4. Chapter Four
Chapter 4
Leslie
T he next morning, sunlight streamed through my apartment’s large windows. From my lower Greenwich Village vantage point, all of Manhattan sprawled out before me. Stillness hung in the air as I stared across the open-concept space to the kitchen beyond. It beckoned in a hopeless way, distracting me from the tall glass of water in my hand. Even the berry-lemonade electrolyte packet I added did nothing to make the drink more exciting.
“Fine. You win,” I answered, the echo of my mother’s voice whispering in my ear. I called her Little Diana. While Mom was clear across the country and mostly out of my life at this point, her proxy remained frustratingly close at all times. Like a prison guard keeping inmates in line.
I gulped the water down, my tension easing as the liquid filled my stomach and settled the hunger pangs I’d had since my last meal. Whenever that was. Tracking meals wasted brain space better focused on my work.
My cousin Gabby’s ringtone sounded from my jeans pocket.
“?Hola, chica!” she said.
“?Que tal?” I asked, dropping one of the few Spanish phrases I knew despite years of language classes. As a child, Mom banned me from speaking Spanish at home with my dad. She feared if I picked up his Puerto Rican accent, my future job prospects would evaporate. Ironically, adopting Mom’s heavy New York accent likely dampened my opportunities far worse than Dad’s accent would. I still resented him for caving to her ridiculous demand. It was another of the many battles we lost to my mother. When emotional wounds and diverging priorities became too much, they divorced. Growing up, I spent every free moment with Dad’s family in Pennsylvania. My cousin Gabby and I had been close ever since.
“Great show last night,” she said. “I don’t know how you do all that undercover work. It sounds risky.”
“Not usually. Guys have gotten rough a few times, but I scrape by. I get my revenge in published words.”
I plopped onto my sectional sofa, curling my legs up underneath me. I expected my cousin to continue talking. Chatty as an informant, Gabby typically held up both sides of our conversations. I once timed her at 17 minutes straight without a pause. But not today.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“There’s no good way to ask, so I’m just going to say it. My mom’s having surgery this week, and I wondered if you’d be open to coming out to stay with her.”
“I thought it wasn’t for a month?”
“It got moved up since the doctor is going on vacation. That’s put me in a bind since I’m flying out for a trade show in Japan. I’ll be there for the procedure but need to leave immediately after. I can’t cancel, and David will have his hands full with the baby.”
“It’s no trouble. I’m happy to come.”
She sighed in relief. “I hoped you’d say that.”
“Of course, anything for her.”
“Sure it’s not a bother? You can work from anywhere, right? I mean, when you’re not dressed up as a mob slut at some seedy bar…”
I laughed at that. She wasn’t wrong. “Gabs, take a breath. I’ll be there.”
“It might cause trouble with Aunt Diana.”
“Let’s focus on your mom, not mine.”
I hadn’t heard my take-charge cousin this worked up since her mom caught us playing spin the bottle in the basement with a couple of neighborhood boys. That was before Risto’s family moved in. There was a lot of smooching in the dark after my ex arrived. But I better get my mind right. Risto and I hadn’t spoken in ages, and he was no doubt dating someone.
“Mom won’t be able to bend or lift heavy things for a month. She’ll need help with laundry, groceries, stairs. Which means she can’t teach her yoga class, lead her women’s group, or work at the restaurant. She’ll be miserable.”
My Aunt Dot—short for Dorothea—had always been a force of nature and a superstar in my eyes, ever since my summer stays at her house. Full of love and mischief, watching Dot fearlessly navigate life was likely where I inherited my daring tendencies. No way those came from my mother. My dad’s only sister held a special place in my heart.
Running around the countryside as a teen, exploring creeks and fields and junkyards was as exciting to me as visiting Manhattan was for Gabby. My parents savored uninterrupted creative time, and I got a two-month break from my mom’s helicopter parenting. Guess Dot’s surgery gave me an opportunity to show my enduring appreciation.
“I’ll try to keep her distracted. When do you need me there?”
“Is tomorrow too soon? You can get settled before her surgery on Wednesday. You haven’t been out here in a while, so it’ll be good to see you.”
“Sorry about that. Work has been nuts.”
“This work trip couldn’t be happening at a worse time. But if you’re around when she gets home, I’m way more comfortable going.”
Gabby muffled the phone with her hand while she talked to someone. “I have to go.”
After hanging up, my Spidey senses tingled. Gabby said Auntie’s surgery wasn’t serious, but my cousin definitely had an optimistic streak. I was glad to have a few hours to research her condition so I could enter the situation informed. Not all doctors got As in medical school, so I hoped hers was good. Sometimes I wished my Pennsylvania family would choose an A+ New York hospital for treatment, but the distance made that impractical.
I logged in to check email. With nothing pressing, I emailed the editors managing my many freelance projects and TV appearances to tell them I’d be working remotely for a while. No biggie, given that every one of them did too. And after Reed’s antics last night, I could use a break from his toxic ego. Frankly, Pennsylvania might not be far enough. If they needed me, I could always join via satellite from an affiliate or drive in for the show.
