“I have friends,” I told her, glancing back up at the garage studio window. In truth, I had Anh and my international friends of my cul-de-sac, mostly former students, and a couple of friends at work. Parenting and Joel had taken up all of my time for the last ten years. More friends would've seemed a luxury I couldn't afford. “Besides, Judith has told me repeatedly how uncomfortable it would make her if I began dating.”
“Of course it would. She's not ready for that, but then neither are you, so what does it matter? But a friend wouldn't hurt, darling. Even Judith thinks so.”
“Yeah. You said that already.”
Barbara sipped her coffee, her bright eyes taking in the outdoors. My mother had a peppy personality (inherited by my sis, not me), but then she wasn't yet a Griever. Even my grandparents were both still living. Judith on the other hand, was a Griever. Her world had been wrapped up into Joel, her only child, and she had transferred that attention to her grandsons, which was both a blessing and a curse. “Why don't we do something fun today, Ramona? What do you say? We could meet your sister for lunch and buy you a new outfit. You haven't let me shop for you in ages.”
I recalled the moose sweater she'd given me for Christmas last year and shuddered. I'd cried not because I hated it, but because I couldn't laugh about it later with Joel. I peered at the window again and then down at my slob wear. Well, a new outfit couldn't hurt. Fun had been taken from its dusty box in the basement, brushed off and ready to open.
“Something nice for a singles mixer, maybe?” I said, half-kidding. “Why do I think this won't end well? But what the hell,” I said and her right arm shot into the air as if Bob Barker had told her to “come on down, you're the next contestant on The Price Is Right.”
The one thing my mother loved nearly as much as her church and volunteering was marathon shopping. I had to admit she was devilishly good at it. “Really?” she'd said as if I were pulling her leg. “I'll call Rachel and Judith and we'll make a day of it. You go get washed up and changed then.”
While my mother went back into the house to call Rachel, I watched the Panchal taxi cab pull into my side driveway and honk for da Vinci to take him to the center for his job placement interview. A moment later, he emerged wearing corduroy jeans and a T-shirt, his hair still wet from a shower. I imagined how cramped he would've been in the tiny shower stall, and thinking of him naked, stooped under the low shower head, made me feel weak.
Leonardo descended the rickety steps and looked at me, the sun shining on his flawless face, and waved to me. “ Buon giorno. ”
“Good morning,” I said back, and meant it.
Like the little devil on my left shoulder, my mother exhaled behind me, “My Lord, Ramona. Who in Heaven is that?”
Chapter 3
RACHEL TALKED ABOUT HER favorite topic while we dined on tuna salad sandwiches (because I was in skinny company) in the food court at lunch: herself. The world according to Rachel contained only three things: her career, her looks, and her love life. While Anh referred to her as the Energizer Bunny, I couldn't help but think she did the opposite of a battery and actually drained my energy instead of boosting it. Her enthusiasm might be contagious to “get off your couch and shake your groove thing, Austin,” but it didn't work on me.
She looked fabulous as usual with her tiny, size-2 figure and perky breasts and gleaming blonde hair recently lowlighted. She was two years younger than me, though I'd heard her lie to people and say she was twenty-nine on more than one occasion. She had one daughter, Zoe, who was bowed up and ready for a pageant even on non-pageant days. Her fourth favorite topic, if I were keeping track, would be Zoe and her misadventures in the pageant world. For, unlike her mother, Zoe had no charm, charisma, or personality. She was low-key like me. And she was all of five, for goodness's sake, and her camera-hogging mother couldn't fathom that nature had given her a bookish, inquisitive, athletic girl who questioned everything on the planet instead of a mini-Rachel starlet in the making. I adored her and on a weekly basis thought the best thing for me to do would be to raise her as my own so she'd have a chance.
Zoe joined us for lunch because she only attended a half-day kindergarten, though her afternoons were spent in an endless juggling act of dance, gymnastics, and cheerleading. The only time my otherwise chipper sister had bitten my head off was when I'd suggested, upon seeing a sad dance recital where my niece was two steps behind the other little girls, that perhaps Zoe had inherited my awkward rhythm.
We'd shopped for three hours already and while my mom and sister's bags piled high next to their seats, the only thing I 'd gotten is the terrible confirmation that my mid-section needed lipo and some of da Vinci's morning sit-ups. Being a junk food addict did have its side effects, namely thunder thighs and a jiggly badonkadonk.
Having someone like da Vinci as a personal trainer just might make me stick to a workout routine. That doughy area that sits atop the pants' waistline was called a muffin top, my sister informed me after I tried on a pair of pants that would've fit me two years earlier. No wonder I hadn't shopped for myself since Joel died. Jogging suits (not used to jog) were my primary wardrobe.
My stomach growled as soon as I'd finished my sandwich, proof that my appetite was spoiled and indulgent. But no more. Today I was going to start taking back control, starting with what went into my mouth. To prove I was serious, I would pass by the fast-food chains on my way home without even glancing at their evil bright signs, let alone turn into the drive-thru where sadly, all the workers knew me by name. Thanks to the excruciating task of trying to squeeze into sizes I once wore with ease, I realized the huge void in my life could not be filled with powdered donuts and cheeseburgers. If only I'd realized that twenty pounds ago.
“Mom tells me you have a hot Italian living in your studio,” Rachel said as she pushed away the cookie I tried to get her to eat.
“What's this?” Judith asked, her red lip pursing in surprise. Judith looked like she'd just had a Mary Kay makeover every time you saw her. Coiffed hair, heavily lined lids, powdered-to-perfection face.
“Oh, he's a student,” I said nonchalantly. “He only had $200 for rent so I thought he could stay in the studio for a bit until he starts earning more money.”
“That's our bleeding-heart Ramona,” my mother said.
Judith crossed her manicured hand over her heart, as if she were having chest pain. “In Joel's studio?”
I cleared my throat. “Well, yes. But it hasn't been used.”
Judith's brows went up. “I suppose I could come help you pack Joel's things out there.”
She had been in the camp that believed you did not have to get rid of the deceased's belongings. In fact, Joel's bedroom in her house was the same as it had been in high school, complete with his trophies and party pics (though Joel had scratched out Monica's face with a black marker after the wedding had been called off) and even the clothes in his closet. Judith was certain, even after we got married, that he might long for a T-shirt or red checked Polo or any number of the clothes she had so lovingly purchased for him over the years.
“Oh, that's not necessary, Mom G,” I said, patting her arm. “It's just a few things, and I'm going to keep them.”
“Of course you are. But if you decide you don't want them any longer, please give them to me. I couldn't stand his things being thrown out.”
I took a sip of diet Coke, while my sister kicked me under the table. She thought Judith's preoccupation with Joel, even in his death, was a bit much. But then she wasn't a Griever, so she would never understand.