The Opposite of Me Read online

  “You’ve got to be starving after that trip,” Mom fretted, brushing imaginary lint from my shoulder.

  “It was only three hours,” I protested. “And I had Chee-tos.” Plus, um, a tiny little chocolate-chip cookie. Hardly worth mentioning, really. And the only reason I ate a second one was because they came two to a package. I had no choice in the matter; I was a prisoner of Amtrak packaging.

  “Still,” Mom said as we headed for the car. “We’re thinking of Antonio’s for lunch. Of course, they don’t always wash their silverware as well as they should.”

  “Once,” Dad said, rolling his eyes toward heaven, which was presumably full of men who could sympathize with his plight. “You found a speck of dried spaghetti on your fork once. A speck. Better than that Indian place with the druggie hostess.”

  “Just because she has blue hair doesn’t mean she’s an addict,” Mom said. “She could be expressing herself. She could be an artist. Someday she’ll be famous and you’ll be sorry you weren’t nicer to her. And it was more than a speck. It was easily a quarter strand.”

  “That druggie hostess always makes me spell my name three times,” Dad grumbled. “Marijuana. It kills brain cells.”

  “Well, you know we can’t go to Pines of Italy,” Mom said. “It gives you gas.”

  “Only the garlic bread,” Dad protested, heaving my suitcases into the trunk of our old station wagon, the one with all the dents in the sides. Mom and parking garage columns don’t always play nice.

  “But you can’t stay away from that garlic bread,” Mom said. “If you’d just have a piece or two instead of the whole basket—”

  “Antonio’s sounds perfect,” I said. Mom and Dad both started, then looked back over their shoulders at me, like they’d forgotten I was there.

  So, I might as well get this confession over with. Here’s the thing: I’d told my parents I was coming to Bethesda to open a new branch of Richards, Dunne & Krantz. In twenty-nine years, this was the only real lie I’d ever told my parents, notwithstanding one or two “Alex ate the last cookie,” garden-variety, arguably developmentally necessary childhood fibs. I’d hated doing it. It had felt all wrong, like wearing an itchy wool sweater to a picnic on a sweltering July afternoon.

  But when I’d phoned to tell my parents I was moving back home, Mom had asked, “Moving home? But you’re doing so well in New York.”

  Then her voice had grown the slightest bit shrill: “Aren’t you?”

  And when Dad had jumped in on the other receiver and said, “Is everything okay, Lindsey?” instead of leaving any potentially emotional discussions to Mom and fleeing the room like a tornado was incoming, as he usually does, I’d frozen up. As their worried voices pelted me with questions, I’d thought about my last visit home. Dad had insisted on cleaning the gutters against all reason. The facts that it was raining, that the trees still had plenty of leaves left to shed, and that he’d just cleaned the gutters two months earlier were trifling, inconsequential details. Dad was gripped in the throes of a gutter-cleaning frenzy. So I steadied the ladder for him—someone had to do it, or he’d probably break both legs—and I found myself at eye-level with his ankles. Suddenly I was struck by how bony they were. The skin around them was loose and dotted with brown age spots I’d never noticed before.

  At dinner that night, I’d looked at my parents—really looked at them—and I saw the changes that had come on so gradually they’d been nearly imperceptible. The reading glasses and hesitation on the stairs, the gray overtaking Dad’s brown hair, the slight tremor in Mom’s hand when she lifted up a scoop of mashed potatoes—that night I saw it all too clearly. My parents were getting older. They wouldn’t be around forever. It wasn’t just Mom’s lumpy mashed potatoes that made me swallow extra hard.

  My parents were so proud of me. Because I was successful, they considered themselves successes as parents. Their identity was knotted up in my own. How many times had I overheard Mom on the phone, satisfaction ringing through her voice as she talked about my perfect report cards or my acceptance to a half dozen colleges? I couldn’t become a disappointment to them, not now, not during what should be their golden years.

  “Everything’s fine,” I’d finally said into the phone. I’d closed my eyes, then blurted out: “It’s actually good news.”

