Bigger (The Nicky Beets series) (15 page)

“Oh, just diet and exercise,” I said.

“How much have you lost?” she exclaimed.

Despite my preoccupation with my imploding personal life, I’d still been
weighing in every day. I couldn’t help but be pleased with the results I saw
once my appetite went the way of the dodo bird.

“Fifty six pounds.”

Mother was shaking her head side to side vigorously.

“Amazing. Simply amazing,” she said, standing up straight with her hands
on her hips. “Well, you look great. Good for you.”

She turned to head back inside, and I followed her in. It looked like the
Nicky Show was over. She was walking toward her bedroom and called over her
shoulder, “The guest room is made up. You can put your bag there.”

I followed her down the long hallway, passing rooms designated for other
things – one office for Jim, and another for Mom, although who knew why
she needed an office. There was a large room with exercise equipment and
another room my mom called the library – it was lit with soft yellow
light and lined with shelves of books. Cozy leather couches flanked an
exquisite Oriental rug and chenille blankets were draped over the furniture to
look as though they’d been carelessly flung that way, but ended up looking magazine-perfect.
I felt an overwhelming desire to wrap myself in a blanket and curl up on a comfy
couch for a long nap. Maybe later.

There was more than one guest room, but when my mother referred to the
guest room I would sleep in, she meant my old bedroom, which had been redone in
soft shades of yellow and rose. I set my bag down at the foot of the bed, on an
antique chest Mom had paid someone to reupholster in the same fabric as the
curtains. The room was beautiful and warm, with a fluffy down comforter I
couldn’t wait to pull over my head. Despite my mother’s personality quirks,
there were definitely little perks to staying in her home.

“Nicole!” my mother yelled from the foyer. “Time to go! We’re going to be
late.”

I managed to drive her to the doctor’s office, wait half an hour for her
bone spur to be shaved off, and drive her back home without feeling the urge to
drive us both off a cliff and end Mom’s incessant whining once and for all.
We’d been sent on our way with a recommendation for Mom to take ibuprofen if
she felt any pain, which she was more than a little skeptical about. Already
she was complaining of a throbbing in her toe, and it had only been an hour
since her foot had been injected with local anesthetic.

She hobbled into the house, leaning heavily on me, and sank dramatically
into an overstuffed chair-and-a-half, propping her legs up on one of the arms.

“I’m a little worried about this pain,” Mom moaned. “I might need you to
call the doctor to get him to prescribe something a little stronger.”

I had no doubt that I would be doing this shortly, particularly if my
mother had anything to say about it, but decided to distract her momentarily
with lunch.

“How about something to eat? Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Starved. There’s makings for turkey sandwiches in the fridge. And I made
your favorite chocolate cake last night.”

I felt a stab of fear in my gut. I could so easily laze around my mom’s
house eating turkey sandwiches and chocolate cake all week. It had, at one
time, been one of our favorite pastimes together – eating. Only, the
weight stuck to me and slid off Mom. We feasted on fettuccine alfredo and full
pans of brownies side by side, watching “Ghostbusters” and “Edward
Scissorhands” over and over. It was a tempting idea, to slip back into our old,
comfortable habit, particularly considering the dark cloud of depression I’d
been under following Chuck’s departure.

And the chocolate cake was a serious peace offering. She obviously felt
guilty for giving me the cold shoulder at Christmas, or maybe she felt sorry
for me since Chuck and I broke up. It was the cake she only ever made for me on
really special occasions, and it was the best I’d ever had. It was flourless,
with no fewer than four giant dark chocolate bars melted into the batter. All
in all, it took about five hours to make.

“That’s really sweet of you, Mom,” I said.

“Well, I know how much you like it,” she explained. “And since you’re
going to be here all week, I figured it’d be nice to have something we can
snack on.”

“That was a nice thought,” I started. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t eat any
of it. I haven’t really eaten dessert in two months, trying to lose this
weight.”

Mom’s lips pursed together and she squinted at me incredulously. “Nicole.
I’m sure you can have a single piece of chocolate cake. It’s not going to
derail all of your efforts.”

