Blue Plate Special (21 page)

M
om books us a room at the Riverview Inn
, just down the street from the hospital. Outside our window the Chemung River churns past, choppy and gray. Mom decides to shower before dinner—“to wash the day away,” as she puts it—so I check my phone while I’m waiting for her.

There are twelve missed calls. All from Shane, of course. Plus I have a text from Liv.

Glancing toward the closed bathroom door, realizing this may be my only private moment, I enter the command to retrieve my voice mail. Shane’s first message is calm. He sounds genuinely apologetic. He’s sorry about playing the phone joke on me. He knows it was really insensitive and he should have learned his lesson before.

The second message is a lot like the first. He repeats almost everything verbatim.

On the third, there’s an edge to his voice. Like he’s inspecting every word before giving it runway clearance. And he reminds me he’s already said he’s sorry. Twice.

Shane’s irritation surfaces during the fourth message. He’s almost home and he wants to know why I haven’t called back to accept his apology.

In his fifth message, he tells me I’m being too sensitive. That his joke wasn’t all that bad, and the average person would have laughed it off by now. Because, as jokes go, it
was
pretty funny.

In his sixth message, Shane informs me his nose is bleeding again. He includes a few choice expletives.

I’ve listened to all that I can. Before I chicken out, I hit Delete, erasing all twelve messages. Then I read Liv’s text.

can’t w8 2 talk when u get home! :-)

The shower stops running. Quickly, I hit Reply and type,

me 2. lots 2 tell u about my grandmother

—my thumbs hover over the keys, hesitating—

and shane.

Quickly, I press Send, then Power Off.

Mom appears, wrapped in an oversized bath towel. “Hey,” she says, touching my arm. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I nod, clapping my phone closed. “I am.”

* * *

As we cross the parking lot, a band of magenta stains the sky beyond the roof of the diner. It’s so brilliant and awe-inspiring, I actually have to catch my breath.

Mom holds the door open for me. “Imagine” by John Lennon fills the air. Glancing around the inside, I immediately love the place. Dad would too, because the decorating is totally retro—seventies wall colors like avocado and orange, lava lamps on the sills, framed record covers I recognize from his collection. Janis
Joplin. Steppenwolf. Nazareth. The only thing reminding me it’s the Obama era is the neon sign blinking
FREE WI-FI!
in a window facing the parking lot.

As we start down the aisle between two rows of booths, I wonder where my grandmother and grandfather sat when they ate here. It’s weird having all these new thoughts whirling through my brain—like connect-the-dots, waiting for me to link them.

“Wow,” Mom says, “has this place changed. It used to have ugly dark paneling and a funky Wild West decor.”

“You mean you’ve been here before?”

We drop down in a booth near the kitchen. “A long time ago,” she answers. “Your dad and I and Carol Ann—the one I ran into at Starbucks—and her boyfriend-at-the-time, Eric, came here after the Harvest Dance in tenth grade.”

A waitress hurries past, dropping off two menus and two ice waters. Then, tapping a bell near the grill, she calls, “Order in. Gimme a hockey puck, keep off the grass, and put out the lights and cry.”

Mom smiles. “Wow, does
that
bring back memories.”

I glance at the waitress, then back at Mom. “You
understood
what she said?”

“She asked for a burger, well-done, without lettuce, and a plate of liver and onions.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

“Diner lingo is a language all its own,” Mom says, waxing poetic.

“You liked waitressing, didn’t you?”

“It’s not that I liked
waitressing,
per se—it was hard work. But I wanted to look responsible and grown-up. I was so excited the day Charlotte put me in charge of deciding the Blue Plate Special.”

“Wait. Where did I just see that? Oh, yeah”—I reach in my pocket for the ticket Green Mountain gave me—“here it is. Good for one Blue Plate Special. What
is
that?”

“You seriously don’t know?” Mom asks.

“No clue.”

“Okay”—Mom laughs—“
I
feel old.” She sips her ice water. “I doubt many places still have them, but diners like the Geronimo, where I grew up, used to have a daily deal they pushed. Nothing Bobby Flay, just your ordinary meat-and-potatoes-with-all-the-fixings kind of meal. At the Clover Diner, Charlotte tried to use left-overs to make the specials so they wouldn’t pile up and go to waste. Extra pork roast and carrots were a good start for stew. Corn could be turned into chowder. Anyway”—Mom opens her menu—“I felt creative coming up with that every day.”

