Overeating, Overspending, and Me

I'm struck--yet again--by the similarities between overeating and overspending. One is a decent substitute for the other, but it's unclear which is heroin, and which is methadone; I suppose it's dependent on mood. Both nasty habits are similar to a third: sex online with strangers. (I won't delve too deeply into that subject, because it's tawdry even by my relaxed standards.) All three trade long-term joy for short-term pleasure, self-respect for self-disgust, and sometimes-painful mindfulness for sometimes-blissful distraction.

Years ago, I quit chatting online, and I anticipate similar success as I quit overeating and overspending. I anticipate becoming a healthy, energetic, debt-free cutie-pie with a well-funded retirement account. Any. Minute. Now.

When I relax into the temptations of overeating and overspending--and the clerks at Krispy Kreme and TJ Maxx greet me like an old friend--I feel (by turns) excited, outgoing, energized, busy, clever, liberated, secretive, ashamed, burdened, and uncomfortably full. When I strive to overcome the temptations of overeating and overspending--and I eat wholesome foods to satiety, and buy what enriches my life without cluttering my life--I feel (by turns) peaceful, mindful, healthy, content, disciplined, unfettered, wistful, jealous, listless, and peckish. If I choose to follow one path, I cannot successfully follow the other path.

The path of eating and spending in moderation will lead to more and better rewards, but...not today. To reap the rewards, I need to stay on the path...for months, for years. Early on, this path is recognizable only by what's not there: double cheeseburgers with fries, pecan pie with ice cream, Rachael Ray's line of brightly colored kitchenware, a cashmere cardigan with shell buttons and three-quarter-length sleeves. Early on, this path looks like the Black Rock Desert, like an abandoned factory, and I feel lonely in such a desolate place. For me, the buddy system is an illusion, and a Weight Watchers meeting or Debtors Anonymous meeting is worse than the first day at a new high school. This is a solitary journey.

In my experience, there's only one thing to do: Embrace the solitude. Embrace, even, Jung's "legitimate suffering." Empty deserts and empty factories are fierce and frightening places, but it's not necessary to flee. I can plant my flag here. I can brew a cup of tea, and ride this out. The rewards are vast, and the journey--even the third or fourth time--is compelling.

Here, I want to examine the intersections of overeating and overspending, so that I can be attentive when approaching them. (Of course, I'm only an expert on me, and I don't presume to know what you do when no one's looking.)

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are terrific (if temporary) stress reducers. And god bless 'em for it. Both go a long way toward seeming to fix: (a) cabin fever; (b) marital strife; (c) too many pets, bills, and unread classics; (d) too few long baths, marketable skills, and attentive listeners; and (e) the always-there, never-quite-gone feelings of fear, frustration, regret, boredom, and worry. Worried about a new mole? Worried about failing to embrace Alan Arkin's advice in "Little Miss Sunshine"? Worried about not taking a meaningful risk since Jimmy Carter left office? Well, I'll feel much better if I start my binge at Taco Bell, swing by Barnes & Noble, and finish up at Dairy Queen.

Solution: I can take a deep breath, and consider the possibility that my life--as is--can be borne, can be endured. I'm sure much of my stress would magically disappear if I had a real problem to deal with, like cancer or civil war. In fact, I make myself more vulnerable to stress (and everything else) by not being prepared for physical or financial emergencies. So, next time I feel anxious, I'll turn and face the demon. If I can't do something productive--something that directly addresses the problem--I'll embrace the stress, knowing that it's not likely to kill me.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are crimes of opportunity, and--for me--the "bargain" presents an almost irresistible opportunity. Deals are everywhere: 80-percent off, 90-percent off, buy-one-get-one. Here's a coupon! Here's a book of coupons! Have a dollar? Here's three tacos! Have five dollars? Here's a pink cotton sweater! The most difficult challenge is anything that is free: a thick slice of buttered bread at Great Harvest, half an egg roll at Costco, an oatmeal cookie at a health fair. And those little snacks--given so generously, so innocently--flip a switch in my head, and thirty pounds later I can trace my falling-off-the-wagon moment to that goddamn health fair.

Solution: As a minimum, I can stay away from clearance sales, bakeries, and the drive-thru window at McDonalds. I might also want to consider a less black-and-white approach to everything. It's not necessary to deny myself the pleasure of new socks or a coat that fits; it's not necessary to hide behind a locked door when the neighbor girls deliver a plate of cookies. I can learn to see the difference between eating and overeating, between spending and overspending.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are often preceded by disappointment: in me, in others, and sometimes in the very thing I eat or buy. I've resumed bingeing (and/or spent a fruitful afternoon at Ross-Dress-for-Less) when I received an email from a woman asking that I stop flirting with her husband, when I had to remind my sister that it was my birthday, and when my a la carte chicken enchilada had too much cilantro. It's crushing! It's more than I can bear! I've suffered enough!