I considered this a moment. I’d never been the type to eat just one piece
of cake or a few chips out of the bag. I was an all-or-nothing girl. She knew
it, and I knew it.

“If I eat one piece, I’m just going to end up eating the entire thing,” I
told her. “I think you know me well enough to know I can’t just have one
piece.”

Mom’s nostrils flared. We were entering dangerous territory here.

“I wish you’d told me you were on such a drastic diet,” she said. “How am
I supposed to know? You never tell me anything. And frankly, it’s not my fault
you can’t eat just one piece of cake. You’ve always been that way. I just don’t
understand why you can’t practice a little self-control once in a while. You
must get that from your father.”

She was baiting me, and it was reminding me a little too much of the last
argument between me and Chuck. If I responded, this would become an all-out war.
I would end up taking my things and leaving, and she’d have to somehow manage
on her own, maimed toe and all.

“All right. I’m sorry you feel that way,” I answered, employing my
favorite client-enraging technique. Any time I was on the phone at work with a
testy client and couldn’t get anywhere with reason and sense, I simply told
them I was sorry they felt that way. It signals my refusal to engage in their
nonsense and tends to piss them off quite a bit, but also shuts them up in a
big hurry.

I rose to go to the kitchen to make Mommy Dearest a sandwich, and she
released an exasperated sigh.

“It’s just my damn foot hurts so bad,” she said. “Can you get me the
phone? I’m going to call the doctor’s office so they can give me some real pain
meds. Who in their right mind prescribes ibuprofen after surgery?”

“Yep, major surgery,” I muttered under my breath as I went to fetch her
the phone. I had no doubt my mom’s doctor would sign off on pain meds if only
to just get her to leave him alone.

I put together a very tempting-looking sandwich for my mom, slathering
the soft bread with mayonnaise and stacking turkey, lettuce and tomato on it
before cutting it diagonally and setting it on a plate. I carried the dish out
to Mom in the living room and set it down on the coffee table as she was
exhorting into the phone, “I
know
it’s only been two hours, but if my foot is killing me
right now,
imagine how it’s going to feel later on!”

I returned to the kitchen to throw together a turkey salad for me,
drizzled with a little vinegar and olive oil. I sliced a piece of the chocolate
cake for Mom and held it up to my nose to breathe in its delicious scent for a
moment. It smelled even better than I remembered. My stomach growled on cue,
and I reasoned that I simply needed to eat something. On a whim, I snapped a
photo of the chocolate cake with my phone. It might make for good blog material
later on.

I settled back onto the love seat in the living room to eat my salad and
Mom took an oversized forkful of cake and put it in her mouth, letting out a
contented, “Mm!” for my benefit. “I’m going to need you to hurry up with your
lunch, Nicole. The doctor phoned in a prescription for Vicodin, and I need you
to run down to Walgreens and get it.”

“Vicodin? Good grief, Mom,” I answered, hurriedly shoveling the salad in.

“Well, I think they finally understand how much pain I’m in over here.”

I didn’t answer and just ate my salad in silence as she over-enjoyed her
slice of cake.

With Vicodin on hand, the remainder of the week passed without much
incident. Mom spent much of her time either asleep or gazing glassy-eyed at
day-time television programs. Jim called in the evenings to check in, and I
reported on Mom’s very gradual “recovery.”

Having gym equipment in the house was a nice bonus – I could work
out without even leaving in case Mom awoke with a sudden need for another
magazine or ginger ale. The first evening I stayed at their house, I turned on
the television in the gym to some reality TV show, popped my earbuds in and ran-walked
on the treadmill until my shins were screaming. I switched to the stairmaster
– an evil, deceptive machine. I spent about half an hour hunched over on
that machine, sweat pouring down my face. I got off that machine and looked
around. My legs were shaking, so I stretched a bit and then hopped onto the
stationary bicycle, resting my face on my arms with my eyes closed as my legs
pumped around, around, around and sweat covered my entire body.

I worked out each day at my mom’s house, sometimes twice a day, depending
on Mom’s level of coherence. After the workouts I sometimes ran a bath in the
huge tub in my bathroom, filling the basin with lavender oil and bubbles, and
I’d sit in the hot water, just breathing, eyes closed.

