last night?” he asks.
“A bit. Mr. D, thanks for these things. I’m not used to people being so nice. I don’t even know what to say.”
“You said thanks. That will do. How’s the soup?”
“It’s good. You didn’t make it, did you?”
“No. I don’t know how to make soup. But my mother, her name was Damaris, she made the best soup you’ve ever tasted. Avgolemono. It’s Greek soup, with egg and lemon. She used to make it for me whenever I was sick, and I swear it worked. Two bowls and you’re all fixed up.”
“She liked to cook for you?”
“She liked to cook for everybody. If someone came to rob the house, she would cook for them. ‘Sit and eat,’ she’d say. ‘What’s the hurry? Have some stuffed grape leaves and a bowl of soup. You can do your robbing later.’ ”
“She sounds nice.”
“Yeah. She was. Only there was so much food in the house and so many cousins and aunts and uncles telling crazy stories, I never bothered to play sports or make friends. It was so much fun to stay inside and eat and listen. It’s how I got to be so fat.”
We talk some more and I tell Mr. D that I’ve been thinking about my mother—how bad it makes me feel knowing that she doesn’t want me or doesn’t even care about me.
“Do you think she’ll ever change?” he asks.
“No. I know she won’t. Not ever.”
“Then what can you do about it?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”
“There’s always something you can do.”
“What?”
“How about you rest up and we’ll start on it when you’re well.”
23
“S havonne, imagine there’s a big red button on my desk. It’s all lit up like something from a video game. If you press it, then you get snuffed out instantly, removed from existence without any pain at all. But that would be the end of your life and you couldn’t get it back. Would you press it?”
For the hundredth time I think about disappearing. Not necessarily dying, but disappearing. I think about Jasmine growing up with her foster mother, who is good and kind. I think about everyone who will be happier, better off when I’m gone. But I’m still afraid to say those things aloud. I’m afraid Mr. D will send me to the psych hospital or put me back on meds. So I stall—because I’m really afraid to answer the question, which means I’d push the button. I’d do it. And then I’d never have to remember the last time I saw my mother, that crazy twisted look on her face like she didn’t even know who I was, didn’t feelanything at all for me; like she was looking right through me, actually, out the door and down the stairs, to the alley, where some scumbag was waiting for sex.
Delpopolo wakes me from my thoughts. He says, “Okay, let’s try this another way. What keeps you from doing it? Why are you still here?”
“I don’t know.” It’s one of those questions that should be easy to answer, but it’s not for me. “My daughter. I want to see her again.”
He nods. “Anyone else?”
“I had a brother.” My heart pounds because I am getting close to something dangerous. Delpopolo waits like he’s got all the time in the world, like it’s just a matter of waiting long enough to get me to talk. Doesn’t he know I
can’t
talk about this? That it’s nothing against him. I just can’t talk about it. Ever. My stomach cramps up and I wrap my arms around myself, desperate for even that little bit of comfort.
Delpopolo is looking right at me. I say, “Something happened to him.”
And it’s like a key has been turned. Instantly. All kinds of locked-up memories flood in. Memories of my brother, his little hands closing around my own little fingers. The sound of his voice as he’d make those baby words that seem so important, even though they’re not real words. He’d trail off at the end like it was a question, staring right into my eyes, and I’d smile and try to guess what he was thinking, what question could be on his little
“A bit. Mr. D, thanks for these things. I’m not used to people being so nice. I don’t even know what to say.”
“You said thanks. That will do. How’s the soup?”
“It’s good. You didn’t make it, did you?”
“No. I don’t know how to make soup. But my mother, her name was Damaris, she made the best soup you’ve ever tasted. Avgolemono. It’s Greek soup, with egg and lemon. She used to make it for me whenever I was sick, and I swear it worked. Two bowls and you’re all fixed up.”
“She liked to cook for you?”
“She liked to cook for everybody. If someone came to rob the house, she would cook for them. ‘Sit and eat,’ she’d say. ‘What’s the hurry? Have some stuffed grape leaves and a bowl of soup. You can do your robbing later.’ ”
“She sounds nice.”
“Yeah. She was. Only there was so much food in the house and so many cousins and aunts and uncles telling crazy stories, I never bothered to play sports or make friends. It was so much fun to stay inside and eat and listen. It’s how I got to be so fat.”
We talk some more and I tell Mr. D that I’ve been thinking about my mother—how bad it makes me feel knowing that she doesn’t want me or doesn’t even care about me.
“Do you think she’ll ever change?” he asks.
“No. I know she won’t. Not ever.”
“Then what can you do about it?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”
“There’s always something you can do.”
“What?”
“How about you rest up and we’ll start on it when you’re well.”
23
“S havonne, imagine there’s a big red button on my desk. It’s all lit up like something from a video game. If you press it, then you get snuffed out instantly, removed from existence without any pain at all. But that would be the end of your life and you couldn’t get it back. Would you press it?”
For the hundredth time I think about disappearing. Not necessarily dying, but disappearing. I think about Jasmine growing up with her foster mother, who is good and kind. I think about everyone who will be happier, better off when I’m gone. But I’m still afraid to say those things aloud. I’m afraid Mr. D will send me to the psych hospital or put me back on meds. So I stall—because I’m really afraid to answer the question, which means I’d push the button. I’d do it. And then I’d never have to remember the last time I saw my mother, that crazy twisted look on her face like she didn’t even know who I was, didn’t feelanything at all for me; like she was looking right through me, actually, out the door and down the stairs, to the alley, where some scumbag was waiting for sex.
Delpopolo wakes me from my thoughts. He says, “Okay, let’s try this another way. What keeps you from doing it? Why are you still here?”
“I don’t know.” It’s one of those questions that should be easy to answer, but it’s not for me. “My daughter. I want to see her again.”
He nods. “Anyone else?”
“I had a brother.” My heart pounds because I am getting close to something dangerous. Delpopolo waits like he’s got all the time in the world, like it’s just a matter of waiting long enough to get me to talk. Doesn’t he know I
can’t
talk about this? That it’s nothing against him. I just can’t talk about it. Ever. My stomach cramps up and I wrap my arms around myself, desperate for even that little bit of comfort.
Delpopolo is looking right at me. I say, “Something happened to him.”
And it’s like a key has been turned. Instantly. All kinds of locked-up memories flood in. Memories of my brother, his little hands closing around my own little fingers. The sound of his voice as he’d make those baby words that seem so important, even though they’re not real words. He’d trail off at the end like it was a question, staring right into my eyes, and I’d smile and try to guess what he was thinking, what question could be on his little
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