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Authors: Claire Bidwell Smith
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she doesnât want me going to the restaurant after school anymore, and that for a while at least sheâs going to take the afternoons off.
Â
My sneakers crunch on the oyster-shell driveway and the math book in my book bag feels impossibly heavy. When I walk in through the front door, it is immediately clear that something is wrong.
Â
My mother is sitting on one of the couches in the formal living room, the one that we never sit in. My father is sitting next to her, when he is supposed to be at work. My mother is crying, and my father has his arm around her shoulder, his head bent toward hers.
Â
My insides harden together like cement. I shouldnât have lied to her. I should have just told the truth that I wasnât stealing because she was working all the time. That it was for Tonia, so we could be friends again.
Â
I stand in the doorway a moment longer before they notice me. I have to tell her. I have to tell her how much I love her. How she is actually my best friend. How glad I am that she got to have me.
Â
My dad looks up first.
Â
Claire.
Â
My mother looks up sharply then, her breath catching in a sob.
Â
Claire, my dad says, come sit down.
Â
My feet are heavy, shuffling across the rug.
Â
My mother blots her tears, and when I try to sit on the couch opposite them, my mother reaches out for me.
Â
Come sit with me, sweetie. She is choking on the words.
Â
I drop my bag on the floor and sit down next to my mother, who pulls me into her. She is hot all over, and her body jags against me with each wave of crying. I am frightened now.
Â
My father leans over, one arm around my mother, the other around me. I peer up at him from underneath my motherâs embrace.
Â
Claire, he says, we just found out that your mother has colon cancer.
Chapter Three
2002, IâM TWENTY-FOUR YEARS OLD.
I âM STANDING OVER the cluttered desk of the West Coast editor of Big Fancy Magazine . Behind her Hollywood shimmers through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her spacious office.
Â
How about some yogurt? I say gently. This suggestion is met with dramatic eye rolling and scoffing.
Â
I try again. A smoothie?
Â
West Coast Editor drops her head to her desk. She is nearing fifty, single, and surprisingly unkempt for someone who runs the LA office of Big Fancy Magazine . She is wearing jeans and an ill-fitting blouse. Her blond hair hangs limply past her shoulders and her face looks puffy from too many cocktails at whatever event she attended last night.
Â
Nooooo, she moans.
Â
Itâs important for you to eat, I remind her. I try to tamp down the rising sense of panic swelling in my sternum. This is not going well.
Â
West Coast Editor offers no response. She doesnât even lift her head from the desk.
Â
We could order something from that macrobiotic place, I say.
Â
Or how about just a bar? Iâve got a box of raw-food bars at my desk.
Â
All these suggestions are ones I have been instructed to use by the girl who had my job before me. Her last day was yesterday, and when she walked out of the office for the final time she had a look on her face like Iâve only seen on newly liberated kidnap victims in Lifetime movies: shattered and disbelieving, no longer able to recognize freedom. I know I should take this as a warning, but Iâm too excited to actually be working at Big Fancy Magazine to care.
Â
No, West Coast Editor says sulkily in reference to the raw-food bar.
Â
She picks her head up and inspects her computer screen, scanning the new e-mail waiting there. Her hair is clearly unbrushed. One side of it is snarled. The other side stills retains some of yesterdayâs blowout from the salon.
Â
A beat passes.
Â
Fine, she says suddenly. A smoothie.
Â
West Coast Editor swivels away from me, and I follow her gaze through the windows of her office. Buildings spread out against the backdrop
Â
My sneakers crunch on the oyster-shell driveway and the math book in my book bag feels impossibly heavy. When I walk in through the front door, it is immediately clear that something is wrong.
Â
My mother is sitting on one of the couches in the formal living room, the one that we never sit in. My father is sitting next to her, when he is supposed to be at work. My mother is crying, and my father has his arm around her shoulder, his head bent toward hers.
Â
My insides harden together like cement. I shouldnât have lied to her. I should have just told the truth that I wasnât stealing because she was working all the time. That it was for Tonia, so we could be friends again.
Â
I stand in the doorway a moment longer before they notice me. I have to tell her. I have to tell her how much I love her. How she is actually my best friend. How glad I am that she got to have me.
Â
My dad looks up first.
Â
Claire.
Â
My mother looks up sharply then, her breath catching in a sob.
Â
Claire, my dad says, come sit down.
Â
My feet are heavy, shuffling across the rug.
Â
My mother blots her tears, and when I try to sit on the couch opposite them, my mother reaches out for me.
Â
Come sit with me, sweetie. She is choking on the words.
Â
I drop my bag on the floor and sit down next to my mother, who pulls me into her. She is hot all over, and her body jags against me with each wave of crying. I am frightened now.
Â
My father leans over, one arm around my mother, the other around me. I peer up at him from underneath my motherâs embrace.
Â
Claire, he says, we just found out that your mother has colon cancer.
Chapter Three
2002, IâM TWENTY-FOUR YEARS OLD.
I âM STANDING OVER the cluttered desk of the West Coast editor of Big Fancy Magazine . Behind her Hollywood shimmers through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her spacious office.
Â
How about some yogurt? I say gently. This suggestion is met with dramatic eye rolling and scoffing.
Â
I try again. A smoothie?
Â
West Coast Editor drops her head to her desk. She is nearing fifty, single, and surprisingly unkempt for someone who runs the LA office of Big Fancy Magazine . She is wearing jeans and an ill-fitting blouse. Her blond hair hangs limply past her shoulders and her face looks puffy from too many cocktails at whatever event she attended last night.
Â
Nooooo, she moans.
Â
Itâs important for you to eat, I remind her. I try to tamp down the rising sense of panic swelling in my sternum. This is not going well.
Â
West Coast Editor offers no response. She doesnât even lift her head from the desk.
Â
We could order something from that macrobiotic place, I say.
Â
Or how about just a bar? Iâve got a box of raw-food bars at my desk.
Â
All these suggestions are ones I have been instructed to use by the girl who had my job before me. Her last day was yesterday, and when she walked out of the office for the final time she had a look on her face like Iâve only seen on newly liberated kidnap victims in Lifetime movies: shattered and disbelieving, no longer able to recognize freedom. I know I should take this as a warning, but Iâm too excited to actually be working at Big Fancy Magazine to care.
Â
No, West Coast Editor says sulkily in reference to the raw-food bar.
Â
She picks her head up and inspects her computer screen, scanning the new e-mail waiting there. Her hair is clearly unbrushed. One side of it is snarled. The other side stills retains some of yesterdayâs blowout from the salon.
Â
A beat passes.
Â
Fine, she says suddenly. A smoothie.
Â
West Coast Editor swivels away from me, and I follow her gaze through the windows of her office. Buildings spread out against the backdrop
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