Teenage Waistland Read online

  “No. C’mon!” And we’re in tandem on yet another exploration, Char in the lead, dragging yours truly behind her. “Over here,” she calls when she reaches the bottom of the staircase and spots the boxes marked PHOTO and VIDEO in my mother’s handwriting. I’m proud of myself for not even looking to the right as I make my way over to where Char is.

  “Stepladder, Shroud. We so need one,” she orders, before spotting it behind her.

  “You know she removed like that whole wall of pictures after? And almost every other photo we had displayed around the house?” I say, but Char’s busy wiping off cobwebs and sending clouds of dust in my direction. “This is my first time down here,” I mumble, more to myself than Char. But this time, she freezes, clamps her cobwebby hand over her mouth, and gets right down off the stepladder.

  “Shroud! Oh my God. East!” she cries out as I struggle to contain my tears. She stammers, “You—you’re doing this for me when—and here I—” And then she stops talking and throws her arms around me. I want to pull away and tell her I’m fine, but I just stand with my face against her neck and sob uncontrollably.

  “Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay.”

  I want to say I’m sorry for being such a basket case, but I’m shaking too hard to form any words.

  “Shhh. This is good. Let it out,” Char murmurs, gently rocking me side to side.

  “I’m—I’m okay,” I finally sputter, and pull away. Char offers me her sleeve to blow my nose, and I sob-laugh and use the neck of my T-shirt.

  “You go upstairs,” Char says once I’m calm again. “I’ll bring the boxes to your room and we’ll open them there. You shouldn’t be lifting stuff anyway.”

  I move one of the dusty cartons over to my desk and peel the tape off fast, like a Band-Aid, but it doesn’t lessen the pain: my parents’ wedding album is on top. There’s a maroon chamois cloth covering it, but I recognize the brown leather peeking out immediately—it used to sit on the family-room coffee table.

  Beneath the album is a file folder filled with loose photos. There’s my mom in a hospital bed with a newborn baby. I think it’s me, but there’s no date on the back. Her hair is pulled in a tight ponytail, all pretty and shiny, and her eyes are shimmering. She’s happy. Then there are some of Julius and my old-fashioned wooden rocking horse. He’s standing on it like it’s a surfboard. Next are pictures of me, around two years old, on the horse. I’m in a yellow and kelly green plaid jumper and my arms are wrapped tightly around the horse’s neck like I’m on some terrifying bucking-bronco ride. I put the folder aside—I’ll come back to those early ones later. I dust off the album below it—an older one covered in rice paper—and place it in my lap. The first photo is yellow and faded and when I realize what it is—a huge extended Japanese family—tears start flooding my eyes.

  “All done,” Char suddenly says. I hadn’t heard her come back with the final box. She sits next to me and examines the photo over my shoulder.

  “I saw some of these people once,” I say, staring into the picture. “The day my dad died.”

  “Is the little boy standing next to that woman in the flowered dress your dad?” Char whispers. “That must be your grandmother—you look exactly like her.”

  I nod slowly. “It could be. She looks like she could be the younger version of the lady Dad took me to meet,” I say, studying the woman with the cold eyes holding my dad’s wrist.

  “I never knew you met anyone on your dad’s side of the family. Actually, you told me you didn’t—that time that lawyer called the house and spoke to you about your grandmother’s inheritance because your mom wouldn’t get on the phone,” Char says, still peering over my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I say, remembering. “I couldn’t say I met them in front of her—my mom would have been furious about Dad taking me to see his family. His parents were children in a Japanese internment camp in California during the Second World War, and they never forgave America. They refused to accept my mother, without ever even meeting her.”

  “So messed up,” Char whispers.

  “Anyway, Dad had read about his father’s death in the paper, and we drove to the house where he grew up in Queens, just the two of us. I remember how thrilled I was to be on a secret mission alone with him—Mom thought we’d gone out for a pre-birthday father-daughter dinner—and Dad was excited too. He was sure that with his father gone, his mother would soften, especially when she saw me. Then, he said, he’d fix things between everyone.”

