Hope and Other Luxuries (37 page)

As I carried a platter of chicken to the table, she wrinkled her nose and said, “I don't eat meat. The way chickens are raised is horrible, they can't even stand up properly. Besides, that's a baby. The poor thing is only eight weeks old.”

The day I made pork chops, she said, “Did you know that pigs actually cry?”

But vegetables were no better. Broccoli tasted gross. Peas had a horrible texture. Yogurt was runny. Eating eggs was like eating rubber. Mushrooms were slimy. Carrots were boring and hard to chew.

“Potatoes?” she said as I was working at the counter with a potato masher. “They're so gloppy, they're like glue.
Salmon?
Did it have to be salmon? You
know
I don't like fish!”

So I bought more boxes and bottles to make our meals. I heated up more and more frozen things. At least this way, the bad cooking could be somebody else's fault.

“There's rocky road ice cream in the fridge,” I reminded her as she hauled her school books into the house.

“Mom! You know I don't like cold food.”

“I made cookies,” I said on another day. “Chocolate chip.”

“Dad will be happy,” she said.

“What about you?”

“Mom! When have you ever known me to like chocolate?”

“But don't you want to try one? They're right out of the oven. The chocolate's still all melty.”

“Maybe later,” she said, disappearing up the stairs. And I knew what
later
meant.

Later
was her word for
never
.

So I would eat the cookies or the ice cream or the cake. And
I
started putting on weight. My clothes got tight, and then lots of them hung useless in my closet. I picked up the nervous habit of pressing my hand to my side to feel the roll of fat there. But I couldn't stop bringing home high-fat food. It was the payoff that made it worthwhile.

One piece of pizza
, I thought,
will give her the calories she'd get in an entire plate of healthy food. Then she'll fill out and look happy again. She's starting to look so . . . grim
.

Elena's face wasn't girlish and pretty anymore—not like I remembered it. These days, it was sharp and angular, and it had developed—not wrinkles, exactly—but lines. Lines banded the bridge of Elena's nose, rimming the hollows under her eyes. Lines carved the surface of her concave cheeks, running down in sets to pull her thin lips into a smile. Her cheekbones stood out now, distinct knobs above dramatic hollows that stretched into the knifelike line of her jaw.

Elena still looked striking, but she didn't look happy—not even when she was laughing.

So the dinner table turned into a battleground. I was the aggressor, dogged and relentless, while Joe, worn out from work, kept quiet or tried to negotiate a truce.

He should be backing me up
, I thought.
He knows I'm right about this!

But Joe didn't stand shoulder to shoulder with me on this, and when I brought it up, he didn't explain. Maybe he simply thought I was doing more harm than good, or maybe he just didn't like to upset his daughter. Elena went out of her way to cater to him these days—the opposite of the way she treated me. Their mutual-admiration society left me feeling resentful.

On a typical night, as I heated up a pepperoni pizza, I was determined to keep dinner pleasant. Tonight I would stay relaxed, I vowed, and I would enjoy myself. I wouldn't let Elena get to me with her comments.

“Pizza?”
she said when I called her to the table. “Really, Mom?”

“You like pizza,” I said.

“Not this kind.”

“So, what kind
do
you like?”

“I hate pepperoni!” she said—which wasn't what I had asked.

Nevertheless, the meal started off well. Elena was full of news. She talked fast, telling us a dozen different funny stories about her classmates. She brought each friend to clear and sympathetic life. I wondered sometimes if her friends had any idea that I knew so much about them.

Part of me enjoyed these mealtime stories, but another part of me was on guard. Over the months, I'd discovered a secret: Elena used storytelling as a shield against food.

After the Summer from Hell, I had never seen Elena eat naturally again. She never forgot herself and just ate. She planned, she rationed, and she distracted. Storytelling was an important part of that distraction.

Sure enough, Joe finished his slices of pizza while she was still deep in the middle of one of her tales. He was ready to leave the table, and she had eaten only two or three bites. I took a third slice to hold them both there and tried to interrupt her with stories of my own. I wanted to buy time for her to finish her first slice, but Elena was too smart for that.

For every bite she took, I ended up taking four or five.

Eventually, Joe got tired of listening to our story swapping. He stood up. And so did Elena.

“Big exam tomorrow,” she announced casually. “Gotta get to my study group. Eight chapters of sociology to get through.”

But I wasn't going to be put off so easily.

“Elena, you didn't even finish your slice of pizza.”

“That's the crust. I never eat the crust.”

“That's the top third of your slice. See that cheese? That's not part of the crust. Don't eat the crust if you don't want to, but if you don't, then eat another slice.”

Cue Elena going ballistic.

“You always do this!” she stormed.

That's true
, I thought.
I always do
.

“It's creepy! You spy on everything I eat!”

Damn straight I do
.

“This stuff kills! It sticks in the arteries! It's not good for my heart! Why do we have to eat such crappy food?”

Because if I serve you tofu, you'll still only eat seven bites. I'm maximizing calories here
.

“I'm
full
!”

That's a lie
.

But actually, it probably wasn't.

Joe gave a sigh, and I saw that look in his eyes again, the look of an old dog who just wants to go lie down.
He should be supporting me
, I thought, and I felt real anger with him for leaving me to deal with this alone.
He knows how important this is. He can't just be a buddy. He has to be a parent, too
.

But the cavalry wasn't coming. Time to open up a can of evil witch.

“If you eat a second slice,” I said, “I'll drive you to Barbara's tonight. If you don't, I'm not going anywhere.”

Cue the expected rise in volume.

“This isn't a party, Mom! This is a study session! Do you want me to do well on this exam or not?”

I am stone. I am solid rock. I will not give an inch
.

