“What are you doing?” I finally asked, after sending off an e-mail.
She pulled her head out, wiped her brow, and said, “I’m cleaning out your fridge.”
I didn’t want to tell her, but I couldn’t even guess when that had last been done. She turned back to the fridge and pulled out a hunk of what had perhaps once been cheese that was now black, brown, and green. So, yeah, she knew it had been a while since the fridge had been cleaned.
“What did this used to be?” she asked.
I made a face. “Camembert, maybe?”
She tossed it in the trash and said under her breath, “Looks more like cam-ouflage.”
We both laughed. Then she held up a bottle of ketchup with the lid crusted shut. “This expired in 2016. Were you doing a science project or can I toss it?”
This was the best thing about Diana. I never had to tell her what to do. She showed up at my house at seven, got everything straight, made me a smoothie, made the bed, did the laundry, wiped stuff down that I didn’t know had to be wiped down, went to the store, made food that should have been at the finest bistro in the world appear on my counter, and left it hot for me so I could eat or have guests or whatever. I made her eat too. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. What in the world would I do with all that food with just Trey and me to eat it if she didn’t?
I told Diana she didn’t have to stay all day. I told her she didn’t have to work so many hours. But I guessed she had a lot to catch up on around my house because she had stayed until five both days. We had agreed that one day a week she would come in around ten so she could go see her brother. That made me happy, and a little jealous. Family was so important. I knew that. I wished my sister did.
Diana sprayed the inside of the now empty fridge and said, “Do you know that crisper drawers are for produce, not wine?”
“Ohhhh,” I said as if that were brand-new information. “I thought they were for keeping summer wines crisp.”
She laughed. “Are you and Trey eating here or at your club today?”
I groaned. Diana turned and shut the fridge, leaning against it. “What’s that about? Bad sushi up there or something?” she asked sarcastically.
“It’s silly,” I said, taking a sip of smoothie.
She raised her eyebrows.
“It’s just that I feel like everyone is talking about me.” I paused. “No, I know for sure that everyone is talking about me.”
Diana nodded knowingly as she began to throw expired items into the trash can. “That’s a bad feeling. I know all about that.” She picked up a jar of jelly, read the label, and tossed. Then she said, “When I was little, kids used to talk about me and pick on me all the time. When we were in foster care, there were some years I didn’t have more than two or three changes of clothes, and at this one house no one would brush my hair, so it was a rat’s nest, and I always had holes in my off-brand shoes.” She paused and took a breath. “But worst of all, we got free lunch—and breakfast—which might as well have been a target on my back.…” She trailed off, and I felt like my heart had stopped beating. I couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to any child. “I got picked on real bad, but it made me strong too, you know?”
“Jesus, Diana. That isnotthe same thing.”
She shrugged and turned toward the sink, rinsing a bottle and setting it back on the counter. “Well, no. I guess it isn’t, because that was a long time ago and it was really more about material things, and this is more about your life—”
I interrupted her, feeling sick. I couldn’t believe what she had been through, what she had endured. I’d had no idea. “No, I mean, that is real, true trauma. I’m just being a brat, and I’m old enough that I shouldn’t care.”
Diana leaned over the counter toward me. “You know, hon, everybody’s got their own problems. I’ve got mine, you’ve got yours, the mailman’s got his.”
“Davy?” I gasped in mock horror. “Not Davy!”
We both laughed.
“For real,” I said. “I am so sorry you had to go through that.” I could feel tears coming to my eyes. I was so grateful that I could take care of Wagner. “Gosh,” I added, “I think it has been hard not having my mom this past year, and I’m a grown-up. I can’t imagine doing it as a child.”
I was giving her a subtle opening. I didn’t want to say,So, what happened to your mom?But I was so curious. Diana was spraying the counters now, wiping them with rags I had made from Wagner’s old, threadbare T-shirts during my brief, post-split Martha Stewart phase. I had a feeling Diana had a hard time standing still. She wasn’t taking the bait. But then she stopped dead in her tracks and looked me straight in the eye. “There comes a point when we all have to learn to survive on our own, Gray. Mine just came early.”
I bit my lip. There was so much truth in that. This was my moment, I guessed. I was learning to survive on my own. No husband. No mother. Not even Wagner here to bring joy to the hard days. Just me on my own two feet.
She turned and started spraying again. “We got smart, though, one of my foster brothers and me. I got picked on because of my hair not being brushed, and he got picked on for smelling bad. We were too young to get jobs, so we spent weeks collecting cans. We got on the free bus and took all those cans down to the recycling center in our backpacks and some old grocery bags we’d found around the house, and we got up enough money to buy a hairbrush for me and some deodorant for him.”
“Damn, Diana.” I felt sick to my stomach again. I hadn’t been getting a Porsche for my sixteenth birthday or anything, but I had had two parents who loved me, who made sure I always had what I needed even if it meant they had to sacrifice something for themselves.
“Just having my hair brushed didn’t fix anything. It didn’t keep the kids from picking on me. But it gave me the confidence to face the bullies.” She turned and smiled at me.
I guessed that was what I needed too. I needed to find what would give me the confidence to face the bullies. “My mom always used to say people picked on people they were jealous of, but it isn’t true, is it?”
