Elle now wished she could throw up—it would be such an effective way to counteract the binging. But it wouldn’t work; Elle had tried making herself vomit many times before after overeating and could never quite bring herself to do it. She understood why so many of her friends took their kid’s Adderall. How blissful to never feel hungry. It was probably a good thing Four didn’t suffer from ADHD, Elle wasn’t sure she’d have the self-control necessary to avoid taking his pills.
Always petite and curvy, Elle remembered the exact moment when she had become concerned about her weight. It was shortly after she had started dating Win. He was retiring from the Navy, and she had accompanied him to Nordstrom to purchase clothes for his first civilian job. After looking around separately, Elle had approached Win with some ties she had picked out. He had responded by affectionately putting his arm around her—she didn’t recoil from his touch back then—and kissing her on top of the head.
There had been a preternaturally pretty, slim, and long-legged salesgirl helping Win. The kind of girl guys would turn their heads to look at again. When it registered with the salesgirl that the very good-looking man she had been helping and trying to flirt with was with Elle, a look of surprise had passed over her face. The look had been subtle and ever so brief. Most people, lacking Elle’s acute ability to read others, wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But Elle had seen it and recognized what it implied. “He’s with her? That can’t be. He should be with someone like me.”
Once again, Elle was Not Good Enough. She was the girl in the school cafeteria who couldn’t afford lunch.
Elle was humiliated but refused to feel less than. It became another challenge. She couldn’t change her physical attributes, but she could do more. Get rid of the platinum hair and bright lipstick, to start with. Outside of Japan, their stark shades seemed too brash. And then there was her weight—she could control that, and maybe she was a little chubby. So began the dieting, the obsessive calorie counting and weighing in. Within a month, she had lost ten pounds. By the time she was married six months later, Elle had gone from a healthy and curvy 125 pounds to a 1994-Kate Moss-like heroin-chic 100 pounds.
Win didn’t seem to care or notice one way or the other how much she weighed, but Elle loved being so thin. She enjoyed the feeling of going to bed hungry. She was empowered, strong from her self-control. Hungry, but like the little girl on the swing set, it was on her own terms.
Shutting the dishwasher, Elle was annoyed with Angela. Why had she made the enchiladas? Elle hadn’t asked her to. If the enchiladas hadn’t been in the fridge, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Elle really wouldn’t be able to sleep now. She should have taken an Ambien right away when she couldn’t fall asleep. She had debated it, but she only had three pills left and couldn’t possibly ask her doctor for a refill yet—he had warned her the last time that she was relying on the Ambien too much. She needed to save her limited supply for the trip to Tokyo.
Tokyo! Win’s stupid business trip to Japan was a driving force behind Elle’s inability to sleep in the first place. And there was no getting out of it. Win was so excited, so sure she would welcome the opportunity to return. And why shouldn’t he feel that way? Elle had spent the past twenty years painting a rosy picture of her life in Japan. She had been an English teacher at a fabulous school with fabulous students. It had been great fun. She had loved it. Elle had told this version of her story so many times, she had almost begun to believe it herself.
How could she return to Tokyo without acknowledging the truth?
Elle leaned over and rubbed Duke’s ears. Ever loyal, he had followed her from the bedroom into the kitchen. God, how she loved that dog. If only everything in Elle’s life could be as uncomplicated as her relationship with him. Never mind what you wear or how you look. Forget your demons, your past mistakes. Take care of me, and I will love you back unconditionally. What a concept.
Duke nuzzled next to Elle’s leg and licked her bare knee. She had put on an old T-shirt of Win’s to wear to bed. She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed to be the right thing to do, like maybe by wearing her husband’s clothes she would feel closer to him. Elle really was trying. Maybe she should start wearing sexy lingerie again. Would Win notice?
Sexy lingerie reminded Elle of her old friend Mitch. He would be disappointed to learn that after years of seductive Cosabella bikini briefs and racy animal-print G-strings, Elle had reverted to the large white cotton panties she had worn when they first met. Who could blame her? They were more comfortable and way more practical—no need for all that hand-washing. And besides, no one wanted to see her big, fat, cellulite-ridden butt in a thong, anyway.