  “Oh,” Mom had breathed. “I was worried for a minute there. But of course, I shouldn’t have been. When have you ever given us reason to worry? So what is it? Another promotion?”

  “I tell you, we did something right with Lindsey,” Dad had said proudly. “She makes more money than I ever did, that’s for sure.”

  And that’s how we ended up all heading to Antonio’s, the site of the great unwashed fork, for my triumphant return to Maryland.

  “Tell me more about your promotion, honey,” Mom said as we settled into the station wagon, with me on the hump in the backseat, feeling like I was twelve again.

  “It’s not technically a promotion,” I said.

  “Modest,” Mom said to Dad, who grunted in agreement.

  I cleared my throat and started again. “It’s really not that big a deal. The firm is thinking about opening a D.C. branch, so I’m here to scout everything out. You know, start scoping out clients and stuff.”

  “How much office space do you need?” Dad asked.

  “Not sure yet,” I said, fidgeting with a lock of my hair. “We’ll, um, look into it once we figure out how many staff we’ll need to meet the business demand.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” Mom said. “Both of our daughters living in the same city with us! You know Alex is sorry she couldn’t make it for lunch. She’s doing a shoot today for Capitol File magazine.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard,” I said. Mom had only mentioned it three times. Secretly I was thrilled; Alex wouldn’t ask me much about my job if we were alone—she didn’t find it all that interesting—but if she saw me squirm my way through my parents’ questioning, her bullshit detector would kick in.

  “And it’s so nice you’ll be home for Alex’s engagement party tomorrow night,” Mom said. “The timing couldn’t be better!”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said. Hey, imagine that! This lying thing got easier and easier. You’d think Alex might’ve let me in on that years ago.

  “Now where did I put that parking ticket?” Mom wondered as we pulled up to the attendant’s booth. She opened up her purse and rummaged through it. “I swear it was right here.”

  “There’s a car waiting behind us,” I said, twisting around and giving an apologetic wave.

  “Give me a second,” Mom said, pulling out a slip of paper. “No, that’s a coupon for Antonio’s.”

  “At least we can use it at lunch,” I said.

  Mom studied it: “It expired last year.”

  Dad rolled down his window.

  “Just looking for the ticket,” he told the attendant. “Nice afternoon, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the darndest thing,” Mom said. “I just had it in my hand.”

  The car behind us honked.

  “Want me to look?” I offered.

  “I usually put it in the outside pocket of my purse,” Mom said. “Why wouldn’t I have done that today?”

  “I’m really good at finding things,” I said anxiously. “I’m a good finder.” Was it just me, or did I sound exactly like Rain Man?

  I looked back: Now there were three cars waiting, practically revving their engines. In New York we’d have been shot by now. Any judge in the city would’ve ruled it justifiable homicide.

  “Did you check your pocket?” Dad suggested.

  “There’s an idea,” Mom said cheerily. “Nope, not there.”

  “Maybe it’s in your other pocket,” Dad said.

  “Not there, either,” Mom said.

  More honking, and a shout from behind us that sounded something like “Brother Tucker!” I was pretty sure it wasn’t someone shouting an enthusiastic greeting to a passing monk.
r />   “People need to learn patience,” Dad opined. “It’s a lost art.”

  “Here it is!” Mom said triumphantly. “Oh, wait, that’s my grocery list. I sure could’ve used that yesterday. I forgot the lettuce.”

  She scrutinized the list more closely: “And the strawberry Pop-Tarts.”

  “I wasn’t going to say,” Dad said. “But I did notice this morning.”

  “What’s that under the sun visor?” I asked desperately.

  “Aha!” Mom said triumphantly. “See, I knew we’d find it.”

  I slumped against the backseat, feeling slightly sweaty. Technically, I’d been living at home for a grand total of sixteen minutes, and I’d just remembered something. I loved my parents, but every time I spent a few hours with them, I came away with a desperate need for a few Advil and a Yanni CD.

  A quick word on my parents’ home. Remember my clean, uncluttered, monklike apartment? Matt would probably say it was my way of rebelling.

