inside Tammy’s condo, I turn the heater up to seventy-five, put on flannel pants, two pairs of wool socks, and four shirts. I make myself hot chocolate from a packet, add some Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream like Tammy does so it melts and forms a creamy foam layer on top. I pull the purple chenille throw over me on the couch. I wish her fireplace was real and not gas so that I could actually watch the flames eat the wood, the reds and oranges dancing with the smoky wisps of gray, and the hot logs cracking and splitting and sacrificing themselves to provide heat.
Tammy has more money than my mom, degrees instead of children. She owns stocks and bonds, buys my mom furniture for her birthday, sends us brand-name clothes and electronics for Christmas. Her house is bright and clean, like a museum filled with paintings or sculptures, and beautiful, breakable things are positioned carefully around the rooms here, too. A huge fire-glazed plate on the mantel sits next to a black wood figure of a womanwith legs twice the size of the rest of her, an African stringed instrument Tammy and Sam carved their initials into lives in a glass curio along with a crystal vase and a cactus garden, a handwoven Mexican rug, and a golden Arabian urn, all collected from trips abroad. Only original artwork decorates the walls: a painting of a cow in a field with one cloud in the background; a three-foot horizontal framed picture of a birch tree forest; a watercolor of a tribal mother supporting an infant in her disproportionately large arm and hand, like she’s cradling the whole earth in her little baby.
I wake up to Tammy switching on the light above where I lie on the couch huddled under the purple throw. While I slept the sky darkened and Tammy is closing the blinds in her classy dark brown business suit minus the low-heeled pumps or loafers she always slips off at the door.
“What do you want for dinner?” she says. “Salad? Homemade chili?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
She says, “You have to eat something. How about some pasta at least?”
I nod, rub my hands together. “Sure, thanks.”
Tammy brings me a wooden breakfast tray with a big bowl full of pasta that smells like garlic and basil. Sun-dried tomatoes glisten like rubies among the noodles. “Something simple,” she says as she sets the tray on her smooth wood coffee table above her white carpet.
I am suddenly starving and it’s the most delicious meal I’ve ever had. When I finish, Tammy refills my bowl without my even asking, and she refuses to let me help clean anything up. “I’ll do it,” she says, squeezing my shoulder. “You just rest.”
“How was your first day?” she asks me after she’s changed into her “house clothes”: pink slippers and a green PJ set with frogs on the shirt and lilies on the pants.
“Okay, I guess,” I say and she flips open
The Wall Street Journal
. I’m watching
Melrose Place
, which I am not allowed to watch at home. “I finished my book.”
“Did you meet anyone?”
“Everybody’s the same,” I say. “They’re all white Mormon preppy frat-boy sorority-girl idiots.”
She says, “That can’t be true.” She turns back to her newspaper. “Did you do your homework?”
“I don’t have books yet,” I say. I wish I had the distraction.
A commercial with a mother and daughter laughing over a box of cookies comes on and my heart gets so big in my chest it feels like my ribs will snap. I can keep the lump in my throat as long as I don’t open my mouth.
Tammy scrunches her face at me. She says, “Do you want some hot chocolate?” and gets up.
I swallow hard. “Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
Later when I’m tucked under my new comforter, Tammy’s old blanket, and three layers of clothing, Tammy pokes her head into my room. She sits on the edge of the bed and the metal hinges creak. She says, “How are you holding up?” I try to make a brave face, but between the cold and my attempt to keep the
Tammy has more money than my mom, degrees instead of children. She owns stocks and bonds, buys my mom furniture for her birthday, sends us brand-name clothes and electronics for Christmas. Her house is bright and clean, like a museum filled with paintings or sculptures, and beautiful, breakable things are positioned carefully around the rooms here, too. A huge fire-glazed plate on the mantel sits next to a black wood figure of a womanwith legs twice the size of the rest of her, an African stringed instrument Tammy and Sam carved their initials into lives in a glass curio along with a crystal vase and a cactus garden, a handwoven Mexican rug, and a golden Arabian urn, all collected from trips abroad. Only original artwork decorates the walls: a painting of a cow in a field with one cloud in the background; a three-foot horizontal framed picture of a birch tree forest; a watercolor of a tribal mother supporting an infant in her disproportionately large arm and hand, like she’s cradling the whole earth in her little baby.
I wake up to Tammy switching on the light above where I lie on the couch huddled under the purple throw. While I slept the sky darkened and Tammy is closing the blinds in her classy dark brown business suit minus the low-heeled pumps or loafers she always slips off at the door.
“What do you want for dinner?” she says. “Salad? Homemade chili?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
She says, “You have to eat something. How about some pasta at least?”
I nod, rub my hands together. “Sure, thanks.”
Tammy brings me a wooden breakfast tray with a big bowl full of pasta that smells like garlic and basil. Sun-dried tomatoes glisten like rubies among the noodles. “Something simple,” she says as she sets the tray on her smooth wood coffee table above her white carpet.
I am suddenly starving and it’s the most delicious meal I’ve ever had. When I finish, Tammy refills my bowl without my even asking, and she refuses to let me help clean anything up. “I’ll do it,” she says, squeezing my shoulder. “You just rest.”
“How was your first day?” she asks me after she’s changed into her “house clothes”: pink slippers and a green PJ set with frogs on the shirt and lilies on the pants.
“Okay, I guess,” I say and she flips open
The Wall Street Journal
. I’m watching
Melrose Place
, which I am not allowed to watch at home. “I finished my book.”
“Did you meet anyone?”
“Everybody’s the same,” I say. “They’re all white Mormon preppy frat-boy sorority-girl idiots.”
She says, “That can’t be true.” She turns back to her newspaper. “Did you do your homework?”
“I don’t have books yet,” I say. I wish I had the distraction.
A commercial with a mother and daughter laughing over a box of cookies comes on and my heart gets so big in my chest it feels like my ribs will snap. I can keep the lump in my throat as long as I don’t open my mouth.
Tammy scrunches her face at me. She says, “Do you want some hot chocolate?” and gets up.
I swallow hard. “Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
Later when I’m tucked under my new comforter, Tammy’s old blanket, and three layers of clothing, Tammy pokes her head into my room. She sits on the edge of the bed and the metal hinges creak. She says, “How are you holding up?” I try to make a brave face, but between the cold and my attempt to keep the
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