then Nonny traps you and makes you stay for dinner.” He sighs. “My parents, Nonny, my brother, they're always in my face. Wanting to know everything. And my mother…” He doesn't finish his thought. “You probably have had way too much of the Pitoscias today.” He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut as if to block out the dinner scene. “I bet your mother can't get here fast enough for you.”

I know Lorraine meant nothing by her comment about Nonny, but I so get what Michael is feeling. That forced intrusion, well-meaning but constant. Do this. Don't do that. Try it my way. Trust me, it will be better any freaking way but yours.

Seeing Michael almost physically cringing from the memory of the dinner does something to me. Zero's body slam of heaviness lightens.

I tap Michael's bony knee with my bandaged index finger and feel the warmth of his skin radiating through his jeans. “If you think your mother is bad, mine is a thousand times worse,” I say. “Don't even worry about it. Nonny is a great cook. It was nice.”

Michael studies my face closely to see, I think, if I'm being straight with him. “My mother—” he begins.

Lorraine cuts him off by yelling from the top of the basement steps. “Michael, somebody just pulled up in front of the house. Is that for Catherine?”

Michael rolls his eyes and yells back, “Yeah, it's her mother.”

“Oh shit,” Lorraine yells, still apparently somewhere on the first floor. “Cath, honey, we could've brought you home. You didn't have to call.”

“It's no problem,” I holler.

“Just don't leave without saying good-bye to me….” Lorraine's voice trails off.

I swing my backpack over my shoulder and head for the stairs. Michael follows me.

“Hey, how's the finger?” he asks as I start up the steps.

I stop and turn around. He's only a step behind me so our faces are level, mere inches apart. I'm surprised but I don't move. Neither does Michael. My heart begins to pound as we stare at each other. His pupils are larger now in the dimness of the basement and his lips part slightly in a small smile. His cheeks are flushed and he looks older. His expression changes then, it
opens,
and I know now that he truly likes me, wants me somehow. To heal or to help me, maybe. But that's fine. Because I need him too. This boy will be my first and last connection. Before Zero comes back for me.