I didn’t know this person, this TV-ad mom, chipper and sunny and incredibly annoying.
Maybe that’s why I imitated her tone when I said, “There is cheese and yogurt and salad with TONS of dressing—full-fat ranch! And muffins, and bread, and all sorts of stuff we never have at home. Everybody has to eat everything.” I watched her face. She just stared at me, her face blank. “And they told us to watch you guys today, because you’d show us what normal people eat like.”
That last line was a lie. Nobody had said that to us. But finally, my mother would have to eat everything on her plate. Everything.
Mom watched me for a moment and then said softly, “Look, Elizabeth, I am trying, okay? I’m really trying.” I didn’t acknowledge her or the little tug of remorse inside me.
As we walked into the dining room we passed Margot, tray in hand. She’d told me her parents weren’t coming, acting like it was no big deal.
“Margot,” I said, a little too quickly. “Meet my parents. You guys, this is Margot.” Mom looked her up and down. For a minute I was ashamed of my friend and her black-dyed hair with its mouse-brown roots, her faded black T-shirt, jeans worn through at the knees, and holey black Converse high-tops. She looked like a slob. “So, um, where are you eating?”
She replied drily, “The orphans get to eat in the guest dining room.”
Through the doors in the back of the room I could see a lonely table where two girls were already sitting, hunched over their trays.
I reached out to touch Margot’s shoulder in sympathy, but I wasn’t fast enough. She turned to my parents, said, “Nice to meet you,” and left.
Mom looked after her, eyes narrow. “Where do we know her from?”
“We don’t.”
“Yes, I’m sure of it. Who is she?” I knew Margot hated being defined by her last name, but before I could control myself, I blurted out, “She’s Margot Camby, Mom.”
“Oh!” She looked toward the doors where Margot had disappeared. “That’s how I knew her. You two took ballet when you were six. I think she went by Merry then.” Mom leaned in close and, in a whisper, said, “She was such a darling-looking little girl. What a shame.”
“Mom! That’s not nice!” Only five minutes in and she was already judging. “We aren’t supposed to talk like that about people.”
We picked our way through the room, looking for seats. “Well, this isn’t so bad,” Mom said. They’d put pots of bright red, yellow, and orange Gerbera daisies on the tables. It looked like a nursing home.
“They never have flowers on the tables,” I said. “It’s for you guys.”
“Oh.” Her smile flickered like a dying lightbulb.
Then Nurse Jill stood up. “Hello and welcome! We are so happy to have you here. I have enjoyed getting to know each and every one of your beautiful girls. They are wonderful, strong, resilient spirits who bring light and life to our facility.” Apparently everybody was going to lie today. She stood with her hands clasped as if she were a happy nun about to sing “Climb Every Mountain.”
Then she announced, like we were at a wedding or something, “The buffet is now open. Enjoy!”
The buffet was for the families only. I grabbed my loaded green tray like usual and went back to the table. Mom and Dad ambled over to the food line with the rest of the parents, all silently sizing each other up, reassuring themselves that they were better parents than, say, Allie’s mom, who waited in line with big rocks on her fingers, a Botoxed face, and probably half a bottle of foundation caked onto her skin.
Willa’s mom waited behind my parents. When she came out of the kitchen with her tray, Willa sat up straight and smiled. She suddenly looked different, sparkly almost. She looked twelve. Like, normal twelve, like a kid who would be hanging out at the mall food court on Fridays with her friends while a mom sat off to the side, trying not to look. Willa’s mother sat down beside her and they leaned into each other, both looking really happy.
My parents, on the other hand, were like a before photo for an anti-anxiety drug.
“Well, doesn’t this look delicious!” Mom said, perching on the edge of her chair after they’d found me. Dad handed her a bowl of lettuce and a yogurt. Then he passed over a turkey-and-cheese sandwich. “This isn’t mine,” she said.
I guess trying wasn’t so high on her list after all.
Dad shot her a look. “Yes, it is. Remember how much you were craving a sandwich in the car?” This was interesting. Dad never made Mom eat. Ever.
“Right,” she said, paling under her foundation and blush. She poked the bread with a finger. “Looks delicious.”
“The selection!” Dad said. “You can eat like a king here!”
Mom didn’t take a bite. I didn’t either. Finally Dad picked up his own sandwich. “Mmm … I’m starved,” he said, taking a monster bite, tearing through the tomato, the lettuce, the whole wheat bread, and the smoked turkey. It was so easy for him.
“Honey, do they have mayonnaise?” he said, still chewing.
“I … um … I don’t know. I could ask, I guess.”
Dad suddenly looked ashamed. “No worries. Never mind. The sandwich is delicious, and my waistline doesn’t need any mayonnaise anyway.” He looked stricken. “I mean, sorry, I…”
I shrugged. “I’ll ask.”
Nurse Jill got a little cup of it from the kitchen and brought it to Dad. “Thanks,” he said, smiling at her. “Bet you don’t get many requests for that around here!” He looked stricken again. Nurse Jill smiled and walked away. “Sorry, honey,” he said. “This is all a little strange for me.”
I shrugged again.
I still hadn’t touched my meal. Mom hadn’t either.
Dad said, “Karen, the salad looks delicious,” which was obviously code for Eat, Karen.
“Um, yes, it does,” she said nervously.
I watched her stab a bit of lettuce with her fork and delicately dip the tip of it into her plastic container of dressing. She put it to her mouth, touched it with her tongue, and placed it in between her teeth. She caught me staring and started to chew.
I knew how she felt, but I didn’t say anything. I just watched, chewing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I still had a granola bar, a banana, and a yogurt in front of me.
I looked around. All the other moms were eating like it was no big deal, like they did this all the time. And here was mine, taking bird-size bites she could barely handle. Why couldn’t she just be normal?
“Mom, aren’t you going to eat?”
My parents stared at me. My mother turned red.
“Mom! It is so hard to eat when you’re acting like that. You’re supposed to model normal behavior for me!” Before Wallingfield I’d watch Mom eat and feel guilty if I ate more than she did. Now, though, I saw her eating for what it was. Screwed up. I opened my granola bar and broke off a piece. I forced it in my mouth.
Mom put her fork down and stared silently at her plate.
Dad hissed, “Elizabeth, that’s enough!” loud enough that a couple of parents glanced in our direction.