Good Luck with That Page 5

  “I made one, too,” said Charlotte. “But I threw it away, because I hated it.”

  “I love macaroni,” said Grace from around her thumb. “I ate mine.”

  “Girls, why don’t you go upstairs and tidy up your room so Marley and I can have some grown-up time?” Rachel suggested, stroking Grace’s head. She had that blissful look of maternal love on her face.

  My poor mom. I couldn’t remember a time when she had that expression; the loss of Frankie had carved heartache into her face in a hundred little lines.

  If I ever became a mother, Rachel would be my role model. More likely, though, I’d be the type with a messy house and a mega-sized box of pinot grigio in the fridge, who’d shoo the kids out of the room so I could look at pictures of Channing Tatum online.

  The girls obeyed—Rachel didn’t even have to yell. As they swarmed up the stairs, the jealousy flared again. They were so lucky, those triplets.

  “How was the funeral?” Rachel asked, pouring me a glass of wine (from a bottle, not a box).

  “Ugh,” I said. “Horrible.” I hadn’t told her the cause of death, nor about Emerson’s size. Fat-girl loyalty. Rachel was one of those willowy beauties, and even though she was incredibly nice, I couldn’t betray Emerson by talking about her weight.

  “I’m so sorry,” Rachel said. She put her hand over mine and squeezed it, then blushed. She was very shy, and I got the impression that I was one of her first post-divorce friends. Her sister lived down the street from me—Jenny, who owned the bridal boutique and regularly featured plus-sized gowns in her window displays, which I appreciated.

  “How did you know her?” Rachel asked, tucking her smooth blond hair behind her ears. “She was Georgia’s friend, too, right?”

  “We go all the way back to summer camp,” I said.

  “So sad, losing an old friend.”

  Guilt and grief made my throat tighten. “Here’s a question for you,” I said. “When we were in camp, we made this list of things we wanted to do as . . . um, adults. Emerson kept it all these years, and when she was . . .” dying “. . . sick, she asked us to do the things on it.”

  “That’s lovely,” Rachel said simply.

  “It is?”

  “Oh. Isn’t it?” She leaned back in the chair. Her stomach was flat. How could that be, when she’d had the three-for-one special packed in there?

  Maybe someday I’d get hypnotized to see if I could remember being in the womb with Frankie.

  “Sorry,” I said, snapping out of it. “Um, I guess it is. It’s just that they’re things that a kid would think an adult should do. Like have a good-looking stranger buy you a drink. Which isn’t really that cool in this day of Rohypnol and stuff. Be in a photo shoot. Stuff like that.”

  Rachel smiled. “Well, Rohypnol aside, it’s sweet. She must have wanted to make sure you fulfilled those dreams.”

  “So you think we should do it? The things on the list? They’re kind of . . . I don’t know. Awkward.”

  “Well, a lot of things in life are awkward at first. Dating. Making a new friend.” She shrugged, her beautiful collarbones shifting elegantly under her skin. Collarbones fascinated me, since I had never really seen my own. Rachel dropped her gaze to the table, her cheeks growing pinker. “Sometimes it’s worth the effort.”

  “True enough. I’m glad we’re friends.” She smiled, looking relieved, and I felt a surge of love for her. Be my friend, Rachel! Be my best friend! I couldn’t have enough of those.

  “Mommy!” one of the girls bellowed from the top of the stairs. “I have to poop!”

  “That’s Rose. She needs moral support,” Rachel said. “Guess I should go up there and cheer her on.”

  “Thanks for the wine.”

  “It was great seeing you.” She smiled and went up to watch her child defecate.

  I drove home, melancholy keeping me company, and went into my now-dark apartment. Maybe I should get a dog, like Georgia. Then again, I practically had joint custody of the speedy beast. Most weekends, I’d go with Georgia to the Little League field, which was fenced in, so we could let Ad race around like the fine athlete he was. I had a key to Georgia’s place and sometimes let him out in our little fenced-in garden if she was stuck somewhere.