  My apartment was the antithesis of my childhood home, where Dad usually sits in the den, blaring the television louder and louder, while Mom stomps around and hollers, “Get a hearing aid!” and blasts her soap operas in retaliation. Their living room is like a graveyard for Sony, because that’s where Dad stores the broken electronics he hasn’t gotten around to fixing. It’s also where Mom piles the laundry she hasn’t gotten around to folding, and the mail that hasn’t been sorted. Every week or so Mom makes a big production out of gathering trash bags, a dust mop, and the vacuum cleaner. Then she stands in the doorway to the living room, grimly surveying the disaster, until she gets completely overwhelmed and has to retreat to the kitchen in exhaustion and pile a plate high with comforting chocolate croissants.

  Serenity Lodge it isn’t.

  Oh—about those electronics crammed into the living room? My parents ignore the directions booklets that accompany devices in favor of pressing buttons as frantically as possible, preferably all at once. “Try the blue button!” my mother hollers. “No, the other blue one! Did you press it hard enough? Try the red one!”

  Before they go on vacation, I have to email them explicit directions for retrieving their answering machine messages, which they invariably lose before they get to the airport. Plus Mom is constantly deleting all the photos on her digital camera, and Dad is terrified of the cell phone we got him last Christmas. He leaps a foot into the air every time it rings and barks “Rose here!” into it so loudly that he singes the eardrum of anyone unlucky enough to be on the other end. Once, just to be cruel, Alex put it on vibrate and called him repeatedly. He was twitchy for days.

  At least my childhood bedroom was still neat, with the books organized alphabetically by author, just as I’d left them. In fact, everything in my room looked the same, yet somehow different. Or maybe it was me who was different. The last time I’d lived in this room was after my sophomore year of college, and then for only two weeks before I’d headed to New York for an internship. Back then, I’d been so filled with energy and hope and ambition that I’d had trouble falling asleep at night. This room was just a pit stop, a place to idle and refuel before the race toward real life began. All the necessities in life—sleeping, eating, doing laundry—had seemed like a huge waste of time, interferences I could barely tolerate, given everything I wanted to accomplish.

  I had to find my way to that frenzied, hungry place again. I had to find my way back to myself. I didn’t even know the person who’d fooled around with a coworker on a conference room table at work, but I knew she wasn’t me.

  I kept walking around my old room, soaking in the memories. My wooden desk was still covered with stacks of dog-eared books and my It’s Academic trophy, which was probably the cleanest thing in the house, given how frequently Mom polished it. My framed certificates—National Merit semifinalist, senior class salutatorian—hung on the wall over my desk. I still remembered how Mom and Dad had leapt to their feet, a two-person wave, yelling, “Go, Lindsey!” when I’d strode across the stage to collect that award.

  And on the other side of the room, on top of the wooden dresser that matched my desk, was my old jewelry box. I walked over and reached for it. The pink velvet was so faded it was nearly white, and the ballerina inside was mortally injured, but a few rusty notes of Swan Lake still played when I creaked open the lid. Bradley’s valentine was inside, just where I’d left it, along with a rose from my senior prom. By now the petals were so fragile that I knew they’d crumble at the slightest touch.

  Bradley had surprised me with a wrist corsage of red roses and baby’s breath, even though we’d gone to the prom as friends, I remembered, smiling. I hadn’t thought about the prom in years, but now the images came back to me, like a film unspooling on a reel. Bradley had worn a rented tuxedo that barely covered his knobby wrists because his arms were so long and gangly, and I’d worn a white silk dress with gold braided rope criss-crossing the waist. I’d saved up months of babysitting money to buy it. I’d also worn my first-ever pair of heels, and my skin was flushed because I’d spent the afternoon sunbathing. When Bradley came to pick me up and I’d opened the door, the smile had slid away from his face as cleanly as if someone had taken an eraser and wiped it off. Somehow I knew that was a good thing.

  He’d handed me a small white florist’s box, and then he’d said—

  “Want a Snapple?” Mom hollered from outside my door. “I have Eggos, too. Homestyle ones. I know they’re your favorite.”

  “Didn’t we just eat lunch?” I reminded her. “Like an hour ago?”