I shuffled over to the fridge, full-well knowing the bare shelves within made the trip fruitless. A small part of me hoped a grocery fairy would deposit delectable nibbles and save me the harrowing trip to the market. One step inside any supermarket, and my senses ignited. Colorful veggies, flaky baguettes. It took all my strength not to break off and devour the crispy loaves on sight. I did it once and was forced to pay for the bread with its empty wrapper. That’s how out of control I was around food and why it was better for me not to eat at all.
I bowed my head until it connected with the refrigerator’s glossy black surface. I pressed harder, pain registering, as what would soon be a red splotch formed on my forehead. Even that was preferable to hunger. Plus the sensation made me feel alive. Like the adrenaline hit of danger I got while snooping around New York’s underbelly to uncover secrets. The thrill of tight deadlines. The rush of live podcasts and TV interviews.
Yeah, being between stories was a problem.
An issue I'd better rectify.
Fast.
I grasped the refrigerator handle in rebellion, a dizzy faintness taking hold.
When did I last eat?
Oh, right. The granola bar one of my streetwalker sources forced on me two nights ago. She said my hungry look was bad for business. The comment triggered every neural pathway hardwired to resist food and anyone trying to fatten me up. Little Diana’s mantra echoed in my ears.
Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.
Fine, Mom. You win.
I tugged the refrigerator door open, substituting a chilly blast from the empty fridge for a meal. Once sufficiently chilled, I strolled down the loft’s long hallway to my bedroom, stripped off my clothes, and jumped into a scalding shower.
Afterward, dampness clung to my skin as I slipped jeans over my stubbornly curvy hips. All the women on my dad’s side had curves, a fact my mother never accepted. To her, a pear shape was a sign of weakness. Evidence that you’d yet to master your body and wrestle it into submission.
My thoughts must have summoned Mom, as moments later she called my cell phone. Either that, or some mutual friend squawked about Dot’s surgery on Facebook.
“You’re up early,” I said, doing mental calculations for her New Mexico time zone. Mom painted wild, colorful desert scenes with haunting figures, and she often slept in after overnight painting sessions. People called her a poor-man’s Georgia O’Keeffe, but Mom’s disturbing work had earned her some hefty commissions recently. A fact she never failed to mention.
“You’re going to stay at Dot’s, I hear?” Her voice dripped with accusation. I never expected a “hello,” given her passion for beginning phone calls mid-fight.
“Is that a problem?” I asked.
“You tell me. Sounds like you’re going to be there a while? Weeks, even. What will that do to your waistline?”
“Can you stop? I’m a grown-ass woman. If I want to eat a few fried plantains, the world won’t end.”
“Every time you go there you gain weight. Every. Time. It took months to get back to your normal size each fall. By the time you were trim, the winter clothes were already in stores. You’ll need to be strong. Think before every bite. How will this impact you? What is this food doing to your body? How will this impact your career?”
My first thought was to make my current body less hungry, but I mustn’t exhale that in her presence. Besides, I knew better than to listen to my body’s signals. If I did, I’d eat and eat until I exploded into a million pieces. The idea was too terrifying.
“They eat so unhealthy,” she continued. “Well, at least if you’re in charge of the menu, you can keep it lean and nutritious. Maybe Dot will lose a few pounds.”
Mom paused her tirade to think, and I let her. Nothing I said now would register, anyway. My opinions never counted. I’d become an award-winning journalist who was about to have my own Saturday spot on cable’s leading network news show. Yet my mother still treated me like I was nine.
“Actually, this is wonderful.” Mom’s voice grew light and cheery. “If Dot can’t shop, she can’t buy all those nasty foods she usually does. I’m coming around to the idea now. This is probably the opportunity she needs to save her life.”
Dot seemed pretty fine, as far as I could tell. True, she carried more weight than was likely healthy. But she was committed to her path and had been teaching body acceptance classes to others. That blossomed into leading body-inclusive yoga at a local studio. Mom would no sooner change Dot’s diet than Dot would Mom’s.
By contrast, my mother had long followed a low-carb, low-sugar diet. Drinking nearly two gallons of water a day, she also religiously practiced meditative yoga. She controlled her regimen as strictly as her paint strokes. Her mania kept her thin as a rail and chasing the “health” she preached about but could never attain for herself. Each new medical condition that popped up, from the osteoporosis to the irregular heartbeat and digestive problems, deepened her fervor to get her diet right.
Lacking deep conviction on the matter, I’d only partially adopted her routine. Half-assing the diet and the water and skipping the exercise bit altogether. I managed my intake and walked to appointments when I could instead of taking the subway. Besides, Dad’s sturdy genetics would likely spare me from her fate. He had fewer chronic conditions than her by a long shot.
“Stop worrying and go back to bed. I’ll have my hands full tending to Dot. Shouldn’t our focus be on helping her heal?”
“That’s what I’m doing. Thinking of her health, now and in the future.”
Really?
“Should I come help?”
“No. Please. You two are like oil and water. I’ll be fine.”
As I wrangled free from Mom to pack my bags, a pit formed in my stomach. When Gabby called, I longed to go visit, see my family, and reconnect. One hug transformed my street-hardened soul into a molten pool of gooey love. Mom’s bucket of cold water swamped all that, a stark reminder that while Dot was the one having surgery, staying with her meant I’d have some struggles of my own.