Life was changing. Almost everything was changing, and quickly. My love
life. My body. My home – I needed to move out if Chuck wasn’t going to be
there to help me pay the rent. All of that was changing, and what surprised me
most as I mulled it over in the muggy silence of the bathroom was: I wanted
more. I longed to quit my aggravating job, doing the bidding of narcissistic
attorneys and playing office politics. I needed to find something fulfilling,
but first I needed to figure out what exactly that was. I wanted to leave this
place, not just my mom’s house, not just my townhouse, not just Berkeley. I felt
a strong desire, a need almost, to pack up my stuff, throw it in my car and
drive. Just go somewhere.

These were dangerous thoughts, I told myself. Where would I go? I don’t
know anyone in any other states. I hardly knew anyone outside of San Francisco.
What would I do? My talents seemed limited. I could type seventy words per
minute, but that wasn’t a “talent” I really wanted to employ, anyway.

Maybe I could go to the mountains, buy a pair of cowboy boots and work in
a coffee shop. Maybe I could move to New York and have six roommates and attend
fashion school. Maybe I could find my dad up near Chico and laze around his
place for a while, smoking pot and drinking cold beer.

I recognized these fantasies for what they were: Escape plans.
Life ain’t working out the way you hoped it
would? Escape to somewhere you’ve never been; it’s got to be better than where
you are right now!

One evening at Mom’s, post-bath, the TV was on and I was wrapped in
flannel pajamas and a robe, absent-mindedly turning the pages of one of the
many travel magazines my mother subscribed to. Jim’s high-paying job allowed
them a lavish lifestyle, not the least of which included trips to every corner
of the Earth, and then some. Stuff other people think they might do if they win
the lottery some day – those were the things Mom and Jim did every few
months on a whim. Visiting the Taj Majal, watching fish swim off their personal
ocean deck in Tahiti, observing New Zealand by helicopter – it was all
very doable on Jim’s salary.

My cell phone, which had sat silent for most of the week, barring a
couple of text messages from Laurie, suddenly began ringing, and I startled at
the noise. Picking it up, I saw it was Roxanne calling.

“Hi Rox,” I answered.

“Hey doll!” she said. “How’s life with The Beast?”

I giggled and looked over my shoulder to make sure Mom wasn’t nearby.

“Fabulous, as expected,” I said. “Actually, it hasn’t been
overly-horrible. She bullied her doctor into prescribing her Vicodin, so she’s
mostly been as high as a kite this whole time.”

“Oh, super!” Rox laughed. “That sounds about right!”

“So what’s up, dude?” I asked.

“Well I just wanted to check in on you and see how things were going,”
she said.

I was pretty sure she was checking to make sure I hadn’t gone off the
deep end, what with taking care of my needy mother following the surprising
demise of mine and Chuck’s relationship, but I played along innocently.

“Doing OK, all things considered.”

“Hmmmm….” she said.

“What?”

“I dunno.”

She was being awfully cryptic.

“What is up, Roxanne?”

“Nothing! Seriously. I just wanted to ask you about Chuck but I kind of
don’t want to ask you about him if you don’t want to talk about him.”

“Oh, sheesh,” I said. “Of course we can talk about him. What’s on your
mind?”

“Well, have you heard from him?” she asked.

“No.”

“Hmm,” she said again.

“What?!”

“Well, I called him.”

My stomach dropped. “Ok.”

“He sounds fucking miserable,” she said.

My heart lurched. I wasn’t sure what to say. Chuck was miserable? Like,
miserable without me? Miserable because I’d made him miserable?

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, he wouldn’t talk about what happened. He just said he thought it
was best if he left.”

“Ok…” I said. “But he didn’t say why?”

“He said he thinks he’s been dragging you down,” she said. “I don’t know
what that means.”

“Dragging me down? Like being unsupportive?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It was a really brief conversation. All I got out of it
was that he’s crashing on someone’s couch right now – someone from the
paper – and that he sounds fucking awful. I think he’s really hurting,
and I think you should call him. This could all just be a misunderstanding.
Maybe you guys can still kiss and make up,” Rox suggested.