Solution: I can acknowledge that disappointment is difficult, and some of us handle it better than others. My husband once waited until I was in a cheerful mood, and suggested that I learn to manage my expectations. Since then, it occurred to me that maybe I want to be derailed: I'm devastated, so I'm allowed to overeat and overspend, right?

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are--duh--encouraged by advertisers. It feels inescapable, especially late at night when I'm watching TV or surfing the 'net, when my resolve is weakened by the need for sleep. I must have that crab-cake sandwich, or those corduroy pants with a 36-inch inseam. Wherever I look, someone is encouraging me to eat more or spend more, and it's easy to feel ambushed, and to surrender.

Solution: Resist already! I can see it for what it is, and I remind myself that I already have more than enough.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are encouraged (to some degree) by loved ones. "You should buy that," my sister says. "It's eight dollars, it's darling, and it's so you. Didn't you have an olive-drab sweater just like that when you were dating ___?" and she speaks the name of someone I loved and lost. I cradle the sweater in my arms, harking back to a simpler time, reaching into my purse for a ten-dollar bill. Later, we're at a sandwich shop, and she offers to share her huge snickerdoodle with me. "No, thank you," I say, and she's crestfallen. I love her, and I'm responsible for the dejected look on her face. I change my mind about the snickerdoodle, and all is right in our world.

Solution: I can find a way to love and be loved without overeating or overspending. And I can learn to enjoy both habits vicariously: my niece's Victoria's Secret catalog order, a friend's new kitchen counters, my dad's bowl of mostaccioli or cioppino...I can appreciate something without eating it or owning it. (And, as a bonus, I get to feel smug for resisting.)

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are social habits, and often feel integral to celebrating, visiting, and vacationing. They're handy when saying I like you, I love you, I want to get to know you better, I want to impress you, I'm sorry, and thank you.

Solution: I can remind myself that all of these situations can be handled with moderate eating and spending, or--better yet--with something that requires more imagination.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending tend to result in choosing quantity over quality. By definition, they lead to excess, which for most people means a whole lotta crap. I'm reminded of a vacation several years ago when, one afternoon, I drove twenty miles to buy an ice cream cone at the Tillamook cheese factory in Oregon. I watched as a girl made waffles, which became waffle cones; she filled a still-warm cone with Marion Berry Cheesecake ice cream for me, and I happily paid $4 for it. I sat alone on the patio, in the warm sunshine, grinning at children and dogs, eating my treat. A week later, back in Utah, I bought a low-fat vanilla cone at McDonalds for $1 and ate it while driving home. I was struck by the difference between the two experiences. My first thought was, "I need to move--alone--to Tillamook," but even I knew that was unreasonable.

Solution: I can learn to slow down and ask myself if what I'm about to eat or buy is exactly what I want. I can reject the easy choices: those things that are merely okay, that are convenient, that are habits, that are attractive only because they are bargains. I can hold out for a Tillamook ice cream cone every time.

Summer Camp

In the early eighties--and just days before her accidental death--my mom sent me a 112-page manuscript for a romantic novella she'd written called "Summer Camp." (There are a few titles scribbled on the front cover, but that's my favorite.) Several times, I tried to read it, but the ick factor was fairly high: I simply could not handle the detailed accounts of "Jakie" (so obviously my mom) having sex. But yesterday--in a mellow, post-menopausal mood--I retrieved it from a closet shelf and read the entire thing for the first time. I don't presume to know which parts are fact, which parts are fiction, and which parts blur the line; I only know that I felt close to her while reading it. "I'm going to blog about this!" I hollered enthusiastically to my husband in the next room.

I grin when I see that the first page contains nothing but a quote, which my mom ascribes to her sister "N" (she includes N's last name, but I'll omit it here). The quote: "I am no stranger to small thinking."

The first chapter introduces us to Jakie (rhymes with flaky, and achy-breaky...my observation, not hers). The opening dialogue is between Jakie and her husband, Ron, who is needing some space. He loves her madly, but feels smothered in their small town (a Denver suburb). "Are you content knowing nothing but narrow-minded people who hate to go more than ten miles away because something might change while they're gone?" he asks her.

Ron is an idea man, and a flirt. While reading, I thought they'd reconcile (apparently, he's very good in bed), but they do not. He leaves a note ("Don't worry") and moves to San Diego.

A paragraph later, Jakie is divorced. There's precious little information about twin sons Jeff and Mark (recent high school graduates), and only slightly more about grown daughter Sadie (engaged to be married, starred in a school play, a bit of a spendthrift, works with her mom sometimes, a "real personality"). (If no one minds, I'll be her.)

***

The second chapter explores Jakie's upbringing and philosophy, and some of her post-divorce angst. The granddaughter of Danish immigrants, the daughter of a grocer, she hasn't traveled or graduated from college or enjoyed a career. She recalls a conversation with a girlhood friend:

"I want to be a nurse when I grow up," said Carolyn.
"Not me," said Jakie. "I want to be a mother."
"You can be a nurse and a mother, silly," said Carolyn.
"No," said Jakie. "I only want to be a mother."

