Mortified, I shoved him away and moved to the produce section to get potatoes. Standing there, with baby Alex in a sling, was Elliot’s mom, Miss Dina.
She had a cart full of food, a phone to her ear as she chatted with someone, the sleeping baby against her chest, and she inspected yellow onions as if she had all the time in the world. She’d given birth three months ago and was here, preparing to cook a huge meal for her troop of ravenous boys.
I stared at her, feeling the twisting combination of admiration and defeat. Miss Dina made things look so easy; Dad and I could barely figure out how to make a holiday meal for two.
She did a tiny double take when she saw me, and for maybe the first time in my life I imagined myself through someone else’s eyes: my swim team track pants, the baggy Yale sweatshirt Dad got for Mom years ago, flip-flops. And I stood, staring at the breadth of the produce, motherless and clearly overwhelmed.
Miss Dina ended her call and pushed her cart over to me.
She looked at my face, then let her eyes move all the way down to my toes and back up. “You and your dad are planning to cook tomorrow?”
I gave her what I hoped was a humorously confident grin. “We’re going to try.”
She winced, looking past me and pretending to fret. “Macy,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “I have more food than I know what to do with, and with little Alex here… it would help me out a lot if you and your dad would come over. If you could help me peel potatoes and make the rolls, you’d be a lifesaver.”
Not in a million years would I have said no.
It smelled like baking pie crust, melted butter, and turkey all day – even in our house. The wind carried the smells of cooking into our window, and my stomach gnawed at itself.
Miss Dina had told us to come over at three, and I couldn’t even count on Elliot to entertain me until then because, no doubt, he’d been put to work.
I heard the lawn mower going, the vacuum running inside. And, of course, I heard the roar of football on the living room television, filtering from their house to ours. By the time we made our way over with wine and flowers at two minutes before three o’clock, I was nearly insane with anticipation.
Dad made a good living, and our house in Berkeley had every material possession we could possibly need or want. But what we could never buy was chaos and bustle. We lacked noise, and strife, and the joy of overstuffed plates because everyone insisted that their favorite dish be made.
Just inside their door we were pulled like metal to magnets into the madness. George and Andreas shouted at the television. In the easy chair in the corner, Mr. Nick blew exuberant raspberries on Alex’s tummy. Nick Jr. was polishing the dining room table while Miss Dina poured melted butter into the crossed tops of rolls to put in the oven, and Elliot stood over the sink, peeling potatoes.
I ran to him, reaching to take the peeler out of his hand. “I told your mom I would peel those!”
He blinked at me in surprise, reaching with a potato skin–covered finger to push his glasses up. I knew that helping her with dinner was just a ruse – after all, I’d been smelling the food all day – but for whatever reason, I was unable to give it up.
The thing is, at fourteen I was old enough to understand that many of the people who had lived in Healdsburg for many years would not have been able to afford to live in Berkeley. Although Healdsburg had been taken over by Bay Area money and the wine craze of the nineties, many people who lived here still worked for hourly wages and lived in older, mildly soggy houses.
The wealth here was what was inside: the Petropoulos family and the warmth and the knowledge – passed down through generations – of how to cook a meal like this for a family of this size.
I watched as Miss Dina gave Elliot a different job – washing and chopping lettuce for the salad – which he did without complaint or instruction.
Meanwhile, I hacked at the potatoes until Miss Dina came in and showed me how to peel them more slowly, in long, smooth strips.
“Nice dress,” Elliot said once she’d left, his voice laced with delicate sarcasm.
I looked down at the frumpy denim jumper I wore. “Thanks. It was my mom’s.”
His eyes went wide. “Oh, my God, Macy, I’m sor —”
I threw a piece of potato skin at him. “I’m kidding. Dad got it for me. I felt like I needed to wear it sometime.”
He looked scandalized, then he grinned.
“You’re evil,” he hissed.
“You mess with the bull,” I said, holding up my index and pinkie fingers, “you get the horns.”
I felt him watching me and hoped he saw my smile.
Mom always had a wicked sense of humor.
Dad sat, watching the Niners game with feigned interest with Mr. Nick and the boys until Miss Dina called us in to eat.
There was a ritual once we were at the table, a choreographed scene that Dad and I followed carefully: everyone sat in their chairs and linked hands. Mr. Nick said grace, and then everyone went around in turn and said something they were thankful for this year.
George was thankful for making varsity track.
Miss Dina was thankful for her healthy baby girl (who slept quietly in a vibrating baby chair near the table).
Nick Jr. was thankful that he was nearly done with his first semester of college, because, man, it sucked.
Dad was thankful for a good year in business and a wonderful daughter.