Thinking of Mitch made Elle smile. He was one happy memory of Japan, maybe the only part of her life in Tokyo she cared to remember.
Elle looked into Duke’s eyes as she scratched behind his ears. Mitch had been her Duke in Tokyo, the one person who understood and accepted her without question. Her confidante. Her playmate. Her best friend. Even his name suggested a symmetry between them—Mitchell: Mitch and Elle, two parts who together made a whole.
What would Mitch think of me now?
He would be horrified—and not just by the underwear she wore. They had made a habit of making fun of people just like the one she had become: a housewife with two kids who waxed poetic about her dog. Elle might not drive a minivan or wear mom jeans, but she couldn’t deny her willing entrance into all the other banalities of her ordinary life: the McMansion, the $50 goodie bags for each attendee at her child’s fifth birthday party, the requisite white-polo-and-khaki-shorts family beach picture, the $3,500 Christmas lights installations . . . the blah-blah, blah-blah, blah. She could vomit them all. Each and every last blah, blah, blah.
No, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The two of them were different. They were going to go to Europe and do great things. The Mitch and Elle’s Adventure Jar had almost $10,000 in it when she left Tokyo—an enormous sum to her back then. Elle hoped Mitch had taken the money and gone on the Grand Adventure they had planned together. She hoped he was doing something fabulous. One of them should be.
Elle regretted that she had lost touch with Mitch. Although not in contact, she thought of him often over the years: when watching Friends—he would have insisted she get the Rachel haircut; when new U2 music was released—they would have joyously dissected each song; when Wayne’s World was replayed on cable; and even while at the grocery store—Mitch would have despised self-serve check-out lanes in supermarkets just as much as she did. Really, who wanted to bother with typing in the code for bananas?
It was during headier moments, though, that Elle most keenly felt Mitch’s absence. He was the man meant to give her away on her wedding day and the Godfather her children should have had. He was the first person she worried about on 9/11, frantically looking through the list of those who perished, terrified she would find his name.
If only Elle had been able to say good-bye to him . . .
Was it possible Mitch was still living in Tokyo? The thought of seeing him again would at least give her something to look forward to regarding Japan.
Yes, that’s it. Instead of worrying, Elle would focus on the possibility of reuniting with her best friend. Forget about the enchiladas, she was on a mission now. With Duke in tow, Elle made her way into her office. She turned on the lights, sat down at her desk, and typed “Mitchell Carpenter” into the Google search screen.
A long list of names came up—a dentist, a CPA, and a noted historian—but nothing about the Mitchell Carpenter she was looking for; the creative, smart, funny boy. The one who was going to Do Things. Elle typed in “Mitchell Carpenter Japan” and “Mitchell Carpenter English teacher” with no luck. Refusing to give up hope, she tried “Wayne Carpenter” and even “Wayne Mitchell Carpenter.” Still nothing.
Out of curiosity, Elle Googled herself. A little to her surprise, a long list of items came up: articles highlighting her philanthropic work, nods in s
ociety columns, pictures from charity events. Elle cringed at one particularly unflattering photo. She looked old. Really old. Where did all those wrinkles on her forehead come from? And the bags under her eyes—yikes! They weren’t your dainty bathroom-trash-can-type bags. No, they were Hefty strong sacks, the ones designed for heavy yard work. Elle needed more Botox and maybe even some Restylane. She would make an appointment with her aesthetician in the morning. Brynnie wouldn’t notice, Elle would be conservative. It’s not like she wanted plumped-up duck lips.
It bothered Elle that she had no control over the unflattering photo being out there for the world to see; modern technology wasn’t always such a good thing. Sure, if texting had existed in 1994 she wouldn’t have lost contact with Mitch, but if there had been cell phones with cameras back then, Elle would be in trouble. She had, after all, gone through a phase of drunkenly mooning people. How would that play out now? The ass of the wife of Win Martin, CEO of Martin Global, all over the internet?