Ron's rejection "shattered Jakie's orderly existence." Ron thrives after the divorce, but Jakie feels aimless and confused. She reads a lot, and watches too much TV. Men--of course--find her enchanting, and many pursue her, but she isn't interested. She's "pretty, though slightly overweight," with dark eyes and curly brown hair. When she isn't looking sad or worried, she has a killer smile.

True to the genre, Jakie loses the extra weight, gets a tan, and goes in search of a job, reasoning that employment will lead to improved self-esteem, and improved self-esteem will lead to hooking up with a new man. (I've heard that some women prefer the new-man-will-lead-to-improved-self-esteem model.) "She wasn't interested in learning to be without a man at her side. Sleeping alone was not to be part of her destiny." Oh dear.

***

I'm a bit confused by the third chapter; it almost seems to stand alone (perhaps as an essay on paratroopers). She doesn't mention Ron or the kids. It's her first summer working at the Officers' Club at Camp Bradley, a military post near her home, frequented by National Guard and Army Reserve troops doing two-week stints.

"Jakie sat on the hood of her car near the drop zone at Camp Bradley." (I've done that! I was younger than Jakie--without the recent divorce or the magnificent rack--but I, too, enjoyed the late-August sunshine and the scent of sagebrush, and the even-better scent of sweaty, dusty, triumphant men after a successful jump.) Jakie awaits the object of her affections, Colonel Matt Chipman (who isn't seen in later chapters).

"She idly wondered if she was in love with the man she waited to see jump."

Then, quickly: "No, she wasn't in love." Whew.

"She didn't even like him a lot." I see.

"Love was for kids and sadists." What?!?

In this chapter, it becomes clear that the author has gathered some serious intel about helicopters, short-take-off-and-landing vehicles, safe and unsafe jumping conditions, static lines, reserve chutes, canopies, wind speeds, forward speeds, soft versus hard landings...and she generously shares it with us. She also shares that Matt likes "a good jump, good PT, good scotch, and a good woman," and something about that is pissing Jakie off. "Why was she feeling so furious?" she wonders. She describes their lovemaking (her word) as "satisfying, but not tremendously exciting." Matt is kind, slim, and a lousy listener. She admits to being "embittered."

"Matt disapproved of many things," she writes. "Often, he disapproved of her. He constantly prompted her to be this way or that way, but would also tell her to be herself." At one point, he has the audacity to suggest she lose another ten pounds. He makes helpful if unwelcome suggestions regarding her PT.

I don't care for Matt Chipman, and I'm not sure what draws Jakie to him. "What in the hell am I doing here?" she mutters, as the weather turns windy and wet. "What is a thirty-nine-year-old woman doing here by herself, leaning against a dusty car, in such godawful weather? Her wish, at that moment, was to be any place else." One page later, she repeats the question: "What in the hell am I doing here?"

As Jakie continues to watch the jump, she lyrically describes one soldier's actions: "He gathered up his chute like a voluminous petticoat." (I would have followed him back to camp, in search of something Tremendously Exciting.)

After the jump (cut short by the rain), she returns to the Officers' Club. She's alone. "Summer camp was over; fall was in the air. A feeling of nostalgia swept over her. She poured a cup of coffee and sat in front of the water-stained window, waiting for Matt Chipman. The beautiful shades of lush green had given way to golds and browns. That morning, in the valley below, a farmer had finished cutting his grain. He'd turned the rich brown soil, getting ready for another crop, another summer."

***

The fourth chapter takes place early in the summer of 1975 (days after I graduated from high school, and the summer of my first soldier, Larry France.) This also seems like the beginning of her career at Camp Bradley, as if the events of Chapter 3 never took place.

Jakie "has misgivings about being a barmaid." She prefers being outside, cleaning the pool and making burgers for military families. She enjoys being useful; she has the heart of a caretaker.

Here, we're introduced to grounds-keeper Evan McShane. (The true identity of Evan McShane will not be a mystery to anyone who ever visited "Camp Bradley.") I adore the character, and I adored the real man. He was sexy and affectionate; he was ageless. I wanted him to take care of me, and--because he seemed a bit wounded--I was also eager to take care of him (using the rather limited arsenal of skills I possessed at age eighteen). I suppose he broke my mom's heart: He wasn't happily married, but he was permanently married.

Jakie describes the beauty of the Officers' Club, which was a WPA project. "Huge beams supported the cavernous roof," she writes. She describes the stone brought down from a nearby canyon, the "splendor of the decadent drapes and carpets," the "big brass chandeliers made of crossed swords."

Next, we're introduced to the handsome, extroverted, chivalrous Major Ryan Pendleton. His first line (spoken to Jakie, of course) is, "Ma'am, I stand chagrined!" Later: "Could we prevail on your kindness to prepare us each a cheeseburger?" It might seem overblown, but they actually talked like that...the confident, well-traveled officers from the South. "What would you like to hear on the jukebox?" he asks Jakie. "It's the only instrument I play." She chooses "For the Good Times," a Kris Kristofferson classic performed by Ray Price.