  I checked my phone. No further communication from Camden. Not exactly a surprise.

  However, my baby brother had sent me a picture of himself in turnout gear holding a puppy.

  More fame! said his text. Tomorrow’s Daily News cover shot!!!

  You’re a camera whore, I wrote back. Mom still loves me best.

  Last year, Dante had saved a little girl from a house fire. New York 7 Eyewitness News had been on the scene, so every visit to our parents’ house now included footage of Dante running out of an inferno with a child in his arms, tossing off his helmet and laying her on the ground so Camden could give her oxygen. I didn’t mind watching that video one bit. Obviously, the little girl lived. Dante had a charmed life. He never knew Frankie, so unlike Eva and me, he lacked that hole in his heart.

  Ha, came his answer. I’m the baby AND the gay son. You don’t stand a chance.

  But you’re so ugly, I texted. At least you married well.

  I had a soft spot for Louis, who appreciated a large woman and thought I was stunningly beautiful, as any good gay brother-in-law should.

  We’re all going to Hudson’s on Friday, Dante typed, naming a cute little restaurant in my town. Dante and Louis lived in Tarrytown, just south of Cambry-on-Hudson, but they liked the posher restaurants and shops here. Lots of people will be there.

  Lots of people might include Camden.

  Okay. Can’t wait to see you, stupid.

  You’re stupid, he wrote back.

  No, you are.

  Such was our way of showing love.

  Yes, I’d go. For one, it’d be fun, hanging out with the platoon. And even more than that, I’d have the chance to see Camden, and hope that he’d need a ride home, and maybe would invite me up. The last time that happened was at the Christmas party eight months ago.

  Don’t tell your brother.

  Code for don’t tell anyone.

  Curse of the fat chick. I was pretty enough—the classic Sicilian look, big brown eyes, curly black hair, rather fabulous cleavage, thank you very much. I was also kind of a workout freak and always had been—I took kickboxing, Zumba and yoga, and ran (wearing a sports bra that looked like armor, mind you, but I could run). My blood pressure was normal, my cholesterol “exemplary,” according to my doctor. I ate healthfully (except when at my mom’s). I was a loyal friend; I was cheerful and optimistic. Not one person who ever ran into me had a worse day because of it. I was even nice to Will, my weird-as-a-serial-killer client.

  But thinking about the list Emerson gave us on her literal deathbed, or trying not to think about it, made me realize that I wasn’t as happy or well adjusted as I pretended.

  Because I would like it if Camden Fortuno let me tell a few people.

  Because I wanted to hold his hand. In public.

  Because I wanted him to give me a piggyback ride, the way Louis had done for my brother last summer during an FDNY picnic.

  And I wanted Camden to bring me home to meet his parents.

  From upstairs, it was quiet, which meant Georgia was probably doing legal things for the girl-power foundation she volunteered with. In other words, I had no distractions. The list called to me like the ring called to Sauron.

  For most of my life, ever since I became aware that I was fat, a mantra had pulsed through my head. When I’m skinny. When I’m skinny. When I’m skinny. As soon as I lose weight. As soon as I lose weight. As soon as I lose weight.

  That’s when life would really begin. When I’d be seen as a stunning beauty (cough). When my doctor would stop explaining portion size at each annual physical. When men wou
ld start viewing me as wife material. When I could stop thinking about weight and clothes all the time. When I got skinny, my real life would start.

  Maybe it was seeing Emerson’s death . . . or maybe, worse, that glimpse of her life we’d gotten at her house. She’d been trapped in her body, waiting for something to change, until it finally did. The job . . . then Mica . . . then dying.

  I was never going to be a size 6. Not with my genes, not with my love of food (and wine). I’d been on so many diets, had long ago grown tired of weighing and measuring and calculating everything I put in my mouth. It was sacrilege, an offense to my people. Hadn’t I been weaned on ricotta cheese? Wasn’t our family motto “nobody leaves the table till someone’s dead”? And how could I not eat, when Frankie really hadn’t been able to eat, had had no appetite no matter what my mother fed her? I was the twin who lived. I had to eat.

