"Counting Calories in the Middle of a Storm"

When we return home, mom’s back is pressed against the tiny wall that separates our bedrooms, her arms crossed tightly. Zelda sits at the kitchen table, and massages the heels of her feet. Something fierce is going on. The air is heavy, ready to erupt, like the weather on the last day of school two years ago. Changes in nature aren’t even noticed until it is too late to do anything about them. Sure, there’s the weather report, but we don’t really hear it until after the damage is done, after a man’s face is flashed across the television screen and it is too late to tell that husband and father to wait out the storm in the safety of his classroom. Mom and Zelda are like two wild cats in the ring. It’s their nature. Only I don’t want to stop them; I want to see them claw it out. Maybe then there’ll finally be peace.


“Oh hi honey, how was your first day?” Mom asks a stampeding Jack who hugs the life out of her. She rubs the top of his dark head and smiles at me. “Amelia,” she croons. A phony smile I was prepared for, but not the real one she is giving me. “Go clean up for dinner, honey. I can’t wait to hear all about school,” she says to Jack but she is looking at me. She walks over to me and holds my chin in her delicate fingers. “Oh, you poor thing, this girl definitely has nails, huh?”


“I guess.” I haven’t even looked at my face since Meeka’s slap attack.


“Don’t worry. Amelia really socked it to her,” Zelda chuckles.


“Mother, please stay out of this,” mom fumes. The storm is clearly still brewing.


“Fine, oh Amelia, Deidra called. She said you can call her back tonight,” Zelda says and slips into her narrow shoes.


I turn to my mother. Don’t push it is all over her face. She inhales but I can tell it is with effort, all that heavy air pressing down on her. “Five minutes,” she says.


“Oh for Christ’s sakes, what is she in prison?” Zelda laughs. It is a thick, raspy laugh that can only come from years of strong coffee. It is a laugh that can only come from knowing the sad parts of life, the parts my mother would like to keep buried. I thrill to hear it.


The phone rings and mom and Zelda race to snatch it from the other’s clutches. Even in her painful pumps, Grandma wins. “Hello?” Zelda hands me the phone. “It’s for you, dear.”


It is Mr. McGee. He is talking to me but I am not listening, my ears more attuned to the ever-growing storm in our kitchen.


“Did it ever occur to you that this is my home? My G-d, you are so controlling, mother,” mom fumes.


“Oh yeah? Who paid for your plane ticket to Disneyworld?” Zelda asks. She is massaging my back with those nails again but I am no longer feeling like a puppy in the sun—more like a puppy in a blender.


“Your third husband!” mom says and slams the door to her bedroom.


“G-d, she’s so negative,” Zelda says and kisses the top of my head. “How does a person become so negative?” She breaks off a corner of the chicken parmesan and pops it into her mouth. “A person could have a heart attack just thinking about all of these calories.” She takes another bite.


I hang up the phone. “I have to go.” I don’t think Zelda heard me. She is standing near the oven, devouring half of a chicken breast. In my grandmother’s world of logic, calories don’t count if they are ingested standing up. “I know you meant well Zelda, but I think mom’s going to pull a repeat performance.”


“That’s not what a little landlord told me.” Zelda returns the chicken to the oven and turns to face me.


“Mr. McGee?”


Zelda tip-toes over to me and whispers, “What can I tell you? Your brother is a yenta. Sweet kid, but a big mouth. I had to invite him. I need to check out the merchandise for myself, you understand?”


“Do you miss dad?”


“Oh, very much dear. Your father was as good as it gets.” She hugs me, though it is really my big body wrapping itself around her small frame. Big people don’t typically get the hugs. Not that we don’t ache for them.