  “You look pale,” Mom said. “Are you sure you’re not getting sick? I’m going to the grocery store. Can I get you anything?”

  “Just some yogurt,” I said.

  “Now, honey, you’re not dieting, are you?” Mom said. “Because you don’t need to lose a pound.”

  “I could definitely lose a pound or ten,” I said, pinching an inch—whatever, three inches—around my belly button to prove it.

  “You know, most men prefer women with a little meat on them,” Mom said. “It’s only women who judge other women so harshly.”

  “Forget the yogurt,” I said. I felt grimy from the train ride, and all I really wanted was a hot shower, not a Hallmark after-school-special talk.

  “But I have to get you something you’d like,” Mom fretted. “You need to eat or you’ll waste away.”

  “Mom.” I exhaled slowly. “You can get me whatever you want. It’s fine.”

  “But what is it that you want? That’s all I asked in the first place,” Mom pointed out.

  “Long, streaming hair,” I muttered, trying to conjure up a visual of Yanni. “White robe.” I reminded myself this situation was just temporary.

  “Did you say you wanted white toast?” Mom asked.

  “It would be great if you’d stock up on Snapples and Eggos,” I told her.

  “I knew you loved them,” she said with satisfaction.

  I rolled my eyes, then put my suitcases on top of my bed and unzipped them. I pulled out my tissue-wrapped pieces of black, cream, and navy-colored suits, blouses, and skirts one by one. Each piece of clothing probably cost more than all my bedroom furniture combined. I believed in buying classic, high-quality outfits that would last for years. Even back when I’d been a copywriter, I’d still dressed the part of a vice president. My hands hesitated as I unfolded my black Armani suit, the one I’d worn the day of my Gloss presentation.

  No looking back, I reminded myself, briskly shaking out the suit and laying it on my bed. It would be ridiculous to toss out Armani just because of the bad memories associated with it.

  I hung my clothes in my closet, automatically sorting them from darkest to lightest colors, as I mentally reviewed my plans. It was Friday, so I’d take the weekend to get organized, then I’d start blanketing businesses with my résumé on Monday morning. I’d have half a dozen interviews lined up within a week, I decided. I’d give myself a month to land a job—not just any job, but the right job, one wi
th plenty of room for advancement—and a month beyond that to find an apartment. I’d want something close to downtown. Maybe in Adams Morgan, near the streets lined with shops and restaurants so it would feel a bit like New York.

  I finished unpacking and neatly stacked my suitcases in my closet, then I sat on my bed, suddenly exhausted even though I’d done nothing all day but sit on a train and eat lunch. It was just so much harder making a fresh start at age twenty-nine than it had been at twenty-one. I lay back on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. Directly above my head was an old water stain. “You know it looks exactly like a scrotum,” Alex had told me once when she and I were thirteen. “No, it doesn’t,” I’d said authoritatively. I still wasn’t sure which worried me more: that she was right, or that it took me six more years to find out that she was right.

  Alex.

  I’d see her tomorrow night at her engagement party for the first time in eighteen months. It was the longest we’d ever gone without seeing each other. Hard to imagine that Mom used to touch her stomach and wonder if it was Alex’s foot or mine that was kicking her back. Now our lives were as separate and distinct as cars on parallel highways, heading to destinations on opposite sides of the country.

  Unlike my life, Alex’s was settling into place perfectly. I’d only met her fiancé, Gary, once, back when they were first dating and Alex had come to New York with him on business. We’d had a late dinner at Daniel on East Sixty-fifth Street, where you couldn’t get an entrée for less than the cost of some people’s monthly mortgages. Gary had picked the restaurant. He was exactly what I’d expected: tall and successful and gorgeous. I wrinkled my nose, trying to remember what exactly it was that Gary did. Real estate investing, that was it. On the night I’d met him, he’d spent the first half hour talking into a cell phone, trying to keep a deal from falling apart, then, just when I’d decided he was an ass, he’d ordered a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine and turned to me with those electric blue eyes. “You must think I’m an ass,” he’d said, before proceeding to charm the hell out of me. He was perfect for Alex.