  “And?” Char whispers even more softly. Now it’s like she’s the one afraid that I’ll clam up.

  “Well, he was all chatty about his childhood on the drive, but when we pulled up to the house, he became really quiet. After we sat in the car for what felt like a long time, he slapped my leg and said, ‘Okay. Ready?’ Then he came around to my side and opened my door with this big smile. ‘It’s time for you to charm your Japanese family, Annie.’ ”

  “Oh, East,” Char murmurs, and rubs my back.

  “All these Japanese people were inside milling around, and when they started noticing us standing in the doorway, everything got quiet. This old lady with a cane, my grandma, made her way over to us slowly. She didn’t even look at Dad—just me. I mean, she couldn’t take her eyes off me. She knelt down and took my hands in hers and whispered something. But I had no idea what she said, or how to respond, so I just looked up at Dad. She stood up suddenly—as soon as she realized I didn’t speak Japanese, I guess—and shook her finger in Dad’s face, screaming things I couldn’t understand. But Dad understood them—he looked like he had been punched. And then he grabbed my hand and led me away.”

  Char flips the album closed and tosses it back in the box. “These people are not even worth looking at!” she says.

  “Well, at least my grandmother came to regret it—she died shortly after my father,” I say, “and we’d be on food stamps if not for her. Now I have a college trust fund, and her money paid for the surgery, of course.”

  “Your mom must have been wondering why your grandmother suddenly had a change of heart and left your family all her money,” Char says. “Why didn’t you just tell her about your visit?” I shake my head, and Char sighs and rips open the next box. “Awww,” we both squeal. The picture used to hang in the center of the family room wall. It’s an eight-by-ten of Char and me, our faces near a sprinkler head with streaks of water spraying out. In the next photo, we’re going to dance class. I’m in a yellow leotard and purple tutu and she’s got a purple leotard and yellow tutu—Char’s idea to trade tutus, of course. And then, us in the fifth-grade play dressed up as trees. “Oh my God!” Char screams, waving an old Halloween picture. Julius is the Tin Man, Char is Dorothy, and I’m Toto.

  “Put that one here—I miss Julius. I’m hanging that in my room!” I shriek. We go through the entire box like this, carefully pulling each stack of photos out like treasure, laughing at all these forgotten pieces of our lives together.

  “On to the next box, Shroud,” Char orders. “We’re not even past age ten yet and I need at least one good skinny pic with me older. Help me,” she says, yanking on the tape.

  There’s a yellow padded envelope on top and I grab it and pull out a picture mounted in a paper frame I remember making. It’s of me on Dad’s lap, his arms wrapped tightly around me. “This was like the week before he died,” I say, staring at it. “He’d given Julius a Polaroid camera for his birthday—you know, the old kind that develops photos instantly. I think this was the very first picture he took with it—me and Dad.” I study the photo up close, trying to decipher my father’s expression with me in his arms. “You know, my father didn’t say one word the whole way home. When we got back, I said, ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’ We were walking to the door and he stopped and stroked my head, and then knelt down in front of me and said in a very soft voice, ‘It’s not your fault, Annie.’ But I’ll never forget how tired and old he suddenly looked. I remember throwing my arms around his neck, but he didn’t hug me back. He just st
ood up and said we’d better go in now. And he killed himself later that same night, Char! Maybe if she had liked me—”

  “Oh my God, East! Stop! It’s completely crazy for you to even think you had anything to do with what your father did. He knelt down and looked you straight in the eye when he told you it wasn’t your fault. That’s because what he was telling you was important and he wanted you to remember it. And you did!” Char puts her hand on my shoulder and rubs my neck. “I bet your mother thinks it was her fault too,” she says softly. “She must always wonder about the things that were on your dad’s mind before it happened.”

  I shake my head.

  “Does Julius know?” Char says.

  “No, I never told Julius any of it either,” I say, still shaking my head. “Julius was in such terrible shape, I couldn’t.”

