Scrapbook of Secrets Read Online Free PDF

worry,” she said more to Vera than to Bea. “I’ll go get us some coffee.”
    “Hey,” said Bea. “If anything happens to me—”
    But Sheila kept walking. “I won’t hear of it, you old bat.”
    But she caught her daughter’s eye as Sheila walked out. “You know where all my papers are,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    Was that all it had come to? Vera’s stomach churned. Her life, her life with her mother, her mother’s life? A box of paper in a fireproof safe? Hidden in the basement closet? Was she not going to speak to her of love? Of the past? Of her father?
    Her mother’s face suddenly softened, the lines almost fading. “I’m an old fool,” she said. “And where is your father? I cried about the beauty shop. It’s closing.... Things have a way of changing before you know it.... I do love you, Vera, even if you are getting fat.... Ha! My fat little ballerina ... ,” she said, and seemed to fall asleep.
    Vera laughed. “I love you, too, Mama.”
    Vera had made up her mind to stop dieting last year. She decided to become a better role model for her students—and there was just no point in starving herself any longer. She would never be a ballerina. She had been on a diet for more than thirty years—after her dance teacher made a remark about her thighs when Vera was ten years old. Forget her. I am not starving anymore.
    It was so freeing.
     
     
    The first thing she ate—really ate with abandon—was her mother’s blackberry cobbler. Not a piece of cobbler, but the whole thing.
    She sat at her mother’s 1950s chrome-and-turquoise Formica kitchen table set—the same table from which she had eaten almost every meal when she was a girl—and ate a piece while it was still fresh out of the oven.
    “Do you have any vanilla ice cream, Ma?”
    “Huh? Yeah, sure,” answered Beatrice, who was visibly taken aback by her daughter’s sudden love of blackberry cobbler.
    “I have always loved it, Ma,” Vera said, as if reading her mind. “I just was always watching my weight. And I figure, well, what’s the point?”
    Vera then ate a slice covered with vanilla ice cream. Real ice cream—for her mother never bought anything low fat or low carb or low sugar. She almost fainted at the creaminess, the mixture of textures and temperatures in her mouth. The next piece was covered with a dollop of whipped cream, while her mother tried to look busy wiping off a nonexistent crumb from the teal-speckled Formica counter, not wanting to stare at her only child as she seemed to be enjoying a private moment with the cobbler.
    As Vera relished each bite—the mixture of the gritty and gelatinous mingled with sweet, juicy berries, covered with a light but substantial crust—her mother gave up her stance and watched intently. Her mouth hung open after Vera’s fourth piece.
    She handed her the pan. “Here, baby, this is the best way. Have at it,” she said, and left Vera alone with the blackberry cobbler. Later she explained that she felt it was the only proper thing to do.
    After all, Vera had not touched cobbler, pie, or cake since she was ten years old.
    So Vera had put on about twenty pounds. But it was a good gain. She had more breasts and hips and thighs than ever before. And she loved her body. It was hers, and it did everything it was supposed to do, and more. She rewarded it often with good chocolate—preferably fresh and artisanal. She was still a graceful woman and dancer, even with the extra twenty pounds, and she was a happier person.
     
     
    Vera caught a view of her blond hair in the mirror above the sink in her mother’s hospital room. Maybe it’s too blond this time, she thought. But she loved the way it looked with her bright fuchsia lipstick and blue eyeliner. Maybe next time, she’d go red. She loved her red hair with the blue eyeliner. She never left her home unless completely made-up—and then some.
    Sheila could use some color in her hair. Vera tried to sway her for years to go blond or red,