Yes, she’s lonely and so is Bee. Bee has a big friend group and she’s popular, but Bee misses her father terribly. She’s acting out. She longs for structure, for discipline. That was Ash’s job, Gemma was always a pushover. Well, it’s Gemma’s job now.
“She’s your best friend. She’s basically your sister!” yells Gemma. “How could you do this to her?”
How quickly Gemma switches from ragging on Marley to advocating for her. She’s fully aware of her hypocrisy and swears to herself she’ll make it up to Marley. She’ll take her out for lunch, just the two of them.
“She’s not my sister. She was forced on me by you and Ruth. We have nothing in common. We wouldn’t be friends if you hadn’t made us.”
“Wow, just wow. Bee. That is so harsh,” says Gemma, gaping at her daughter, stunned.
* * *
Gemma goes upstairs to her bedroom, shuts the door, and prepares to make amends to Ruth. She always seems to be apologizing to her for one thing or another. Why is that? Is she constantly screwing up or is Ruth just ultrasensitive?
No, she’s screwing up—or Bee is.
She calls Ruth. “I had no idea Bee hadn’t invited her. I’m so sorry. I never would have allowed that to happen.”
“You didn’t know?”
Bad mother. Neglectful mother. “She sent out the Evite herself.”
A moment of silence. “Don’t give it another thought,” says Ruth. “I’m taking Marley to see Mumford and Sons at the Paramount tonight. We’ll have a grand time.”
“You’re sure you’re not mad?”
“Absolutely.”
“And Marley?”
“She’s fine. She’s better than fine.”
“Will you please tell Marley I want to take her to lunch? Just the two of us. It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper catch-up. How about the new ramen place on Grand?”
“She’ll love that.”
“I think Marley’s amazing, you know that, right? I’m sure she’ll be a National Merit Scholar.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“I’m not being kind. I want you to know how much I admire Marley.”
“I know you do. And this is no big deal. The girls are like sisters. Sisters who get sick of each other sometimes. Who fight.” She giggles.
Ruth is not historically a giggler. Her voice sounds funny, loose. Has she been drinking? A glass of wine with lunch? It is a Saturday after all. Then again, every day is a Saturday for Ruth. She doesn’t work. She volunteers at Children’s Hospital, holds the preemies in the NICU, reads to the kids when their parents go home for a quick shower and a clean set of clothes. She also does aerial Pilates and gets her hair highlighted every month. Gemma has never held Ruth’s life of leisure against her. She’s never envied her either. She likes that her days and weeks are structured, that she’s expected somewhere. She feels a bit sorry for Ruth. She can’t imagine not having a purpose.
“Oh, did you get the present I left on the porch?” asks Ruth.
“I completely forgot. I’ll run down now.”
“Hugs,” says Ruth.
“Kisses,” says Gemma.
* * *
Ruth has given Bee a Coach special edition Keith Haring Rogue bag. Sky blue with a cartoonish-looking heart stitched on the front. It’s adorable. Gemma googles it. It costs $450 dollars. This isn’t a gift; this is a bag of stones. A reminder of how undeserving she and Bee are.
* * *
Two days later, at Dozo, the server sets an enormous, steaming bowl of Miso Ramen in front of Gemma. Ground pork belly, shoyu-marinated egg, rapini, leeks, and asparagus. “I’m salivating already,” she says to Marley.
Marley looks at her Meyer Lemon Ramen apprehensively. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to eat all this. I’m sorry. I should have ordered something smaller.”
The few times that Gemma has taken Marley out for a meal, Marley has always ordered something inexpensive, doing her best to keep Gemma’s pocketbook in mind. Gemma appreciates the gesture but would be thrilled if Marley ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. It would give her great joy. It’s the least she can do.
“Just eat what you can, Marls. You can take the leftovers home.”
Marley slurps a few noodles.
“Good?” asks Gemma.
“Delicious.”
Gemma’s not sure where to start. Should she bring up Bee’s birthday? Should she apologize? Ruth said Marley was perfectly fine not being invited. But she doesn’t seem fine.