No, Elle was lucky. It was best there was no record of her life in Tokyo.
Elle considered Thatcher’s poor judgement and subsequent suspension. It had come out that he had Snapchatted Jacinda a picture of two unwrapped Hershey’s kisses, compared them to her “milky brown” breasts, and told her how much he wanted to lick them. Thatcher had bragged about how funny it was to anyone who would listen. Not seeing the humor in story, another student had called Safe2Tell and reported it.
At first, Elle had retained a bit of sympathy for Thatcher. His Snapchat was completely inappropriate and he should absolutely take responsibility for his actions and accept the consequences. But still, weren’t young people supposed to make mistakes? Wasn’t that part of the process of growing up? Hadn’t Elle been equally as stupid when she was young? Mooning people? Like that was smart?
The difference was, Elle had learned from her mistakes.
This wasn’t the case with Thatcher. His parents had been conspicuous in their absence from the lacrosse game, their anger and pride outweighing support for their son’s close friends and teammates. Instead, Thatcher’s father, Arthur, drafted a threatening letter to Country Day from the highly-esteemed law firm where he was a partner. He argued Thatcher had done absolutely nothing wrong. As proof, he offered signed statements from both Jacinda and her mom indicating they were not offended by Thatcher’s comments. Quite the contrary, they understood unequivocally that the entire conversation was a joke the two students were both in on.
Arthur went on to contend that culpability for the incident fell with Country Day. The Snapchat had been sent during lunch on school grounds—the Country Day staff had not lived up to its responsibilities in providing a cell-phone-free environment. It was the school’s fault Thatcher had been allowed to use his phone. He was the real victim. Country Day had failed Thatcher and the punishment was unfair; he had earned the right to play in the state championship game.
Elle was appalled by this reaction. The signed statements were a travesty. Jacinda was the first person in her family to attend high school, let alone be on a full-ride scholarship to a school as prestigious as Country Day. Her mom was an immigrant from Mexico and didn’t have full command of the English language. Country Day was Jacinda’s golden ticket. Of course she and her mom would sign anything to make the situation go away.
Worse was Arthur’s flagrant disregard for his son’s responsibility in what had happened. His steadfast refusal to acknowledge that Thatcher had acted inappropriately and that this was an opportunity for self-reflection and growth was insulting. Rather than consider the effects of his son’s actions on a sixteen-year-old young woman, Arthur chose to be defensive and indignant—it was all about Thatcher and how hurt he had been.
The only life lesson Thatcher was going to get was affirmation that he was free to behave badly. Nothing would be his fault. His dad would make sure of that.
At least Elle had accepted responsibility for her past mistakes; she had changed—or had she?
Elle looked back at the computer screen. How could there be so much information available about her yet nothing about Mitch? It didn’t make sense. He was so outgoing, so determined. He had plans.
A Google search was the limit of Elle’s technological sophistication. She wasn’t interested in social media. She didn’t have a Facebook page and wasn’t on Instagram or Twitter. She didn’t “pin” things, Skype, or understand what it meant to be on fleek.
Elle also failed to see the point of Snapchat. It seemed incredibly narcissistic. “Here I am at the kitchen table doing homework!” ‘Here I am driving in the car with my mom!” Who cares? Elle didn’t get it but figured it was a generational thing. Her own mom had never understood Elle’s excitement over finally getting an answering machine. Or call waiting, for that matter.
In any case, notwithstanding Mitch, Elle was in contact with everyone from her past she wanted to be. If she wasn’t in touch with someone, it was for a reason. She didn’t welcome the idea of some unwanted person from her past suddenly showing up in her life. Maybe Mitch felt the same way. How else could it be that Mitchell Carpenter seemed to no longer exist?
