Which was, of course, what Helen had said to Alice, as if she were trying to convince herself. They were old, older than most parents, and Da hated to fly, and Ma-Ma hated Da to drive, and it was such a pain taking the commuter train into Grand Central, then getting on Amtrak over at Penn Station, so they just couldn’t visit that often. Alice understood.
“Well, I’m sure they love you very much,” Sharon said.
“They do.”
“That’s what I just said.”
“Not as if you believed it.”
Alice stared hard at Sharon until the woman finally looked away, pretending to study the toy airplanes hung from the ceiling of the restaurant. Her lawyer had changed very little over the seven years. Of course, Alice had changed so much that everyone else’s changes seemed inconsequential. But she had noticed the subtle differences in her mother’s face, even though she saw her far more often than Sharon. Helen had kept herself up. That was her term, another phrase that had stuck in Alice ’s brain, for it suggested an image of her mother in scaffolding, men working away with paint and brushes. She kept herself up.
But over the past two years, Helen had begun to look her age, no more, no less. She knew it, too, and claimed to be complacent about it. “The French actress Catherine Deneuve said a woman over forty has to choose her face or her fanny,” Helen had said to Alice on her last visit to Middlebrook. “I’m going the fanny route.” And she had patted her slender hip-her “yoga butt,” as she had taken to calling it-and laughed. Alice had laughed, too, for it was her favorite version of Helen. Breezy, a little silly, talking about things that no one else on Nottingham Road could make sense of.
And as long as Helen worried about her own looks, she didn’t worry too much about Alice ’s. She was philosophical when Alice started putting on weight two years ago, said the body knew what it needed and that Alice ’s body was probably reacting instinctively to needs Alice didn’t even realize she had.
“It’s like your body thinks you’re a bear, in hibernation. Maybe it’s because they have you on this rigid eating schedule. You don’t get to eat when you’re hungry, you have to eat when they say you do, so your metabolism slows, in case they start starving you.”
Alice had a different theory. She believed she had a tumor. Someone had left behind a newspaper-a real newspaper, not one of those shameful things from the supermarket racks-with a story about a woman at Johns Hopkins who had a 180-pound tumor in her stomach. No one could figure out why she was gaining weight. Then they took the tumor out, and she was normal again.
The local newspaper did not have a photograph of the tumor, but the writer described it as-the words were burned into Alice ’s memory-“an onion-shaped growth the color of a brown egg and covered with fine, silky hair.” Alice took to pressing her fists into her abdomen, looking for signs of a growth. The skin was soft, yielding, yet she thought there might be something unwanted beneath its folds. Finally, she went to the infirmary and asked if there was a tumor test. The doctor was kind, listening intently with no expression on her tired face. She took notes, prodded Alice all over, asked her questions.
“I’m afraid that it’s just, uh, a fairly normal weight gain, given your circumstances,” she had said apologetically, as if she, too, had wanted to find a tumor. “It comes down to arithmetic-calories expended subtracted from calories consumed.”
“I’m good at math,” Alice told the doctor. “I always was. I’m doing Algebra II, but if I were in a regular school, I’d probably do Trig and even Calculus.”
“I bet you are. So here’s what you do-keep a little notebook, jotting down what you eat. You’ll see that you’re taking in more calories than you think. Don’t try to change the way you eat at first. Just observe yourself.”
“Like the woman who watches the monkeys?” Alice had seen a special about a famous anthropologist, although she couldn’t remember when, or what the woman learned from all her notes.
“Yes. No. I mean-take notes for a week or two, and include how you feel when you eat. Learn your own patterns, and then adjust accordingly. Portion control is half the battle. It’s not what we eat so much, but the fact that we eat so much of it.”
Disappointed that she did not have a tumor inside her, with or without fine, silky hair, Alice had never even started the notebook. But now, sitting in this too-cheery diner with Sharon, she considered the idea. Girls in books were always keeping notebooks, or diaries. She could do that, she supposed. But she knew she wouldn’t. Not because she lacked discipline. She had plenty of discipline. But she wouldn’t want to tell anyone, even a book, everything about herself. Before a day passed, she knew she would be hiding things. Because someone else would read it. She had never heard of anyone keeping a diary that someone didn’t read.
“So what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?” Sharon asked out of the blue.
“Open the door?”
Sharon threw back her head and laughed her startling thunder-clap of a laugh, although Alice had not meant to make a joke.
“Very good. One point for Alice. No, I mean are you going to look for a job, or enroll in summer school? Have you learned how to drive? I could teach you, if you like. You’ll need to know.”
“Why? We only have one car, and my mom uses it for work. She teaches art in a summer program, you know.”
“Well, you may have a job one day, and you’ll need to drive to work.”
Alice thought about this. “I can take the bus.”
“Sure, for now. Depending on where the job is. But don’t you want to learn to drive?”
She should say yes. Yes would be the normal answer, and Alice was so keen to do and say the normal things, the expected things. Which were not, of course, always the truthful things, or the things she really wanted to do. She was back on her ice floe, looking for a place to jump. Or maybe a conversation was more like a game of Twister, which Helen sometimes played with Alice and Ronnie on rainy summer weekends. Right arm-red. Left leg-blue. You had to figure out how to keep your balance, how not to fall over, while still following directions. You could twist yourself up some, but not too much.
“I like those new Volkswagen Beetles,” she offered.
This pleased Sharon for some reason. She squealed with delight, bobbed her head. “Me, too.” Then her gaze shifted and her eyes widened, a sign that Sharon was about to become Very Serious. “What are you not going to do, Alice?”
It was true, Alice thought. Almost no one’s eyes are the same size. And Sharon ’s right eye was a lot bigger than her left.
“ Alice?”
“I’m not going to do anything…bad. Never again.”
“I know you won’t. But specifically, what’s the one thing you should not do?”