I flip mine open too. “I don’t see a Blue Plate Special listed here.”

“I’m not surprised. A lot of old-fashioned trends fall by the wayside.”

I look down, running my finger over the ticket. “So I can’t use this?”

“Probably not.”

I stick the ticket back in my pocket. “That’s good, actually.”

Mom looks up. “Why?”

“Well, when we get home I thought maybe I’d start a little keepsake box for her things. You know, the photos and the ticket. And I can add to it.”

Mom studies me. “You like her, don’t you?”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I’m curious”—Mom leans her elbows on the table—“do you like her because you like her? Or because you feel sorry for her?”

Before I can answer, Mom adds, “Because, as shocked as I am to hear myself say it, I like her a little bit too. Mostly I like how she is with
you.
It’s as if she’s able to give you something she wasn’t equipped to give me. But, still”—her forehead creases—“I don’t want to confuse affection with sympathy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, God. Do I have to spell it out?”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t want to like her because she could be dying.”

That last word wallops me in the gut. This person I didn’t even
know
yesterday suddenly matters to me. “Then don’t,” I say. “Like her because you’re ready to. Because things are different now that you’re an adult.”

Mom shakes her head. “It can’t be that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because things never are between mothers and daughters. It’s against the laws of nature.” Mom pauses, deep in thought. “She’s right about one thing, though…”

“What’s that?”

“Mothers
do
make mistakes with their daughters. I’m sure I’ve made my share.”

“Mom, what are you talking about? You’re, like, the best—”

“For instance,” she interrupts, “what if you told me
you
were pregnant? I certainly wouldn’t turn my back on you like my mother did me, but I couldn’t hide my disappointment, either. What if I wasn’t the person you needed me to be?”

I lower my voice so no one can hear. “Mom, I’m not going to get pregnant. Not in the near future, anyway. I remember everything you told me about birth control and—”

“Ariel, preventing pregnancy and HIV is important, but a condom doesn’t make you ready for sex.”

I sit back. Fold my arms. “Translation, please?”

She lowers her voice. “When I had sex with your dad—with
Jeremy
—I cared about him, yes, but I also, well, I
used
him. I allowed him to believe you were his daughter. Your dad wouldn’t be where he is right now if I’d—”

“Mom, cut yourself some slack. You were a teenager. You’d been
raped.
”

“All I’m saying”—Mom twirls the pepper shaker on its base—“is that sex has consequences. There’s a lot more to it than knowing where the condoms are kept. The choices we make can stay with us a very long time.”

Her words hang in the air between us. Sometimes her monologues are pure Mom Rants, but this one sticks. I think back on Shane sneaking into my room and pressuring me to have sex. And how I almost agreed to it because he looked so sad and broken after I said no. But if I’d hooked up with him then, it would have been for the wrong reasons—to keep him from getting angry or hurt or sad or whatever. It wouldn’t have been for me because, like I tried to tell Shane, I’m not ready yet. And it’s totally
okay
that I’m not.

I glance at Mom, swallow hard. “I haven’t had sex yet,” I whisper. I’m not sure why I volunteer this. I just do.

As the waitress arrives to take our order, Mom pats my hand. “I won’t pretend I’m not happy to hear that.”

* * *

“Good morning,” a cheerful voice coos.

I roll over, rubbing sleep from my eyes, forgetting for a moment where I am.

Mom’s standing at the foot of my bed, sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup. She must be desperate for caffeine. Normally she won’t even look at Styrofoam, let alone get close enough to touch it.

After we’ve showered and packed and checked out of our room—all before the obscenely early hour of ten—we have breakfast and head to the hospital.

When we arrive, Green Mountain’s dressed in regular clothes,
not a hospital gown. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, her battered pocketbook beside her. And she’s got a visitor. A woman with gray, close-cropped hair wearing jeans and a Syracuse Orangemen sweatshirt.

“Hey,” Green Mountain says, waving Mom and me in. “Meet my good friend, Thelma. Thelma, this is my daughter, Desiree, and my granddaughter, Ariel.”

After everyone says hi, Mom asks, “Where are you going?”