Elle would ask Brynnie to search for him on Facebook in the morning. Maybe she would have more luck. Were there any other ways she could track Mitch down? Elle decided it might be worth going through some of her things from the time she lived in Japan. She left her office and walked down the basement stairs with Duke trailing behind.
It was cold in the basement. Elle shivered as she entered the storage room. Behind their Christmas decorations, some old paintings, and Win’s comic book collection, Elle found what she was looking for: a cardboard box with the words “Elle—high school/college/Japan” written across the side with a black sharpie pen in her neat elementary school teacher-like handwriting. Everything she had brought to her marriage was in this container.
As it was at the bottom of a stack of old tax returns and financial documents, it took considerable effort for Elle to get to the box. By the time she sat down to go through its contents, she had warmed up. She dusted off the box and began her search.
At first, Elle was surprised by how little there was to go through, but then she remembered how she had been forced to leave Tokyo in such a hurry, she hadn’t had time to pack. Two years of her life was reduced to little more than a subway pass, some Japanese coins, and a stack of photos.
Elle looked through the pictures. They had been taken at a birthday party for one of her previous students at English First. Elle’s face appeared fuller in youth than it was now. (Or was it just bloated from all her heavy drinking?) She was wearing a bright turquoise silk blouse with large shoulder pads, and her platinum-blonde bangs were teased up straight with hair spray. She wore bright red lipstick and blue mascara. Elle shook her head in disbelief. She couldn’t believe she had thought this was a good look.
Mitch was also in most of the pictures. He wore a leather jacket and, like Elle, had a fair amount of product in his New Wave-styled hair. Elle had forgotten how handsome he was. And funny. You could see a sparkly mischievousness in his eyes.
Elle was fond of looking at pictures and dissecting the subtext—the clearly fake smiles, the body language which hinted at people’s true feelings. In all the photos from the party, she was smiling and comfortably leaning into Mitch, who had his arm around her. They looked like a couple, relaxed and at ease with each other. As ridiculous as she looked, at least Elle had been happy then.
Given the chance, what would Elle say to the girl in the photo? What would the girl in the photo say to her adult self? To the person she had become?
Elle didn’t want to think about it.
Although it had been fun to see the pictures, she was discouraged there wasn’t anything more in the box that might help her find Mitch. As Elle carefully returned the photos, she noticed something white and scrunched up toward the side of the box. Taking it out, she laughed. It was a purse in the shape of a Hello Kitty head. Had she really carried that around? I
t was worse than the blue mascara!
Elle looked inside the purse. There was a red butterfly hair clip, round red plastic earrings, and a tube of bright red lipstick. She remembered how, in the early nineties, she had thought it looked good to be matchy-matchy—to have your earrings match your purse, and your headband, and your belt, and your shoes. Ugh. What was I thinking?
Inside the purse, Elle also found a box of matches and a nearly empty pack of Camel Lights. That she smoked while living in Japan was another detail Elle had conveniently chosen to forget. Finally, there was the key to the tiny apartment in Shinjuku she had lived in with Mitch. Elle rubbed her fingers across it. It probably wouldn’t help her search—it seemed highly unlikely Mitch still lived there—but she was pleased to have found it. It was a tangible reminder of Mitch and brought back happy memories of all the fun they had had together in the apartment.
Elle put the key next to her on the floor and returned everything else to the purse. She felt something hard in the small zipped pocket inside; it seemed about the same size and shape as a tampon. She opened the zipper and pulled out a clear plastic tube. Elle looked at it, confused.
Then she remembered.
The disturbing taste of metal in her mouth returned. Duke sensed something was wrong and started licking her arm. It didn’t help her feel better. Nothing would.
How could Elle go back to Tokyo? She didn’t want to confront this past. It didn’t matter that she had only three Ambien left—Elle would take one. She had to. Otherwise she’d never sleep that night.
Chapter Nineteen
fun.: “Some Nights”
April 28, 1994
8:50 p.m.
What the fuck? Am I seriously being fired from another job?
“I think better you go,” Mae-san was staid, speaking calmly and without emotion.
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