Many more characters are introduced, all military men. I stop keeping track after a while. Other than Evan McShane, I only notice the men she sleeps with. "The attention from men was important to her, and she'd be a liar if she denied that," she writes. "At this crucial point in her life, she seemed to need it. At Camp Bradley, there was no lack of men ready to make a woman happy, if only for the evening." The only vulgar line is found on page 16. Jakie overhears someone say, "Well, I don't know about you, Captain, but I wouldn't fuck her with your dick." Jakie doesn't speculate as to whom they might be discussing, but I feel my brow furrow as I read it. Not me, surely. She wouldn't have included the line if she'd suspected they were talking about either of us, right?

One night, daughter Sadie comes out to help Jakie at the club. "When there was a lull, Sadie left the grill to play the jukebox. Major Pendleton gave her eight or ten quarters, and together they made some pretty good choices." (Is it strange that this makes my heart beat a little faster? As I type, I feel nervous, as if right now I'm standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Major Pendleton at the jukebox, choosing "Help Me Make it Through the Night" and "Long Long Time." Did that happen? Was there a particular soldier that was Major Pendleton?)

He returns at closing time and asks if Jakie would like to join him for dinner later that week. She's taken with his "cute personality," but doesn't commit. "He never asked if she was married, and she just imagined that he was." Later, Sadie is encouraging: "He's darling...he's really cool! Go out with him!"

The next day, Jakie runs into Major Pendleton again (who knew). She needs to go to the store to buy hamburger buns, and he offers to go along. He suggests that she call him Ryan, rather than Major. They talk about the markedly high ratio of men to women at Camp Bradley.

"Well, any woman would get a great deal of attention out here," says Jakie. "You don't have to be anything special. As long as you realize that, you won't get hurt."

"Don't you consider yourself special?" he asks.

"Sure I do. But the men would pay attention if you were big or little, pretty or ugly, smart or dumb. It would be sad if a woman came out here and didn't realize that." (She speaks to me...from the grave...)

Ryan admires Jakie's "depth" and "warmth," and he touches her hand, where it rests on the gearshift.

***

There's a romantic scene at the beginning of the fifth chapter. After a long night, Jakie is standing in an open doorway, enjoying the light rain and the scent of sagebrush. Ryan walks up behind her. (A woman loves it when she's feeling relaxed, maybe a little wistful, and a handsome man walks up behind her.)

"Tired?" he asks.
"I'm okay," she says. "Don't you just love that smell?"

I can imagine the two of them at the door that leads outside from the kitchen. Very dark, with quickly falling temperatures. Quiet, but with the friendly sound of men's voices in the distance. They breathe in the scent of cigarettes, beer, grilled onions, grass clippings. And I know how Jakie feels: bone tired, lonely, but not unhappy. And here's this tall man behind her, just inches from her. He's far from home, and weary after a long day of leading and encouraging younger men. And what they want from each other, and what they need from each other, isn't clear to either of them. They'll get something, but they'll never get enough.

Jakie does that thing that women (even smart, evolved women) sometimes do. She overtalks a subject. And the subject she overtalks could be titled "But Will You Respect Me in the Morning?" This subject makes tired men much more tired. He laughs, but he's reassuring; she's embarrassed, but reassured. The rain turns into a storm, and they remain in the doorway. I'm reminded that I'm reading fiction (and not my mom's diary) when she writes: "The heavy rain beat down on their faces and heads until they were soaked."

"Your hair is drenched," said Ryan.
"I love it!" said Jakie. "I don't mind at all!"

Jakie then thinks about all the times she rushed inside when it rained, to avoid ruining her "hair-do." She regrets doing so. She wishes she'd been "sporty and casual...soft and warm and fun."

That night, she lies in bed thinking about Ryan. His face is both "innocent and ruthless." His voice "lazy and educated." His eyes "full of lights and laughter...shrewd, calculating." Ron calls in the middle of the night (?) and invites her to visit him (and the twin boys) in San Diego. She's conflicted. She doesn't want to miss work, and he says, "I bet you enjoy all that attention." That makes it easier for her to turn down his invitation.

Ryan goes on maneuvers for a couple of days, and Jakie stays busy and happy. "She didn't have time to dwell on past mistakes or future problems; she was quite content with life at the moment." Well...good for her.

Just as I'm getting bored, Evan McShane shows up again. Jakie is looking adorable in "...a bright-yellow-and-grey-checked pant suit with a rather low V-neck with buttons down the front...her bright yellow jacket matched perfectly." They stand at the bar, shoulders touching. "If I was twenty years younger, I'd make a pass at you," he says.

