I’ve been inventing a fake life for M and attempting to get a real one for myself, my mom has been creating one for herself . She’s hell-bent on making us look normal by Thursday, although, frankly, I don’t think “Jack” is going to buy it. The last few days, she’s been coming home with shopping bags filled with cartons of food and scooping it out onto plates as though she cooked it herself and then putting the plates in front of us at the dining table roughly around the time that she thinks normal people eat dinner. Last night we had Dover sole baked in parchment paper with lemon dill sauce, steamed baby carrots and mashed potatoes with truffle oil. It was delicious. The night before that we had grilled jumbo shrimp on a bed of angel hair pasta tossed in pesto sauce. It was also delicious. I’m so onto her, but I’d be an idiot if I said anything. It beats the hell out of chipping a frozen pizza out of the freezer or warming up leftover take-out Chinese noodles and eating them straight from the box. Growing up, I don’t recall one meal that we ate at the table as a family. For one thing, there was no table, and we weren’t that kind of family anyway. We were like wolves, foraging for ourselves and eating when we were hungry; for my dad that usually meant midnight, but my mom likes to snack all day. She has the eating habits of a gerbil. I like to mix it up. Cereal for dinner is fine but so is lasagna; so are doughnuts. Pizza is great for breakfast; so are bananas; so are doughnuts. I usually eat lunch at work and when I’m off I go up the street to the Japanese place on College Avenue and get a bowl of udon noodles in broth for three bucks. It’s the best deal around and the people watching is great. Not as weird as Telegraph—not everyone has abused a controlled substance before ten a.m. It’s more of a pharmaceutical crowd, but interesting enough to watch while I slurp my soup.
The food in front of us tonight smacks of “normal,” but my mom and I haven’t exactly perfected table talk. She reads a big hardcover volume of some dead guy’s poetry as she eats, while I read about Robert Plant in Rolling Stone magazine. Joe Cocker sings his shaky heart out on the stereo. Occasionally, one or the other of us will announce something newsworthy.
“The liquor store on Telegraph was robbed last night,” I offer.
She looks up from her book. “Really? What time?”
“Late. One a.m. No one was hurt.” I throw that in for her sake. She hates that I work on Telegraph.
“Did they catch them?” She takes a bite of her maple-glazed salmon.
“Nope, they’re still at large,” I report darkly.
“Hey, have you seen Pierre lately?”
“No, I haven’t. Do you think he did it?” I ask.
“Nah, what would he need money for?”
“Maybe it’s not the money; maybe it’s the thrill of it.” I try to imagine my cat robbing a liquor store. Height would be an issue even if he stood on his back legs. Besides, these guys had a gun. Pierre can’t even open a door with his paws, let alone cock a gun. If he could, he really wouldn’t need us for anything.
After dinner, we clean up, which entails throwing all the neatly labeled boxes into the refrigerator with the others and washing two plates. I go upstairs to take a phone call from Kit, who seems convinced that Niles is messing around on her. I’m lying on my bed, digesting my third “normal” dinner in a row. My jeans feel snug around my waist.
“When he came to get me last night he didn’t even say anything about how I looked.”
“Uh-huh, is that all you got?”
“No. I looked at his cell phone while he was in the bathroom and I saw a number on there I didn’t recognize. A four-one-five area code.”
“That could be anything. You dialed it, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did.”
“Who was it?”
“I got the voice mail of a girl named Chelsea. She sounded pretty.”
“You can tell by someone’s voice mail if they’re
The food in front of us tonight smacks of “normal,” but my mom and I haven’t exactly perfected table talk. She reads a big hardcover volume of some dead guy’s poetry as she eats, while I read about Robert Plant in Rolling Stone magazine. Joe Cocker sings his shaky heart out on the stereo. Occasionally, one or the other of us will announce something newsworthy.
“The liquor store on Telegraph was robbed last night,” I offer.
She looks up from her book. “Really? What time?”
“Late. One a.m. No one was hurt.” I throw that in for her sake. She hates that I work on Telegraph.
“Did they catch them?” She takes a bite of her maple-glazed salmon.
“Nope, they’re still at large,” I report darkly.
“Hey, have you seen Pierre lately?”
“No, I haven’t. Do you think he did it?” I ask.
“Nah, what would he need money for?”
“Maybe it’s not the money; maybe it’s the thrill of it.” I try to imagine my cat robbing a liquor store. Height would be an issue even if he stood on his back legs. Besides, these guys had a gun. Pierre can’t even open a door with his paws, let alone cock a gun. If he could, he really wouldn’t need us for anything.
After dinner, we clean up, which entails throwing all the neatly labeled boxes into the refrigerator with the others and washing two plates. I go upstairs to take a phone call from Kit, who seems convinced that Niles is messing around on her. I’m lying on my bed, digesting my third “normal” dinner in a row. My jeans feel snug around my waist.
“When he came to get me last night he didn’t even say anything about how I looked.”
“Uh-huh, is that all you got?”
“No. I looked at his cell phone while he was in the bathroom and I saw a number on there I didn’t recognize. A four-one-five area code.”
“That could be anything. You dialed it, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did.”
“Who was it?”
“I got the voice mail of a girl named Chelsea. She sounded pretty.”
“You can tell by someone’s voice mail if they’re
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