Andreas was thankful for his girlfriend, Amie.
Mr. Nick was thankful for his boys, and his – now two – girls. He winked at his wife.
Elliot was thankful for the Sorensen family, and especially for Macy, who he missed during the week when she was back home.
I sat, staring at him and trying to find something else to say, something as good as that.
I focused on a spot on the table as I spoke, my words wavering. “I’m thankful that high school isn’t terrible so far. I’m thankful I didn’t get Mr. Syne for math.” I looked up at Elliot. “But mostly, I’m thankful we bought this house, and that I was able to make a friend who wouldn’t make me feel weird for being sad about my mom, or wanting to be quiet, and who will always have to explain things to me twice because he’s so much smarter than I am. I’m thankful that his family is so nice, and his mom makes such good dinners, and Dad and I didn’t have to try to make a turkey all by ourselves.”
The table fell quiet, and I heard Miss Dina swallow a few times before she said brightly, “Perfect! Let’s eat!”
And the routine dissolved as frenzy took over, with four teenage boys diving into the food. Rolls were passed, turkey and gravy were slopped onto my plate, and I savored every single bite.
It wasn’t as good as Mom’s everyday cooking, and Mom was missing something she would have absolutely loved – a room full of boisterous family – but it was the best Thanksgiving I’d ever had. I didn’t even feel guilty for feeling that way, because I know Mom would want me to have more, and better, forever.
Back home later, Dad walked me upstairs, standing behind me and brushing my hair like he used to do while I brushed my teeth.
“I’m sorry I was so quiet tonight,” he said, haltingly.
I met his eyes in the mirror. “I like your kind of quiet. Your heart isn’t quiet.”
He bent, pressing his cheek to my temple, and smiled at me in the mirror. “You’re an amazing girl, Macy Lea.”
now
friday, october 13
M
ore miraculous even than a full night’s sleep is the prospect of a full day off on a weekend. Getting a free Saturday feels like being ten years old and holding a twenty-dollar bill in a candy store. I don’t even know where to start.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I know I don’t want to spend a second of the day indoors. The Mission Bay site for UCSF Children’s has windows everywhere, but when you’re a pediatric resident, you don’t notice anything but the child in front of you, or your chief telling you where you need t
o be next.
Friday afternoon, on a short break after rounds, I remind Sean of our plans to picnic at Golden Gate Park. I call Sabrina, confirming that she, Dave, and Viv can all come. I invite a couple old friends from my Berkeley neighborhood who still live in the area – Nikki and Danny. And then I get back to work with the feeling of buzzing in my ears, static in my thoughts. I can’t leave this unfinished all day.
After delivering an update on some bloodwork to my current favorite parents, whose daughter is an inpatient in oncology, I sprint to the break room, ducking behind the locker to grab my phone and text Elliot.
then
wednesday, december 31
fourteen years ago
“
B
oys suck.”
The wind whipped across us where we were hunkered down at Goat Rock Beach again, preparing for a weenie roast with our families, flag football, and New Year’s Eve fireworks over the ocean.
“Do I want to know?” Elliot asked, not even looking up from his book.
“Probably not.”
In all fairness, I didn’t have strong feelings for any boys at my school, but it seemed like – since we began high school four months ago – none of them had any feelings whatsoever for me. Danny, my best guy friend, told me that his friends Gabe and Tyler both thought I was cute but, as he put it, “A little too, like, into books.”
I couldn’t escape it; everyone was starting to “go out with” everyone else. I hadn’t even so much as kissed a boy.
Guess I’d be going to the ninth-grade dance with Nikki.
Elliot glanced over at me. “Can you tell me more about how boys suck?”
“Boys don’t want girls who are interesting,” I complained. “They want girls with boobs and who wear slutty clothes, and flirt.”
Elliot slowly put his book down on a patch of beach grass beside him. “I don’t want that.”
Ignoring this, I went on, “And girls do want boys who are interesting. Girls want the shy geeks who know everything and have big hands and good teeth and say sweet things.” I bit my lips closed. I might have said too much.
Elliot beamed at me, metal finally gone, his teeth perfect. “Do you like my teeth?”
“You’re weird.” Changing the subject, I asked, “Favorite word?”
He stared out at the ocean for a few breaths before saying, “Cynosure.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It’s a focal point of admiration. What about you?”
I didn’t even have to think: “Castration.”
Elliot winced. He stared down at his hands in his lap, turning them over and inspecting them carefully. “Well, for what it’s worth,” he whispered, “Andreas thinks you’re cute.”