When Ryan returns, Jakie ("always the incurable romantic") is imagining a scene from a "World War II movie." She anticipates that the returning soldiers will need hot coffee, "maybe bandages." She sees Ryan across the room: "Bogart is back. The war is over."

It's raining (again!), and after last call they go for a ride in Jakie's Pinto. She's very nervous, and she worries that she might hyperventilate, choke, or pee her pants. Not surprisingly, those things don't happen. They do, however, get stuck in the mud. That doesn't stop them from necking. "The heady aroma of scotch and after-shave excited her." Eventually, they make it back to camp.

Later, she's happy to be home (alone), and she describes her charming Early American furnishings. The house makes her feel "cozy, warm, and safe." She settles into the overstuffed rocking chair with its matching ottoman, remembering "sitting here when the kids were little, sick with an earache or colic." On the stereo, Neil Diamond sings "Until It's Time for You to Go." She ponders the relationship with Ryan, the "affair" she's about to launch with a married man, and she wisely decides "to go in with her eyes wide open, and her heart wide open, too."

Jakie and Ryan have plans for dinner the next night, but--as often happens--dinner becomes an unnecessary distraction to sex-in-the-barracks. She's a bit disappointed in the digs ("her room was better when she went to YWCA summer camp"), but she rallies. There's awkward talk of birth control, there's a "skimpy black bra-slip," and there's even more discussion of possible morning-after regrets and resentments. She admits to being "terribly naive." It's erotic, and it covers all the bases (those mandatory, and those optional), and I try to get through the reading of it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, Ryan is also in a bit of a hurry. "'No, really, I'm just fine,' she lied."

The book is full of conversations with assorted men: funny, flirtatious, intimate, instructive, and newsy conversations. Some are military in nature; others are about family members or the local culture, maybe weather or farming. I'd be surprised if my mom fabricated any of these small exchanges; they read like real conversations, often without neat beginnings or endings. I wonder about all the men she chatted with--old and young, married and single, officers and enlisted men, locals and visitors--and what they remember of her.

At one point, Jakie has a long (and probably ill-considered) discussion with Ryan about her marriage to Ron. Later, she asks Ryan if he will ever return, just to see her. Or--if that's asking too much--will he call her from anywhere in the mountain west, and she can hop in her Pinto and... But he shakes his head and says, "If you don't like the answer, Jakie, don't ask the question." Understandably, this disappoints her, but she doesn't let on. Instead, they go skinny dipping, before making sweet love on the carpeted floor of the Officers' Club. Once again, it's over quickly, and he rushes off to be with "his men." She feels "an overwhelming fatigue" and "an aching loneliness coming on like a summer cold."

I'm surprised by a few paragraphs on page 92. Jakie gets a phone call from a sister informing her that the family discussed Jakie's work situation, and they agree that the job at Camp Bradley is "unsuitable." They're worried and concerned (Jakie reads this as disapproval). I wonder if her family really felt that way. If so, I never heard about it.

Above all, I'm struck by Jakie's loneliness. It seems...crushing, bruising. As I read, I want to help her find a friend; I want to be her friend. She's searching for connection--she's desperate for it--but the only options she considers are men. Men who will leave! I mean, most men leave, but this group of men is actually scheduled to leave. A bus will pull up and haul them off; they risk Leavenworth if they stay behind. There must be a better way than this...a better way to find love or friendship, a better way to lift the burden of loneliness.

Anyway. It's Ryan's last day at Camp Bradley, and Jakie hasn't seen him. At the club that night, last rounds are ordered, and good-byes are said. The place slowly empties, and Jakie is about to lock the doors. She's in the kitchen when she hears it: "For the Good Times" on the jukebox. He's here! She wants to run to him, throw her arms around him, kiss his mouth, laugh, cry...but she doesn't. "Hi!" she says, cheerfully. "Where've you been?"

They go back to the barracks. After the efficient sex, there are tears. She suspects she'll never see him again. "Don't think about it," he says gruffly. But in an effort to protect himself, he hurts her. She yells at him for being insensitive, and then she cries some more. He tries to comfort her ("I'll never forget these past two weeks..."), but he makes it pretty clear that this is it. "He kissed her meaningfully, but with finality." And he's gone.

You know, there's a fine line between what is trite and what is universal. Almost all grownup women will relate to these words: "Everything reminded her of him. How could life go on as usual? How could life go on at all? Nothing would ever be the same. She felt everything with him; now, she didn't want to feel anything ever again." She drives home, and crawls in bed. The end.

Short story: "The Day Aunt Bonnie Didn't Kidnap Me"

My mom and I were spending August with my Aunt Bonnie in Templeton, California, something we’d done for as long as I can remember. Bonnie was braiding my hair as I perched on the kitchen counter in her one-room-above-garage apartment. She was in a chatty mood.

“What’s the best revenge, Suzanne?” she asked.

“Apathy?” I guessed.

“No. Good, but no. It’s the combination of a low BMI and a high degree of spiritual evolution. Without the whiff of religious dogma, of course,” she said.

