The Art of Adapting (41 page)

“Hey, Abs,” Celeste said, light as a breeze. “How's manatee-land?”

Abby sobbed with relief. She wasn't alone. She wasn't totally lost.

“Oh, crap,” Celeste said. “Hang on.” She heard the rustling of fabric, muffled voices, the click of a door being shut. “Food, Gabe, or family?”

“Food,” Abby hiccupped. “I don't know what happened. I was fine. And then . . .” Abby was crying too hard to finish.

“Yeah, okay,” Celeste said. “Those setbacks are no joke. But here's the thing. You're stronger than this thing. You have no idea how strong you are. But I do. Okay? We'll get you back on track. What happened? Step by step.”

“I went to the pool. I had lunch. I tried talking to my grandma. It was fine until I mentioned my mom. Then she just shut down.”

“Some people don't want help,” Celeste said. “Be glad you're in therapy, or that'd be you in sixty years.”

Abby laughed. Celeste always knew what to say.

“And then I went to change in the bathroom. And the mirror was right there. So I got curious. You know, about how tan I'm getting.”

“Uh-oh,” Celeste said. “Is there a scale in that bathroom?”

“No. No scale. Just this little mirror that I can hardly see myself in. But I got up on the tub to see my back, and then I saw my thighs . . .” Abby started crying again.

“Yeah. I've been there. What you saw? That's the hardest part. That reprogramming. You and I have this skewed idea about what our own body looks like. We see other bodies and they look normal enough: skin covering muscles and bones. And we envy them, like they have something we don't. We see our own flesh and it's like a container of Crisco. But it's all wrong. We're
looking in a funhouse mirror at ourselves. Seeing stuff that isn't even there.”

“I tried making myself throw up,” Abby said. “But I couldn't do it.”

“Oh, Abby,” Celeste said, with such kindness that Abby started sobbing again. She was crying so hard that she didn't hear Matt open the sliding glass door. She didn't know he was there until the box of Kleenex and glass of ice water appeared on the table before her. Matt sat with his sketch pad on his knee and worked on drawing alligator tails while Celeste finished her pep talk.

“You are strong. Beautiful. Brilliant. You are amazing. Nothing can stop you. Not even this. Setbacks will happen. But you keep fighting. And I'm right here with you.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

There was a stirring of voices around Celeste. Some group gathering in her midst. Abby said she was better, that Matt was with her, promised to check in later, and hung up. She blew her nose and drank the water.

“You tried throwing up?” Matt asked. So he'd heard the whole conversation. “Like my mom?”

“You know she did that?”

“Bulimia,” Matt said. “Very unhealthy. The stomach acid erodes the enamel on your teeth.” He pointed at his smile and Abby shuddered. “It's also very wasteful. Of the food.”

Abby laughed and nodded. “All good reasons not to start,” she said.

“I agree,” Matt said. He returned to his notebook.

Abby sat with him, drinking the cold water to survive the heat, watching him sketch away, until she no longer felt so panicky. She closed her eyes and pictured little-girl Abby. She knelt before her, looked her squarely in the eye.
You are strong. You are beautiful. You are brilliant. You are amazing. Nothing can stop you. You are safe. I will protect you.

She went inside and removed her necklace. She didn't want Gloria's face touching her body. It was like it was contagious. Or maybe just genetic. She got her lunch out of the fridge and sat down with it.

“You can do this,” she said, scooping up a tiny bit of cottage cheese. She was staring her spoon down, still trying to get it to her mouth, when Gloria came into the kitchen for yet another cup of coffee. Gloria opened a drawer for a spoon, mixed creamer into her coffee. She pulled a tiny silver spoon out of the drawer, too. She held it out to Abby.

“This was your mother's. When she was a baby.”

Abby took the spoon and stared at her reflection. She was upside down in the bowl of the spoon, right side up on the back of the spoon. Inside a funhouse mirror either way.

“It started with the baby weight,” Gloria said. She sipped her coffee, added more creamer, stirred it again. “I was thin my whole life. Never had to think about it. Until I had Stephen. And then the others. Four babies so close together. I think my body just couldn't go back. I played tennis. I swam. I took Jazzercise. I dieted.”