  I’d been chubby from birth, and with Frankie being so tiny and frail, my chubbiness had been celebrated, had been a relief to my perpetually terrified parents. I graduated to fat before I was eight years old.

  All those diets later, and here I was, still fat. Not hugely obese, but yeah, packing plenty of extra weight. Can’t-shop-in-the-regular-stores fat.

  Eva was probably fifty pounds heavier than I was. Mom and Dad were no role models for eating, and someday, my very blessed brother was going to have to reckon with his heritage. I did exercise. I did eat a mostly plant-based diet (except at Mom’s). I didn’t want to be one of those people who couldn’t enjoy food because she was obsessed with being thin.

  So I guess that meant . . .

  The thought was slow but solid in coming, like a tank making its way through the rubble of a war-torn country.

  I guess that meant this was as good as it was going to be. That I was as good as I was going to be.

  I sat there on the couch for a minute, the silence pressing down on me.

  “You’re never going to be skinny, Marley,” I said out loud. The words echoed around me.

  I’d read all the books, all the articles. I knew that losing weight and keeping it off was statistically harder than climbing Mount Everest. I knew that basic biology would fight to keep my fat cells alive and kicking.

  But now, sitting here alone—more than alone, the twinless twin—the thought seemed to seep into my bones.

  I would never be thin.

  I went into my bedroom. The walls were painted dark blue, my comforter was white, and I had a mountain of pale blue and white pillows. The windowsills held a dozen photos of my family, and most recently added, the picture of Georgia, Emerson and me at Camp Copperbrook. And there on the dresser was the last photo taken of Frankie and me. Looking at it now, I felt . . . guilty.

  I took off my clothes, every piece, and stood naked in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

  Yes, I had a belly. My breasts were large, but proportionate, more or less. My ass was impressive, my thighs fat—there was no other word for it. I would never have a flat stomach, and my arms were plump, no matter how often I lifted weights at the gym.

  This was my body, and it worked.

  I could waste time wishing to be small. I could get surgery. I could starve myself and never eat the foods I loved again.

  That wasn’t what I called living . . . and I was the twin who lived. I couldn’t just wait for everything to happen someday. I owed it to Frankie, I owed it to Emerson, and I owed it to myself. The list, written half a lifetime ago, was still telling me what I was missing.

  I heard Georgia’s footsteps over my head and dialed her before I thought more about it, still in front of the mirror, still buck naked.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “I’m doing the list,” I said, staring at the picture of my sister and me. “But I’m not losing weight. I’ll do it the way I am.” I paused then, but she didn’t say anything. “You in?”

  “I’m in,” she said.

  “Great.” I hung up.

  Right now, without waiting or talking myself out of it, I would tackle something on the list, though perhaps not while naked. Ah. I knew what to do. I pulled on clean Salt & Pepper chef whites, went into my bathroom and tamed my hair as best I could. Put on some mascara and blush and lip gloss. Got out the good camera, went into my always-immaculate kitchen.

  Salt & Pepper’s website had plenty of pictures of my food. It had none of me. I was afraid that people wouldn’t trust an overweight chef (though most of us did seem to pack on the extra pounds, and no mystery as to why). But for the people who were looking for healthier alternatives . . . maybe they wouldn’t want to see my chubby cheeks and figure.

  But one of the items on the list was Be in a photo shoot.

  Since Glamour wouldn’t be calling anytime soon, this would have to do. I set the camera up in various places, set the timer, smiled and posed. I held a whisk in one hand, stood in front of the stove, leaned over a bowl of fruit. When I had about two dozen, I clicked through to see which one was best.

  I didn’t love any of them. You’re alive, I reminded myself. Alive and mostly healthy other than the extra pounds. You’re a good, kind person.

  I uploaded the photo I disliked the least and added it to the “About Marley” section.

  Score one for me.

  On Friday, I’d make it a point to see Camden.

  Then the games would really begin.