“You know I’m ten, right?”

Before Bonnie had a chance to ignore my comment and expand on her fascinating thesis, my mom sighed heavily, rose from the couch, and announced that we were heading back to San Diego immediately. I was horrified. We never leave before Labor Day.

“We have another eight days here!” I said, in a voice that was louder and more desperate than I expected. I modulated, to sound more mature, more reasonable. (Bonnie values reason. There are four traits she values, and reason is number one.)

“We made raspberry jam for the farmers’ market tomorrow,” I continued. “That’s why we're braiding my hair. For the picture on the label…” I had tears in my eyes. The sentences had exhausted me. Ten years of living with my mom had exhausted me.

“Why so soon, Claire?” asked Bonnie, moving an inch closer to me and moving her hand to my shoulder.

“I can’t stand it here!” my mom shouted. It was painfully shrill in the small room. She began shoving clothes into a duffel bag, including a couple of Bonnie’s T-shirts. “I’m dying here!” she added melodramatically.

“Does this have anything to do with that guy at the beach last night?” Bonnie asked, leaving my side to retrieve the T-shirts. “The guy with the Dalmatian?”

“No!” shrieked my mom. “This has nothing to do with that ____!” And then she used a word that I won’t repeat, because Bonnie doesn’t like cussing. She says it’s proof of a weak character and an even weaker vocabulary. And those rare times when I say something sarcastic, she calls me a “wiseacre.” Apparently, that used to be a word; it’s even in the dictionary.

“Get your stuff!” my mom yelled in my direction. “Now!” I was still on the counter, my bare legs dangling. I felt dizzy. That night on the beach, after my mom left with the guy and his cute dog, Bonnie and I discussed the summer's theme, which was Assertiveness (another trait valued by Bonnie, and an improvement over the previous summer’s theme, which was 19th-Century British Novels: Do We Love Them or Hate Them?). We even did some role-playing exercises sitting side-by-side on the damp sand, testing my newfound assertiveness skills, probably in an attempt to distract me from my mom’s sudden absence.

Remembering what I’d learned, I hopped off the counter. I stood up straight, feet apart, hands on hips, trying not to cry.

“You go, Mom,” I said, trying to sound casual, even helpful. “I’ll stay with Aunt Bonnie.”

She thought about it (or so I like to think), grabbed the duffel and her purse, and left. Bonnie and I listened to her feet on the stairs, the car door slamming, the tires squealing as she pulled onto the road.

After determining that I didn’t need to talk, cry, or eat ice cream directly from the carton, Bonnie suggested that we get back to work. She took a picture of me, scanned it, and printed labels with the clunky brand-name “Country Girl I Think You’re Pretty” above the picture, and the words “Raspberry Jam” below the picture. We made twenty-four pints, “affixed” the labels (that day’s vocabulary word), and put them in a box for the farmers’ market the next morning.

“Don’t we need to list the ingredients or something?” I asked.

“This isn’t Walmart, sweetheart,” she said. “The rules are different.”

“That different?”

She nodded absentmindedly.

I went to bed early, but Bonnie stayed up making salsa and bone-shaped dog treats and listening to Neil Young on vinyl. I fell asleep in her bed, feeling safe and snug.

***

Months later, when I turned eleven, Bonnie—who home schools me—announced that I was now in junior high and would be required to shower daily in front of thirty strangers. I was puzzled and distressed, but apparently it was a joke. We went to a Mexican restaurant for lunch, and Bonnie presented me with five crisp twenty-dollar bills.

I was in awe, because another trait that Bonnie values is frugality. I half expected her to give me a coupon book for my birthday, with coupons for hugs and brownies and extra school holidays. I wouldn’t have guessed that she had a hundred dollars.

Instead of having a regular job, Bonnie cares for a Labrador retriever (Thomas) while his people (the Woodards, both accountants) are at work (and even when they’re not). In exchange, they let us live above their detached two-car garage. The apartment is a twenty-by-fifteen-foot room, with a wooden staircase running along the outside to the ground. The yard is full of trees, and we get all the avocados, limes, and figs we want (free!). At the bottom of the staircase, there’s room for Bonnie’s blue Honda Civic.

Bonnie claims to require a lot of sitting-around time, but I never see her sitting around. All week long, she makes things to sell at the year-round farmers’ market on Saturdays and Sundays. Well, we make things. And she reminds me frequently that it’s all part of my schooling. She also reminds me frequently that if anyone in uniform—or anyone who “puts off a teacher vibe”—asks, Bonnie is my mother, not my aunt. I asked if honesty is one of the four things she values, and she said that it almost made the cut.

