Seven plates of food arrived soon after, plus three bowls of rice, but Emily ignored most of it, keeping her eye on the folders, and her aunt, who was watching her grandmother eat, while her grandmother ignored her and piled food on her own plate and ate and ate and ate, she didn’t stop for nothing, head down, chopsticks in one hand, a spoon in the other, like it was a contest, like she was in a race, but it never seemed like she was going to finish, like her grandmother could eat forever and never get full. This is how you got that way, thought Emily, who ate only three dumplings, even though they were delicious, dewy and plump and slightly sweet, because she was beginning to feel sick watching her grandmother. She looked again at her aunt’s face, and realized she was sick, too. Only the waitress, Anna, wasn’t sick. She was cheerful, clearing the plates as her grandmother emptied them with efficiency. She was the only one who didn’t know. Emily wondered if anyone was planning on telling her. She bet Anna would want to know.
With the post-dinner green tea (and just one more glass of wine for her aunt, she probably wouldn’t even finish it) came the bottle of purple polish, and Emily quietly busied herself with her nails, dabbing and blowing delicately, working awkwardly with the cast, while her aunt opened the first folder.
“We’re going to talk about your grandmother’s health for a little bit,” said Robin.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do that in front of her,” said her grandmother.
“Is it going to bum you out?” said Robin.
“The whole thing is already a bummer,” said Emily. Her grandmother started to cry. “Don’t cry,” said Emily, and then she started to cry, and so did Robin. Anna walked up with three dishes of ice cream, made a small, horrified expression with her mouth, and then walked away, silver dishes still in hand.
“Everyone cut it out,” Robin said finally, dabbing her eyes with her napkin.
“It’s going to be fine, honey,” said her grandmother, who did not stop the tears dripping from her face. “Come here, bubbeleh.” She extended her arms toward Emily, who slung her one good arm around her grandmother’s torso and clung tightly.
“Breathe,” said Robin. They did. They all breathed separately. They all breathed collectively. “Now, let’s get down to business.”
She opened the top folder. It was full of brochures. Spas, retreats, resorts.
“Fat farms,” murmured her grandmother.
“You have to start somewhere,” said Robin.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said the older woman. “I don’t want to leave my family right now.”
“I’ve also got some information on nutritionists,” said Robin. She pulled out a single slick sheet of paper that had a picture of a buff, smiling man with enormous teeth that somehow seemed whiter than the paper they were printed on. “This guy is supposed to be one of the best trainers in Chicago, and he specializes in cases like yours. He’s in the suburbs on Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“I already walk around the track almost every day,” said her grandmother.
“You’re going to need more than the track,” said Robin.
“I’m doing the best I can,” said her grandmother.
“This is the best you can?” said Robin angrily, motioning to the now-empty table.
“I like it here,” whispered her grandmother. “These are my friends. You can’t make me give up my friends.”
Emily suddenly felt nervous; the humanity, the rawness of emotions of those she loved and revered, it was a lot to handle. She didn’t want to know this yet. She said suddenly, “What’s in the other folder?”
The two women looked at her. Robin smoothed her hand nervously over the table. “Maybe this is too much,” she said. Emily reached out her good hand and quickly pulled the folder toward her, then flipped it open. Weight-loss surgery. Staples and tubes. “That’s probably not for right now,” said her aunt. “It could be for later this year.” Robin paled, and rubbed her hands along the sides of her face. “It’s not ideal. It’s not entirely guaranteed, and any time you go in for surgery, you’re putting yourself at risk.” Robin could no longer look at her mother or her niece. “It’s a way to go. It’s not the way I would go. But it is a way to go. It’s something to think about.” She lurched forward and clutched at her mother. “Can’t you just stop, please, stop, Mom, please?”
“Yes, please,” said Emily.
Her grandmother squeezed her daughter’s hands and released them. She closed both folders and laid them on the seat next to her, nodding to herself. “I promise you I will read all this tonight,” she said.
“I’m going to call you tomorrow,” said Robin. “First thing.”
“Good,” said her mother. “It is always a pleasure to hear from you.” She finally wiped at her eyes with her napkin, then turned to Emily and said, “Have you ever seen a real restaurant kitchen before? Come on, come meet the chef.”
The two of them walked back to the double kitchen doors, her grandmother knocking on one and then poking her head inside. “Yoo-hoo,” she said. “Can we come in?” Emily stuck her head in, too, and Anna huddled in the corner of the gleaming white kitchen with an older Chinese man, wrinkled, tall, stooped, and worried-looking.
“Of course you can,” said the man. “Of course, of course.” He waved them in. “You are okay?” he asked her grandmother.
“Yes, we’re just a bunch of emotional gals,” she said. “It runs in the family.”
“Three peas in a pod,” Anna said.