  “Nothing?” Char’s incredulous. “You’ve been sitting on this for three years without a word to anyone—even me? East, how could you not tell your mother?” Char’s just looking at me while I shake my head. I don’t even know how to answer. Then Char’s eyes widen and she clamps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, East, my poor crazy freak of a friend—do not tell me you didn’t tell your mother about what happened with your grandmother because you were afraid that she’d blame you for what your father did?”

  I gently shake free from Char’s massage. “We’ll never get through all of this stuff at this rate.” Then I dump the rest of the photos in the envelope onto my carpet. The pictures from that vacation in Bermuda are strewn in with Julius’s Polaroids and other more recent photos, and Char and I are giggling about the queer bathing suit Mom has me wearing.

  “Oh God—check this one out.” Char picks up a photo and screams. “My mom is laughing and trying to get out of the water while her bikini bottom is being pulled down by the undertow. Hysterical!”

  But I’m staring at the photo that’s underneath it.

  It’s a blurry Polaroid of Julius in his underwear laughing, with his arm around some topless blond girl. But it’s not blurry enough for me not to be deadly certain that it’s not just any topless girl. It’s Char!

  Suddenly, it’s like I don’t recognize anything around me—the walls of my room, my bedspread, the girl next to me. Everything is completely alien, like I’m seeing it for the first time. It’s not until I start heaving that Char notices something’s wrong. She spots the photo and dives for it, but I yank it away and scramble to my feet.

  “What the fuck? What the fuck!” I’m roaring and screeching. “You fucking slut! Get the fuck out of here!”

  “East, wait, wait, you don’t understand.” Char’s crying and pleading as she comes toward me, as if she has a shot in hell of calming me down. I hurl myself at her and shove her out of my room. And then I’m shoving her down the hall and as she’s flying down the stairs I’m behind her screaming, “Go! Go!” and stumbling after her trying to keep my hands down and to control myself. I swear I could push her down the rest of these stairs headfirst.

  “Go! Faster!” I’m screeching. She skids across the foyer and I push her once more, and as she’s just heading through the screen door, I slam the heavy wood door as hard as I can behind her, barely missing her back. “East,” she screams from outside, and I scream, “Fuck you!” through the door and race into the kitchen. I fling the pantry door open and I’m in there knocking over ramen noodles and boxes of rice and oatmeal. C’mon, where’s your stash, Mom? I know you have one. Where the hell are the Oreos? Where’s that fucking bag of sour apple rings? I need them now. “Where is it?” I’m screaming and pushing everything around, when a bottle of salad dressing falls and oil and vinegar go all over the place. All over my new running sneakers. Ruined. I come out of the pantry and slam my back against the door struggling to catch my breath. I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing to calm down.

  “East!” Mom’s yelling from her bedroom. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” Am I okay? I pull my greasy sneakers off and throw them against the fridge and charge up the stairs in a bigger rage than the one I was in on the way down. I stomp toward her room and punch open the door so hard it bounces off the wall and hits my shoulder as I tear in.

  “Something happened with Char and Julius!” I’m screaming. “Is that why you sent him away? I need to know what you know about Char and Julius, and I want to know it now!”

  26

  Charred and Feathered

  Friday, July 31, 2009

  Bobby (−17 lbs)

  “You’re fine, Bobby. We’re just getting started now,” Betsy says as I come tearing into the room. Everyone’s watching and waiting for me as I head for the empty seat next to Char with her bag on it, but Geek Olive’s on her other side, so I sort of stop dead in my tracks thinking she’s saving that seat for East. Except there’s East on the far side of the circle next to Marcie, and all the rest of the seats are taken.

  “Here, Bobby.” Char laughs as she picks up her purse. I’m such a douche. If there’s only one open seat in the circle, obviously it’s mine. But at least I’m not late. And my pits don’t stink.

  “Thanks,” I say, settling into it.

  “Hi,” Char whispers.

  “Hi,” I press my shoulder against hers but she doesn’t respond. “Your twin looks mad you didn’t save her a seat,” I whisper back. Char’s too busy trying to catch East’s eye to respond, but then she leans over and whispers, “It’s not like we’re conjoined.” I’m still lost in thoughts of Char and me conjoining when I feel her breath hit my neck again.

  “I don’t feel so hot, Bobby.”