Bonnie calls it home-ec class when we crochet scarves or make jumbo oatmeal cookies with walnuts and figs. She calls it woodworking class when we make buttons from the small branches of manzanita trees. She calls it botany when we transplant aloe vera cuttings into brightly painted terra-cotta pots. My friend Adam attends public school and informed me that: (1) botany is not an elective offered to sixth graders, (2) despite Bonnie’s dire warnings, school is not particularly “mind-numbing” or “treacherous,” and (3) the lunchroom pizza is excellent. Adam’s mom, Heidi, sells cloth diapers and tie-dyed onesies at the farmers’ market and is Bonnie’s only friend, as far as I can tell.

I love weekends. It takes an hour to two to get our stuff to the park and arrange it attractively on card tables, but then we relax and have fun. The people and the dogs are friendly, and most of the farmers hand out free samples (I take full advantage while avoiding gluttony, per Bonnie’s instruction). As things wind down in the late afternoon, we swap our unsold items for fresh fruits and vegetables, wheat bread, and the occasional bracelet made from an old spoon.

Bonnie doesn’t insist that I call her mom, but she prefers that I avoid calling her Bonnie or Aunt Bonnie when strangers are around. We resemble each other. We’re both tall, and take long strides. I have reddish-brown hair, and have lately noticed that Bonnie is coloring and styling her hair to look more like mine. I’m surprised she doesn’t insist that we wear matching outfits in public. She feels things deeply, and the thing she feels most deeply is love for me, and fear of losing me to my mom or to faceless “authorities.” My opinion is that she suffers needlessly.

There’s not a lot of variety in our schedule. We took a short vacation (“an extended field trip”) right after my eleventh birthday when Bonnie made $800 by selling a magazine article called “Passing for Rich: Good Teeth, Good Grammar, Good Manners.” We drove up the California coast and into Oregon. On our way home, in Half Moon Bay, we had lunch at a diner. Bonnie applied lip gloss before entering, and seemed particularly alert the entire time we ate. I’m quite sure she expected Neil Young (who, according to liner notes, owns a ranch in the area) to wander in for coffee, chat us up, and write a song about us. He did not.

The next morning, we went to the aquarium in Monterey, and drove through Steinbeck country. She had me read aloud from “The Moon Is Down” when we stopped for a picnic in Salinas. It was fun.

***

We spend a lot of time together, and Bonnie makes it clear that no question is off-limits. As a result, I know all about my mother and her shortcomings. One afternoon, when we were both bored with my algebra lesson, I asked Bonnie how old she was when I was born.

“I was twenty-one,” she said, “two years older than your mom. Even then, I worried that she lacked devotion.” (It probably goes without saying that Bonnie values devotion.) “When you turned two, she asked me to plan a birthday party, and she asked—as an afterthought—if I’d check with County Health to see if you needed any immunizations.” She shook her head. “You were so dear, Suzanne, so smart. And she was impatient, and easily distracted: by men, by shiny things, by novelty. I thought it would be in your best interest if I pretended that she was a good mom. But now…I don’t know. Maybe I should have kidnapped you. I spoke fluent Spanish; I should have colored my hair—and yours—and pretended to be an undocumented worker. It might have been fun.”

“It's probably not as fun as it looks.”

She shrugged, and looked wistful.

“Where did you learn Spanish?” I asked.

“Some guy,” she said, dismissing further discussion. “Let’s put Spanish on the list for next semester.”

***

Another time, I asked Bonnie about my dad. I knew he was killed in a motorcycle accident when I was a few weeks old. My mom always insisted that he was a great guy (“an amazing musician!”) and very devoted to me (for a few weeks, anyway). I’ve seen a half dozen photos of him, but none in which he’s holding me. I summoned the courage to ask Bonnie if he was, indeed, “a great guy.” Bonnie took a deep breath, looked as if she were in pain, and said, “Your mom has dated worse.” I asked her to tell me his best trait, and after some thought she said he seemed healthy. I asked her to tell me his worst trait, and she said, “A tendency to exceed the speed limit on rainy nights after a few beers with his buddies.”

***

Early one summer evening—after living with Bonnie for about a year—I was on Adam’s front porch, learning to play chess. Adam and I looked up when we heard honking, and Bonnie’s Honda came screaming around the corner. She pulled up onto the curb and shouted for me to get in the car.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed, reaching into the backseat to pet Thomas. “Is Thomas sick?”

“Tell your mom not to worry!” Bonnie hollered to Adam, as we peeled out.

“Why would Heidi worry?” I asked, fastening my seat belt. “Where are we going? Are we kidnapping Thomas? Did someone from the school district call?” Suddenly, I felt like I was going to throw up. I took a deep breath and asked the hard question: “Did an entire family die because we failed to list the ingredients on the jam?”

“No! No!” she said, maneuvering through neighborhoods on our way to a main thoroughfare. “Just a sec...”

A few minutes later, she explained that my grandma—my dad’s mom, whom I don’t recall ever meeting—recently died of lung cancer, and left her house (which was modest, but paid for) to me.

“Well…good,” I said. “Are we going there now?”

“No,” she said. “We’re not.”

I waited.

