SOPHIE NUNBERG
Because I Am Her Favorite
Because I am my Mamie’s favorite, I am the only one she can stand speaking to on the phone for more than ten minutes. Even though my parents have to remind me, I still call at least once a week. She is the only grandparent I can call, anyway.
Because I am her favorite, the security code to her apartment is my birthday and I’m always allowed to sit in the front seat. My cousins tell me it’s all just because I’m the oldest but I know better.
Because I am her favorite, I spend all of my summers with her. I am given 300 francs as allowance but my cousins only get 150. They try and tell me it’s because I’m the only one who lives in America, because I’m the only girl. It doesn’t matter. We all spend our francs the same, on gummies shaped like soda, sugar encrusted worms and carambar whose caramel sticks and sticks to the back of your teeth.
Because I am her favorite, she always lets me use the good linens, the woven towels reserved for guests. I remember to hang them after every use, unlike my cousins. She teaches me how to iron them perfectly, how to triangularly fold the plastic bags you get when running errands. She knows how to get out any stain from anything, especially if it involves red wine. She teaches me her tricks so that one day my house can be like hers.
Because I am her favorite, at least three times a month, she mails me newspaper clippings with handwritten notes. Sometimes, she sends me hair accessories or the same special red nail polish she uses.
Because I am her favorite, I am the only grandchild with a curfew. She always waits up for me, even if the sun gets there first, even once I am nearing 30. She is always in a dressing gown, ones that wipe the tops of her feet. Her peppered hair is perfectly organized in a mismatch of red, blue and green curlers. Sometimes, I think I should feel guilty but I am the only one she waits for.
* * *
Because I am her favorite, she puts me on a diet the summer after the first grade.
Because I am her favorite, once she learns how I spend my money, she takes it away. I am given unflavored yogurts for snack-time to be sweetened with synthetic sugar. At the end of the summer, she announces to the dinner table that I’ve lost six kilos.
Because I am her favorite, I set the table for every meal in the summertime. She’s shown me where every glass goes, every knife and fork. At dinner, I sit closest to the kitchen door to refill bread baskets and carafes of water.
Because I am her favorite, I am the only one allowed to help in the kitchen. Summer after summer, she complains that I am in the way, every way. I know I take up too much room but there isn’t anyone else.
Because I am her favorite, I am never allowed a second serving, especially bread. I am never allowed a piece of the tarte tatin whose crisp apples I cored, peeled and helped her slice this afternoon while my cousins swam at the river.
Because I am her favorite, when I go to wash the dishes, the kitchen still smells like caramel base I made. I will not press a dampened finger into the sweet, flaky residue of baked apples and compote left in the pan. I will cover it in soap.
Because I am her favorite, at fourteen, I will tell my parents I don’t want to spend summers with her. But there is nowhere else for me to go. When I arrive, she tells me she has arranged a surprise for me: un endroit pour les filles with bodies like mine. She taps my tummy reproachfully. I don’t get angry, I don’t cry but I also don’t go.
Because I am her favorite, I do cry but in the safety of the shower, with a towel shoved under the door and the sink running. I sit until the tears are gone and the water pelting my back runs ice cold.
Because I am her favorite, I am not allowed to drink. Not juices or sodas, even the diet kinds. I still drink, especially sodas. I know it’s bad for me but I don’t care and she doesn’t notice. Once I’m older, I’ll be the only one who can drink from her liquor cabinet. My cousins get locked out because they take the good stuff. She is absent-minded and she asks me to hide the key.
Because I am her favorite, I know she won’t notice the dips in her Pastis. At night, I take hunks of baguettes—already stale though born only this morning—and drink. I’ve earned this.
Because I am her favorite, she takes me out for dinner on my eighteenth birthday. There are more servers than patrons, each napkin so crisp and clean that this must be its first and last meal. That night, she presents me with her engagement ring. It’s all mine, she says, if I lose 45 kilos.
Because I am her favorite, I don’t lose the weight, I never lose the weight.
* * *
Because I am her favorite, I quit my job in the suburbs of Chicago after she broke her hip on her eightieth birthday. It was a crap job anyway, a start-up with benefits described only in the future tense.
Because I am her favorite, I pack and unpack her suitcase for the hospital each day for three months. I pack her favorite shoes, clip-on earrings and that one red lipstick she always wears. I double-check to bring extra wool sweaters and blankets because she still runs cold even in this unusually sweltering summer. She is the only woman in France who benefits from a country that doesn’t believe in air conditioning.
Because I am her favorite, I sneak her a croissant every morning. I buy three from the boulanger around the corner from her apartment. Even when she doesn’t finish or has no appetite, she would never share her croissants with me. I eat one (or two) on my metro ride to the hospital. Before I go into her room at the hospital, I carefully brush off any crumbs.
Because I am her favorite, I move back to the Midwest immediately after she’s sent back home.
* * *
Because I am her favorite, when I visit the next time, I ask if we can visit my grandfather too. We buy flowers, spending more time with the florist than we do at his grave. She walks with a cane but not the one I bought for her, not the one with the one whose material resembles marble, not the one with the gold-plated handle. Inside this block are the bodies of my grandfather, my great-grandmother and my great-grandfather. There is one spot left.
Because I am her favorite, I use all my vacation days to visit for her 90th birthday. I am the only one allowed to stay with her in her apartment, the rest of the family is scattered across the city in hotels. We are waiting for guests to arrive. She sits me down in the formal living room. Everything is pristine and unchanged except her. Her skin is like wet tissues and I can see her scalp through her perfectly curled, white hair. She’s missed a spot on her upper lip with her Guerlain lipstick and her gold clip-on earrings tug too heavily at her lobes.
“Because you are my préférée,” she says, “Promets-moi!” Promise me. I know you’ve been sneaking snacks, eating at all hours of the night. Your face is so bloated. Promets-moi you’ll stop drinking soda, any alcohol too. No more sweets. Every time I see you, you’ve gained more and more weight. You are breaking my heart. Think of me.
Sophie Nunberg is a fog-baby, born and raised in San Francisco, California. Half-French, Half-America, half-Jewish, her writing often explores her own feeling of outsiderdom within her cultures. When not writing about herself, she often writes about, as a friend put it, “creeps.” Her flash fiction has been printed in anthologies, made into installation art and published online by Neutral Spaces.