  “Really? What’s wr—”

  “Uh, hello?” Betsy calls out frowning at us, and I catch the kissy face Marcie gives Char. East, though, still seems mad as hell—like she’s fuming and trying to look in any direction but ours.

  “Sorry,” we both say to Betsy at the exact same time, but Char doesn’t laugh. She straightens up and shifts and now our arms aren’t touching.

  “We’re up to you, Lucia,” Betsy says softly.

  “One and a half pounds,” Lucia mumbles miserably. “Just under.”

  “Lucia, that is on the low side, but it’s moving in the right direction,” Betsy says. “Do you want to stay after group and go through your meal sheets to see if we can spot the problem?” Lucia shrugs and nods, then changes her mind and shakes her head. “Okay, just be sure to stay extra vigilant next week. Who’s next? Coco?”

  “Seven,” Coco says, and Jamie high-fives her.

  Tia is next, then Geek, Char, then me.

  “Five,” Tia grumbles, but the edges of her mouth go up.

  “Ten and five-eighths, with a possible point-five-pound deviation related to variation in instrumentation.” Geek’s mumbo jumbo kills me.

  “What the hell?” Marcie mutters, cracking everyone up.

  “Yeah, our scales aren’t consistent either,” Char agrees. “I solve that problem by selecting the reading I like best—which is eleven!”

  I’m looking around the circle waiting for the laughing to end because I want full attention when I announce my number, and I notice East biting her lip and staring at the floor like it’s a roach she’d like to crush.

  “Okay, people, don’t be jealous,” I finally get to say. “I’ve been running. A lot. I’ve lost about sixteen pounds.” I don’t add that I have Char to thank. But when the applause starts, I smile at her, and she doesn’t react.

  Now Michelle’s up. “Nada,” she whines. “Nothin’! I swear—I started out with one jar of baby food, got through three, and then ate two bowls of chili. And that was just lunch. So, I’m not losing and I’m starving.”

  Betsy stands up. “Michelle, how are you doing on your meal sheets? I’ll bet you anything I won’t see the chili on it. Am I right?”

  Michelle nods. “Busted.”

  “People—these sheets aren’t for my well-being, they’re for yours. Writing in them faithfully will help you observe the connections between your emotions and your eating be
—”

  “I—I need to go to the ladies’ room,” Char croaks, her voice really weak, like she’s trying to catch her breath.

  “Sure—are you okay?” Betsy asks. “You do look a little pale.”

  Char nods, but she is pale and all sweaty, actually. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she says as she reaches under her seat for her bag and rises all shakylike to her feet. I stand up and take her arm to help steady her, but she pulls it away, saying, “Really, Bobby, I’m fine.” She’s two steps out of the circle—behind the back of my chair—when her legs buckle and she totally crumples to the floor!

  East springs to her feet as if she was on a seesaw with Char and Marcie screams. But then everyone’s yelling and I’m over her face saying, “Char? Char?” but she’s not moving. Betsy pushes me away and crouches next to Char and feels for a pulse.

  “Someone call nine-one-one!” she orders.

  Marcie’s wailing. “Is she breathing?”

  “Calm down, everyone. Please.”

  “Nine-one-one in transit. On the way,” Geek yells.

  “She’s breathing but her pulse is rapid. Everyone back up and give her air,” Betsy barks. “Bobby, Marcie, I need you to move back. Please, everyone!”

  “Where’s Dr. Weinstein?” Marcie shouts. “We are at a freaking doctors’ office.”

  “He’s in surgery, Marcie. And it’s okay—Char’s regaining consciousness.” Betsy’s cradling Char’s head in her arm and speaking softly to her when two paramedics burst in with a stretcher. They make me, Marcie, and even Betsy clear out, and then they’re hovering over Char, checking her breathing and pulse and stuff.

  “Let them do their work,” Betsy says loudly. “Everyone back to their seats!” That’s when I notice that East hasn’t been anywhere near Char, and she’s already back in her seat. The rest of the girls are crying and whimpering and touching each other’s backs and hands, but East is completely still—like maybe she’s in shock.