“Your mom came by, with a man, and the news about the house. When I suggested that the inheritance be used to pay for college, Claire said, ‘That’s one option.’ It went downhill from there.”

“Are they okay?” I asked. “Did you…hurt them?”

Bonnie gave me a strange look. She opened her mouth to speak, and closed it again.

“I know you have a gun taped behind your sewing machine cabinet,” I admitted.

“I didn’t hurt them,” she said. “Do you think I…should have?”

“No! No! I’m glad you didn’t!”

“I told them I’d be right back, with you,” she said. “They wanted me to leave Thomas behind, but I refused. He so enjoys a ride in the car…”

“My mom wants me back, so she can have the money. Right?”

“Yes.” Bonnie handed me a cookie from her purse. “But don’t worry.”

***

We drove for about twenty minutes (east, I think) before pulling into a truck stop. She parked, popped the hatchback, and retrieved the emergency kit (she refers to it as the emergency kit, but I always suspected it was full of craft items). She emptied the contents of the change caddy and the glove compartment into her large purse, and told me she’d be right back…to wait in the car, with Thomas and the emergency kit.

She walked among the big trucks, seeming to look for someone. She finally approached an older guy (good looking, wearing a plaid shirt) and talked to him earnestly. He looked over at me, shook his head, and swung up into the truck. Bonnie struck what she probably thought was a sexy pose, with one hip jutting out, and fluffed her hair with her fingers. I don’t know what she told him, but he seemed to think about it before reluctantly getting down from the truck. Bonnie motioned for me and Thomas to join them.

I walked across the parking lot, the heavy duffel bag in one hand and Thomas’s leash in the other.

“This nice man is giving us a ride, Suzanne,” she said.

“Where are we going, and what’s wrong with the Honda?” I asked.

“I’ll explain later,” she said, taking the duffel bag from me, and attempting to give me a boost up into the truck.

I backed away. Perhaps for the first time (or maybe the second or third time), I doubted Bonnie’s wisdom.

“There will be an Amber Alert,” I said to her. “You know that.”

And the guy climbed into his truck, and shut the door behind him.

***

Bonnie and I stood there in the parking lot. Thomas did a sit (his only trick).

“Bonnie...” I said. “Were you planning to hide us from my mom by pretending to be that stranger’s wife and kid?”

“Yes,” she said wistfully, looking out over the parking lot, at where the truck had been.

“A new life in Georgia or Ohio or someplace?” I asked.

“Florida panhandle,” she answered.

“Ah,” I said.

I took her hand.

“But that’s kidnapping,” I said. “You don’t have to sacrifice everything, Bonnie. You don’t have to go to prison. I’ll be eighteen eventually. And we both know that long before that, my mom will lose interest in me. She’ll get the money from the house, spend it, and then notice that raising a teenage daughter is a huge hassle.”

We walked back to the car.

***

By the time we got home, my mom and her boyfriend were furious.

“I was just about to call the police!” she said.

“I’m sorry we were gone so long,” said Bonnie, faking sincerity. “It’s Suzanne’s time-of-the-month, and we had to go to three stores before we found what we needed.” I was very confused (and embarrassed in a vague way), but my mom seemed to buy the explanation.

“I want you to come home with me, Suzanne,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I miss you,” she said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t give a goddamn what you believe,” she snarled. “We’re leaving in five minutes.”

So I promised to tell any social worker or judge who would listen about the years of physical and mental abuse heaped on me by my very own mother. She turned angrily to Bonnie—probably convinced that this was her idea—but this was all me.

“I did not hit you!” she shouted.

“Yes, you did! Repeatedly!” I said, getting into the lie. I looked at Bonnie, exhilarated.

“You two planned this,” said my mom. “You planned this in the car on the way over here.”

“No, we didn’t! I’ve never told Bonnie about the beatings,” I said, surprised to hear my voice break. Bonnie took me in her arms.

“Why didn’t you tell me, sweetheart?” she whispered, but I knew that she knew it was “useful fibbing” (Bonnie’s term). “I wish you’d told me…”

The discussion confused my mom, who stood there awkwardly as Bonnie murmured reassuringly while stroking my hair.

“A judge will never believe you,” said my mom, but with less certainty. I think she was trying to remember if she had beaten me.

“I think a judge might,” said the boyfriend. “She’s a convincing little bitch.”

I thought Bonnie was going to hit him, or stab him with the kitchen shears.

“Get out,” she said. “Do what you have to do, but get out of our house.”

***

Bonnie and I had a long talk that night while making cloth-bound journals for the farmers’ market.

“I know there are no limits to what you would do to protect me,” I told her. I took a deep breath. “I need there to be a couple of limits.”

“Okay,” she said.

We admired the polka-dot journals. I fetched our cocoa from the microwave, grabbed a treat for Thomas, and put “After the Gold Rush” on the record player.

“I love you,” she said, grinning at me.

"Well, would it kill you to show it every now and then?" I asked.

"Wiseacre," she said.