I never wanted to feel that level of embarrassment again.
Grandma eyeballed the forkful of boiled cabbage and onions I pushed around on my plate. The smell alone was setting off my gag reflex.
“You need to put on some weight,” Grandma said.
As if I could help the fact that I was lucky to break a hundred pounds in winter clothing. I never got why so many people prayed for a fast metabolism. It was annoying when everyone accused me of being anorexic.
“Well, boiled vegetables aren’t going to help. Got any ice cream that isn’t sugar free and coffee flavored?” When Grandma was diagnosed with diabetes, her taste in food got exponentially worse.
She nodded at Mom. “Juliana was picky too. I’d find pork chops and broccoli stuffed in the crevices under the table. Sometimes she’d try to leave the kitchen with lumpy socks.”
Mom scrunched up her nose. “I had to vomit on my plate before she believed the pork chops actually made me sick.”
Grandma shook her head and swallowed a bite of mushy carrots. “My father would’ve beat me black and blue if I did that. Nobody could afford to be picky during the Depression.” The only response heard was the scraping of our forks against the plates. Neither of us wanted to get Grandma started on her “When I was a little girl…” tangent.
Grandma twirled noodles around her fork, her eyes growing softer. “George loved pork chops.” An image of Grandpa’s white hair and big smile flickered through my mind. He suffered brain damage from a massive heart attack the year before I was born. Even so, he always beat me at Old Maid.
Mom patted her hand. “I know.”
Grandma took care of him for twelve years—changing diapers, spoon feeding, bathing, and everything else in between. He died of pneumonia five years ago, and she still hadn’t forgiven herself.
“Was that Naomi Quinn I saw here earlier?” Grandma asked, picking up a crumb that had fallen off her plate. I didn’t even know how she could find it on a table painted with gold glitter. Between the Tiffany lamps, TV with bunny ears, and earthy color scheme, this house was stuck in the dinosaur age.
“Yeah, she helped us move all our stuff. Sweet girl,” Mom said, poking at the cabbage with her fork.
My stomach growled for In-N-Out Burger. Their fries had the right amount of crispness on the outside.
Grandma shook her head, frowning. “Her father is never home. And every time I look out my window, she’s out there smoking. With
Mom chuckled into her cup of water. “Oh, no. Boys.”
Grandma got up and rinsed her plate in the sink. “You should stay clear of her, Andrea. She’s trouble.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Drea is about as interested in boys as you are. I don’t see her bringing one home anytime soon.” She winked at me. “But it would be nice.” If I’d learned anything from her, it was that boys were to be avoided. I certainly didn’t want the roof over my head to be dependent on one.
“Good, she should be spending time on her schoolwork.” Grandma wrung out a sponge. “Not running around with boys like you did.”
“That hasn’t changed,” I said.
Mom nudged my shoulder before joining Grandma at the sink. “I’ll take care of the dishes. Go relax.”
“Just give them to me.” Grandma yanked the plate from Mom’s grasp and returned to scrubbing a saucepan.
I got up to put my plate in the sink, but Grandma snatched it before I could. “It’s terrible the way you both waste food. Just terrible.”
“Then make better food,” I said.
She dropped the sponge and gaped at me openmouthed. I didn’t see what the big deal was; she said blunt crap all the time.
“Drea!” Mom’s dark eyes tore into mine before she turned to Grandma. “It’s been a really long day, and she didn’t take her medication.”
“I’m so sick of you saying that to everyone. Are little blue pills the only way I can be taken seriously?”
“Calm down, baby. I’m just saying—” Mom reached for me, but I pulled away.
“I’m not a migraine you can cure with one of your pain pills.” I left the kitchen before she could say anything else.
Between Mom’s kaleidoscope of boyfriends and the dozens of head doctors she forced me to see, I could write a book about psychological disorders. The doctors always threw around the term
One time I told the doctors about Mom stomping around and cussing whenever she had a big bill to pay and asked them if she had ADHD too. Mom didn’t like that much. She made me promise not to say anything like that again. I asked her why for a month straight, but she never gave me a real answer.
It wasn’t until junior high, the third day of seventh grade to be exact, that one doctor suspected Asperger’s syndrome. Mom wasn’t convinced, so she got a second opinion—that doctor didn’t agree. He said I had bipolar disorder. Mom didn’t agree with that either. She made me take ridiculous tests and got seven more opinions, the last one from a doctor in San Francisco a teacher recommended. In the fall of my freshman year, that doctor also labeled me with Asperger’s syndrome, but he said I displayed only mild symptoms and I’d “learned to cope well,” whatever that meant.