“Andreas?” I heard the shock in my own voice. I narrowed my eyes as I stared down the beach at where Andreas and George wrestled, and tried to imagine kissing Andreas. His skin was good, but his hair was too shaggy for my taste and he was a little bit of a meathead.
“He said that? He’s with Amie.”
Elliot scowled, picking up a small rock and throwing it toward the thrashing surf. “They broke up. But I told him if he touched you I would kick his ass.”
I barked out a loud laugh.
Elliot was too rational to be offended by my reaction: what Andreas lacked in brains he made up in serious muscle.
“Yeah, so, he tackled me. We wrestled. We broke Mom’s vase, you know that ugly one in the hall?”
“Oh no!” My distress was convincing, but I was mostly elated they’d been fighting over me.
“She grounded us both.”
I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. Instead, I stretched out on the sand, returning to my book, and lost myself in the words, reading over and over again the same phrase: It seemed to travel with her, to sweep her aloft in the power of song, so that she was moving in glory among the stars, and for a moment she, too, felt that the words Darkness and Light had no meaning, and only this melody was real.
Hours may have passed before I heard a throat clear behind us, saw Dad appear. His frame blocked out the sun, casting a cool shadow over where we lay.
I registered only once he was there that I had slowly shifted so I was lying with my head on Elliot’s stomach, in our secluded stretch of sand. I pushed to sit up, awkwardly.
“What are you guys doing?”
“Nothing,” we said in unison.
I could hear immediately how guilty our joined answer made us sound.
“Really?” Dad asked.
“Really,” I answered, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. He and Elliot were having some kind of male Windtalker exchange that included prolonged eye contact, throat clearing, and probably some mysterious form of direct communication between their Y chromosomes.
“We were just reading,” Elliot said finally, his voice shifting deeper midway through the sentence. I’m not sure if this sign of his impending manliness was reassuring or damning as far as my dad was concerned.
“Seriously, Dad,” I said.
His eyes flickered to mine.
“Okay.” Finally he seemed to relax and squatted down next to me. “What are you reading?”
“A Wrinkle in Time.”
“Again?”
“It’s so good.”
He smiled at me, reaching out to swipe his thumb along my cheek. “Hungry?”
“Sure.”
Dad nodded and stood, making his way toward where Mr. Nick was busy building a fire.
A few seconds passed before it seemed like Elliot was able to exhale.
“Seriously. I think his palms are the size of my entire face.”
I imagined Dad’s hand gripping Elliot’s entire face, and for some reason the image was so comical it made me laugh out a sharp cackle.
“What?” Elliot asked.
“Just, that image is funny.”
“Not if you’re me and he’s looking at you like he has a shovel with your name on it.”
“Oh, please.” I gaped at him.
“Trust me, Macy. I know dads and daughters.”
“Speaking of my dad,” I said, adjusting my head on his stomach to be more comfortable, “guess what I found last week?”
“What?”
“He has dirty magazines. A lot of them.”
Elliot didn’t respond, but I definitely felt him shift beneath me.
“They’re in a basket on the top shelf in the far corner of his closet at the cabin. Behind the nativity scene.” This last part felt somehow very important.
“That was oddly specific.” His voice vibrated along the back of my head, and goose bumps spread across my arms.
“Well, that’s an oddly specific place to put something like that. Don’t you think?”
“Why were you in his closet?” he asked.
“That’s not the point, Elliot.”
“It’s precisely the point, Mace.”
“How?”
He placed a bookmark between the pages and sat up to face me, forcing me to sit up, too.
“He’s a man. A single man.” Elliot used the tip of his index finger to push his glasses up and held my gaze sternly. “His bedroom is his fortress of solitude – his closet is his vault. You might as well have been looking in his nightstand drawer or under his mattress.” My eyes widened. “What were you expecting to find on the top shelf in the far corner of his closet behind the nativity scene?”
“Photo albums? Cherished mementos of a lost youth? Winter sweaters? Things of a parental nature?” I paused, giving him a guilty smile. “My Christmas presents?”
Shaking his head, he turned back to his book. “Snooping will always end badly, Mace. Always.”
I considered this. Dad didn’t date much… well, ever, that I could think of, spending most of his time at work or with me. I’d never given a moment of thought to this sort of thing where he was concerned. I found the bent corner in my copy of A Wrinkle in Time and settled back onto the patch of grass behind me. “It
’s just… gross. That’s all.”
Elliot laughed: a loud, abrupt snort, followed by a shake of his head.
Glaring at him, I asked, “Did you just shake your head at me?”
“I did.” He used a finger to hold his place in the book. “Why is it gross? The fact that your dad has the magazines or that he uses them to —”