  CHAPTER 5

  Georgia

  Eat dessert in public. (Failed.)

  “Good morning, Miss Georgia!” said Khaleesi as she bounced into the classroom.

  “Hello, angel,” I said, mentally thinking, Hello, mother of dragons, breaker of chains. The names. Honestly. “How are you today?”

  “I’m fine! Guess what? Mommy and Daddy take showers together. They say it’s to save water.”

  “Isn’t that nice,” I said, biting down on a laugh. Kids really did say the darndest things. It was only the second week of school, and, as was the pattern, the kids were info-dumping on me.

  “Does your mommy and daddy take showers together?” she asked, biting on the end of her hair.

  I pushed her hair back and slid off her tiny backpack. No, darling, they haven’t spoken to each other in more than twenty years. “I don’t know. I don’t live with them anymore, because I’m a grown-up.”

  Khaleesi’s lower lip pushed out. “I’m gonna live with my mommy forever,” she said.

  “That sounds lovely,” I answered. “Go sit in circle time, okay, honey?”

  “Miss Georgia, I missed you!” said Grace Carver, one of the triplets in my class.

  “I missed you, too, sweetheart.”

  Grace hugged my legs, and then her sister Rose came up and did the same thing. “I love you, Miss Georgia,” she said fervently.

  And people asked me why I left the law. For hugs, I said. For the sheer joy of going to work each day and being with four-year-olds.

  The myth of teaching nursery school was that we just played with and/or ignored the children all day. At St. Luke’s, at least, that wasn’t the case. We developed spatial relationships and vocabulary, improved muscle tone, built social skills, taught the kids how to be part of a group, how to interact, how to be kind.

  Four and a half years ago when I started here, I’d also gotten a pre-K teaching certification from the state. St. Luke’s took pride in the education and dedication of their teachers. I came from Princeton and Yale, and since being hired here, I’d gotten an online master’s in early childhood education from the University of North Carolina.

  In other words, I was a full-fledged teacher, much to my mother’s chagrin (“Why do you want to take care of other people’s children, like some third-world nanny?”) and my brother’s disgust (“It figures you couldn’t make it in the real world.”) My father, stepmother and their two daughters, on the other hand, loved what I did.r />
  “Crisscross, applesauce, hands on your lap!” I sang, and my fifteen little charges sat obediently, their faces looking up at me with delight and anticipation.

  Just then, there was a knock at the door, and it opened to reveal Mr. Trombley, the director of the preschool. “Miss, ah . . . Miss Slum? If you have a moment?”

  Although he had hired me, the man had yet to learn my name. Miss Slum was definitely on the winner’s list of misnomers, which included Miss Short, Miss Sly and Miss Stallion.

  “Sure thing. Lissie, can you take over?” I asked, and my assistant, a lovely girl just out of college, stepped in to start our morning songs, which were all about being helpful and kind.

  I followed the big boss down the hall. Mr. Trombley, though not a great lover of children, had nonetheless foreseen the booming need for preschools forty years ago. He had started St. Luke’s Preschool for Exceptional Children way back then, tapping into Cambry-on-Hudson’s love of status.

  “We have a new student starting today.” He lowered his voice. “A student of color.” A good third of the kids at St. Luke’s weren’t white, something Mr. Trombley still found shocking. “Acidoso? Avocado? I’m not clear on the name. The child will be in your class.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. My class was small this year, only fifteen kids. Sixteen meant every kid would have a partner when we paired off.

  He opened the door to his office and ushered me in. I jerked to a stop.

  “Clara,” I breathed. “Hi.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God! Georgia! Hello! How are you?”

  My former sister-in-law got up to hug me.

  Clara Santiago could not have a four-year-old. Could she? And my God, she was pregnant!

  The poker burned into my stomach.

  “You know each other?” Mr. Trombley said.

  “Um . . . yes. We . . . we go way back,” Clara said. “This is my little one, Silvi.”

  Remembering my job, I knelt down. Silvi was beautiful, with the same dark eyes as her mother.