Gloria sat across from Abby. She held her cup in midair and stared off into space.

“When you hear your whole life how beautiful you are on the outside, I think it's hard to trust you're still beautiful on the inside, once the body changes.”

“Do you still do it?” Abby asked.

Gloria rolled her eyes and gestured at her own body. “Clearly not.”

“But you're beautiful, Grandma. Without it.”

Gloria's eyes shone with tears and she dabbed them with a napkin. “And so are you. Inside and out. So smart. Such a good heart. This stuff is . . .” She gestured toward Abby's bowl. “Neither the problem nor the solution.”

“The problem is that we don't love ourselves as we are. One solution is listing all of the things you love about yourself, every single day.”

“Your therapist's idea?” Gloria asked. Abby nodded.

“I like my teeth,” Abby said. “They are straight and white.”

Gloria laughed and picked up the baby spoon, looking at her reflection in it. “I like my eye color. Blue-gray.”

Abby took a bite of cottage cheese. “I like my hands. The long fingers.”

Gloria got her bowl from the fridge and took a bite of her food with the baby spoon. “I like my toes. I've always had good toes.” She kicked off her shoe and waggled her bare foot at Abby.

“I like my speed and strength on the field.”

“I like my grace on the dance floor.”

Matt came in with a newspaper tucked under his arm and rifled through drawers until he found tape, then left the room. Abby raised her eyebrows at Gloria and they laughed together.

“I like my wacky family,” Abby said.

“I adore my granddaughter,” Gloria said. She picked up Abby's necklace from the table, pooled the chain into the palm of her hand, and looked at the photos in the locket. “We could be twins.”

“Can you help me put it back on?” Abby asked. She lifted her hair as Gloria laid the necklace around her throat and gently did the clasp.

When Abby went to the bathroom later she found the mirror covered with newspaper, taped down with enough tape to withstand a hurricane. Matt was in his room, drawing in his journal.

“Thank you. For the mirror,” she told him.

“We're all on vacation,” he said. “We shouldn't care what we look like anyway.”

Two things sucked about Florida: the hot sticky weather, and there was no Betsy. Aside from that the trip was fine. Byron's grandpa Jack liked to call him “son,” and used words like “strapping” to describe him. It was hilarious. Jack was funny, loud, and not the least bit concerned with whether or not anyone was actually listening when he talked. He had a comment on everything. If a breeze blew outside, it'd take him three seconds to say: “See those palm trees swaying? Wind's picking up. Those fronds make a ruckus when they fall. Not to mention a huge mess.”

No one could outtalk Jack. Jack read all of the mail out loud, even junk mail.

“Anyone need an oil change? Only fifteen dollars with this here coupon! Hell of a deal!”

Byron spent the first day setting up the webcam for his grandparents. His grandma Gloria said it was broken or something. It looked like they'd never even taken it out of the box. Byron got it working on the first try. That way they could use it to video-chat with Matt later, and Byron could use it to chat with Betsy during his week in Florida. Except the only computer Betsy had access to with a camera was Tilly's laptop, so every time Byron tried calling, he just ended up trapped in a video chat with Tilly about neighborhood gossip.

Becca also showed up for a surprise visit, which made the whole week better. She was artsy and laid-back and talked about things like manifesting abundance and spirit guides and drove Jack and Gloria crazy with it. And Becca always brought gifts for everyone. Byron got a set of pencils, a sketch pad, and a bunch of T-shirts. The clothes were all super-cool: retro styles, faded colors, old logos.

“Are those used clothes?” Gloria asked, horrified.

“They are. Preworn to soft perfection,” Becca said. “Recycle and reuse, Mom.”

Gloria left the room shaking her head and Becca laughed. She was so sure of herself. Byron guessed with a cold mom like Gloria and a bizarre brother like Matt, Becca had just given up trying to be anyone other than who she was. Byron drew her a sketch of a seated Buddha with flowers all around and a huge pointed crystal in one hand. Becca hugged him and swayed like there was music going, which there wasn't.