“You always do this! You always mind my business! You ruin every single meal. Well, if you won't drive me to Barbara's, I'll
fail
. Is that what you want, Mom—do you want me to
fail
?”

The waves break over me, but they only push me further into the ground. I am not moving. I will not budge
.

At this point, Joe finally intervened.

“Elena, you know it's important to get enough food in your system,” he said. “You have to think of your heart. Just eat one more piece. Please.”

And Elena did it—not for me, but for her father. She ate standing, glaring at me, taking four or five swift, angry bites, and then dropped the second piece of pizza half eaten beside the first.

“There!” she snapped, and she stormed out of the room.

I don't care
, I thought as I listened to her clatter up the stairs.
I don't care that my heart's pounding and my dinner's ruined and I've got no help now
with the kitchen. All that matters is that Elena has more food in her stomach. That's the important thing. I made Elena eat. That's what counts. It doesn't matter how I did it
.

But later, when I tried to write, I was too worn out. Stepping into that fantasy world meant making myself feel sorrow, joy, excitement, fear—all the emotions my characters were feeling. But I couldn't do that. I was too exhausted to feel. All I could do was worry.

So Martin did nothing. He did absolutely nothing. He simply stood and stared at me while his computerized German shepherd shifted from foot to foot and let out anxious little whimpers.

Do something!
I told him.
I'm here for you now. I need help. I need a distraction! Distract me!

And perhaps it surprised my editor, but it did not surprise me when Martin embarked on a death-defying quest to rescue his mother.

H
elicopter parents,” the counselor said. “It's one of our biggest challenges.”

I was sitting in an auditorium-style classroom, in a comfortable padded chair. That was new. College classrooms didn't have padded chairs in my day. Around me sat people of my same age and situation: the men with thinning hair and the occasional streak of silver; the women with short, discreetly dyed, practical styles.

This group of steady grown-up types had come together for our children's college orientation weekend. Our youngsters were off somewhere on a campus tour while the counselors sat us oldsters down and talked to us about parenting—

Specifically, about the need to stop.

“Helicopter parents,” the counselor said, “are the moms and dads who pop by campus all the time. They show up at class. They want to know things we're not allowed to tell them—things about attendance or grades. We call them helicopter parents because they hover. They can't let go of their children.”

My imagination presented me with the image of a college student. He had longish hair and a bored expression, and he was walking across campus to class. Meanwhile, his two anxious parents hovered along after him. They hung in the air a few feet above and a few feet behind him, their helicopter blades gently humming.

The image caught my fancy, and I smiled. I glanced around at the nearby faces to see if anyone else was smiling, but the other parents looked grave.

As a group, we were soberly dressed, but with a few well-chosen bright touches—chunky silver jewelry, perhaps, or a kelly-green cardigan over a linen shirt.
I still know how to have fun!
these touches said.
I'm not old yet!
But in fact, our definition of fun had changed considerably since our own college days, along with many other things about us. The close attention we were all paying to the lecture, for instance: that was something I didn't remember from the old days.

“It's important for you to step back now,” the counselor said. “You've done your job. You got your children here. And that's great! But now it's time for
them
to take over.” He paused while we all pondered that extraordinary thought. “You've given them roots,” he said. “It's time to give them wings.”

Roots? Wings? My imagination spun for a second or two. Then it coughed up an image of an eagle whose claws had grown into the ground. He was flapping his wings, trying to fly, but the root-claws wouldn't let him.

Roots
and
wings? That made for one very unhappy bird!

And once again, I smiled.

But once again, as I glanced around, I found that no one else was smiling. The other parents were nodding solemnly.

Maybe I have been hovering too much
, I thought, a little abashed.
I do mind Elena's business. I need to back off and let her take care of things. She's right: she's done amazingly well this year
.

And my imagination found another image to show me, a thrilling, joyful memory. Elena stood at the podium in her black cap and gown, with the bright yellow honors ribbon draped around her shoulders. She was standing in front of two thousand family members and students. And she was delivering a high school graduation address—in German.

My heart swelled at the thought. I was so proud of her!

The counselor continued to mix his metaphors, but I was lost in my own reverie. Summer had come, and once again, it was a summer of changes. I was one year out from sitting by Elena's bed in the ICU. I was two years out from sitting by Valerie's in the ER. But this time, the changes the summer was bringing were happy ones.

After seven years in Germany, Joe and Elena and I were back in Texas again. We were back in our old house, back in our old neighborhood and church—back among old friends.

Elena was finally getting that independence she had wanted. She had her driver's license, a little used car, and a dorm apartment at our local state university. What a cute place she and her roommate were putting together, too—orderly and soothing, aqua blue and sage green, with a spa-like Zen feel and a bowl of woven rattan balls on the coffee table.

The counselor is right
, I thought as we parents stood up to leave the auditorium.
Elena's fine now. It's time for me to let go
.

A few weeks later, I was standing on my front porch, surrounded by towers of cardboard boxes, while moving men wrestled a king-size mattress through the front door. The dining table and chairs, swaddled in massive sheets of white paper, sat on the driveway next to the moving truck.

My cell phone rang.

“Hey, Mamacita!” said Valerie's easygoing voice. “Have the movers gotten there yet?”

My runaway daughter hadn't been able to call me when I was in Germany. Her cell phone plan wouldn't let her make international calls. But now that I had a regular Texas phone number again, she was taking the lead in our relationship. She called me several times a day.

It made me happy that she wanted to include me in her life like that.

“Yes, they're here,” I said. “It's pretty much chaos. And you know, it doesn't matter how nice your furniture is, when you stick it out on the front lawn, it still looks like Walmart burped out a clearance sale.”