Green Mountain smiles. A wide, toothy smile that makes her top lip recede, revealing her gum line. The same thing happens to Mom in the middle of a laughing fit. “I’m checking out,” she tells us.

Mom looks concerned. “But you just had surgery three days ago.”

“Hell, they wouldn’t have kept me
this
long if weren’t for my blood pressure jumping off the charts.”

“That’s right,” Thelma agrees. “My sister, Louise, had a breast removed. Got sent home the same day, howling with pain. Drive-through mastectomies, they call them.”

Mom grimaces. “That’s horrible. How’s your sister now?”

I tense up. Instinct tells me there’s a lot riding on her answer.

Thelma raps the closet door with her knuckle. “Four years cancer-free, knock on wood.”

“Good.” Mom sighs. “I’m relieved to hear that.”

I am too.

Thelma takes Green Mountain’s suitcase, and the cooler that held the Coke she smuggled in. Then she reaches for a key ring hanging from a clip on her belt. “I’ll bring the car around front,” she says. “Pleasure meeting you both.”

We wave and Thelma leaves. A silence falls across the room.
Not a bad silence, though. More like the hush after it snows, making everything seem tranquil and new.

“What’s next?” Mom asks her mother. “With your treatment, I mean.”

“Thelma’s driving me to my first chemo appointment on Thursday. I’ll have one every week for six weeks, then the doctor’ll check me again to see if I’ve got any more cancer in me.” She fishes inside her handbag, drawing out a small folded paper. Handing it to Mom, she says, “Here’s my address and phone number, in case you ever feel like stopping in.”

Mom studies the paper. “You moved?”

“Yep. Too many memories in that old apartment after you left and Larry died. Anyway, call first and make sure I’m around. I keep pretty busy. Thelma and I play bingo two nights a week, I’ve got my NA meetings—”

“NA?” Mom cuts in.

“Narcotic Anonymous,” I volunteer.

“Oh…” Mom stuffs the paper in her pocket.

“Plus, I promised my doctor”—Green Mountain turns to me—“you know, the touchy-feely one? I promised her I’d start going to Weight Watchers meetings.”

A tiny, blond nurse brushes past, stacking clean linens on the now-empty bed near the window.

“Well,” Green Mountain says, reaching in the closet for her coat, “guess I’d better get out of here before they charge me for another day.”

The nurse overhears her and says, “You’ll need to wait for a wheelchair, Mrs. Murdock. Hospital policy.”

Green Mountain harrumphs. When I notice her struggling with her sleeve, I step closer to help. Easing her arm through the
opening, knowing we’ll leave her soon, a heaviness fills my heart. I have to see my grandmother again. We need to talk. Really talk. Maybe I’ll work up the nerve to ask her about her scars.

“Well,” she says, starting toward the door, “I appreciate the two of you coming.”

An aide walks by wheeling a cart piled high with lunches. The smell makes me think of what Mom told me at the diner—about the challenge of creating a meal from leftovers. I mean, we
all
inherit someone else’s leftovers, don’t we? There’s nothing I can do about the fact that my dad is in prison for murder. Or that the man who
was
my biological father attacked my mother and married my grandmother, who turned her back on Mom. That is so seriously messed up. But it’s what was heaped on my plate the day I came into this world. That’s what I have to work with. I can sit there and stare at it hopelessly, or I can—

“
Wait!
” I hurry toward Green Mountain, surprising even myself.

She turns. Studies my arm on her sleeve. “Something wrong?”

This woman is your grandmother. She’s a part of your Blue Plate Special. A part of you.
“Um, you never told me what to call you.”

“Whatever suits you.” She laughs. “Thelma calls me the Old Fart.”

“I was thinking of something, well, maybe…you know…more…” My throat catches. I don’t have time to spare so I step forward, drawing my arms around Green Mountain’s waist, resting my chin on her shoulder.

She just stands there, motionless. Still, I don’t let go. I inhale the smells on her coat, attempting to identify each one. There’s a hint of cigarette smoke. A cologne I remember catching a whiff of at Target. And something sweet. Life Savers, maybe.

In a raspy whisper, she says, “Gram’s okay. So’s Nana. But I’ll have none of that
Granny
crap, you hear me? People’ll think I’m a hundred friggin’ years old.”

Even through the layers of clothing, I can feel her heart’s steady beat. “I think I like Gram,” I tell her.