“I hope you recognize your gift, Byron. Don't let anyone diminish it. Not by shaming you or commercializing you. You're going to do great things. Ask the universe for truth to come through your art. You'll be unstoppable.”

Unstoppable
wasn't a word anyone had ever used to describe Byron before. His aunt Becca was nutty, but she was so encouraging it was impossible not to like her.

“You think so?” Byron asked. He liked the sound of doing great things. Maybe he'd even be famous someday. He pictured himself up on a stage accepting a prize. Did they give out prizes for artists? Big ones, like Oscars? He sure hoped so.

“You're channeling your higher self through your art. It's all there.” She pointed from Byron's heart to his head, to a space above his head. “You've got so much work to do. So much to teach us. You better rest up.” She smiled and hugged Byron again. She left him with a funny feeling of possibility. Of hunger. Of impatience to find out what would come next. He spent the rest of the day sketching, waiting to see what messages the universe had for him. Apparently they were about lush green landscapes, space shuttles,
alligators, and Betsy. Byron reviewed his entire sketchbook with a more critical eye and wasn't satisfied with much in there. It wasn't world-changing, that was for sure.

Then he watched Matt sketch a whole series of alligator tails. Matt worked on every ridge, every shadow, every ripple in the water until he liked what he'd drawn. And then Byron felt better. Surely he needed to get his skills up before the universe started beaming wisdom down to him. He had his art classes coming up the week after they got home. That was a start.

Byron tried to balance his days between art and keeping up his parkour skills. The retirement villa grounds had thick spongy lawns for soft landings, low-hanging branches, and plenty of stone benches for trying new moves. The rest of the day he spent sketching, swimming, watching TV with his grandpa, and texting Betsy.

Every time Byron's phone dinged for a new text, Jack would yell, “Heart line! Another message from the girlfriend! Man, she's a loquacious one, isn't she?”

Jack was a lawyer and liked big words. He also did the
New York Times
crossword puzzle every day, in pen. He was retired, but he was still a lawyer, always wanting to argue about something or prove some point even when the people around him already agreed with him.

“You see, the thing is that nobody in Washington wants to live under the same laws they pass for the rest of us! Governed by the people, my ass. That's the elite in charge there. Put them all on Medicare, Social Security, and those systems would be fixed in six weeks.”

“I know, Dad,” Lana would say. But Jack would just keep spouting his theories anyway, like she'd just disagreed with him.

One day, out of sheer boredom, Byron made the mistake of doing parkour in the full sun of the afternoon, when the air was so swampy it was like breathing steam. He came in red-faced and hyperventilating, dripping sweat all over his grandma's nice white carpet, and headed straight for the kitchen. He mopped up his face with a wad of paper towels and guzzled a bottle of water. Jack came into the kitchen, looked Byron over, and shook his head. He
got two beer bottles from the fridge, opened them both, and set one on the counter next to Byron.

“Man's work deserves a man's drink,” Jack said. Byron knew his mom would kill him if he drank it, but hadn't she always taught him to politely accept whatever a host offered him? She said even if you don't like what they make for dinner, you have to eat it anyway. Was this any different? Byron checked the doorway before taking a quick swig of the beer. Jack laughed and grabbed his belly like Santa, then gave Byron a hard smack on the back that almost made Byron drop the beer.

“I'll be the lookout!” Jack said. He scampered to the dining room, where he hunched over, hands on his knees, looking in every direction. He really hammed it up, like he did everything. “All clear!” he said, looking around with his hand shading his eyes like some soldier on patrol. “Drink fast!” Byron was laughing so hard he could barely drink. He couldn't wait to tell Betsy about it. He didn't remember his grandpa very well from their last visit, but he definitely wasn't cool and funny before. Maybe that was a retirement thing. Or an old age one.

Matt came in and sort of eyed the beer. Byron hoped he wouldn't tell on him. Then Byron remembered that Matt had had a drinking problem, and figured drinking in front of him was a bad idea.

“Grandpa gave it to me. I just—”

“No apologies there, son!” Jack said. “Matt, you want a beer?”

“No, I'm not allowed. It's bad for my liver. And it can cause seizures if I drink while on my medication.”