“How was Mumford and Sons?” asks Gemma.
She’ll talk about the night but not the party, and if Marley wants to go there, she’ll go there, happily. Well, maybe not happily, but she’ll go there. Gemma gazes at Marley and finds herself filled with goodwill for this girl. She knows her face so well. The constellation of freckles across her nose. Her perfectly shaped ears, her prominent chin.
Marley puts down her chopsticks. “My mom made me pull out of the talent show.”
Gemma says, “Oh?”
As an educator, she knows “oh” is the best response to give a child when they say something provocative. It also gives the listener a few seconds to collect herself. To strip her face of emotion. To become a safe, nonjudgmental blank canvas.
“She made me send that text to Bee. I never would have said ‘I’m not feeling it.’ Gross. And now Bee hates me.”
“Sweetheart, she doesn’t hate you. She’s just—very self-involved these days.”
“I don’t blame Bee for dumping me. I smothered her. I sent her like a million texts. I’m sure she was totally annoyed. Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”
Oh, this is unbearable! The haunted look on Marley’s face.
“Yes! Absolutely she will. Just give her a little time.”
“I can’t wait for Christmas to go to my dad’s. I love them. My father. Oscar and Luciana. I know I’m not supposed to but I do.”
“What do you mean you’re not supposed to?” Gemma asks, but she already knows the answer. Years ago, when they’d first met, Ruth had told Gemma her ex, Ed, was a serial cheater. Even when she was pregnant with Marley he’d been screwing around. He was a full-fledged sex addict, apparently. He’d been going to Sex Addicts Anonymous for years.
“He says it’s under control,” she’d told Gemma. “But I feel bad for Luciana. You just can’t shut those kinds of animal urges off. I’m sure he’s cheating. Sometimes I think I should tell Luciana. Woman to woman. She should know, right?”
Gemma counseled her not to.
Ruth has forbidden Marley from talking about her father’s family in her presence. For Marley’s entire life, Ruth’s done nothing but bad-mouth them, to the point where Gemma doesn’t know what’s true anymore. Is Ed a total asshole who cheated on Ruth and abandoned them? Or is the picture a little more nuanced? Gemma suspects it is, but her loyalty is to Ruth. However, she’s not surprised to hear that Marley has had a different experience.
“You’re not betraying your mother by enjoying your time with your father. He’s your family. So are Oscar and Luciana.”
“Sometimes—I just need a break from her,” Marley confesses, looking teary.
“Of course you do. And I’m quite sure Bee would say the same thing about me.”
“Really?”
“Sweetheart, there’s nothing wrong with you. These are completely normal emotions you’re having.”
Marley’s chin wobbles.
Gemma places her hand over Marley’s. “You can always come to me. I’ll always be here for you. I love you, Marley, you know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Marley croaks after a moment. “Yeah, okay.”
* * *
The next day, Gemma and Bee sit in the waiting room of Dr. Jennifer Baum, a psychiatrist.
Bee sighs, rifling through the pages of Time. “It’s two oh five.”
“I’m sure she’ll be right out,” says Gemma.
Gemma wants to get Bee professional
ly evaluated. She’s not sleeping well. Her grades have slipped. Gemma had been chalking it up to hormones, thinking she’d balance out and settle down once she got a little older. Instead she’s gotten worse. Where did her sweet, precocious fireplug go? And who replaced her with this snotty, mean girl? Sometimes Gemma doesn’t even recognize her daughter. She’s tried to keep Bee in check with consequences and straight talk. Fish oil, B-12, probiotics, a gluten-free diet. None of it has worked.
“Don’t you dare tell anybody about this, not even Ruth,” says Bee.
“My lips are sealed. It will be good to talk to somebody. Another adult besides me.”
The office door swings open and Gemma tries to hide her surprise. Dr. Jennifer Baum looks like she just graduated from high school. Multiple ear piercings, tattoos on each of her wrists. Bee sits forward in her chair, struggling to make out the tattoos.
Jennifer extends her arms to Bee. I AM ROOTED is on her left wrist, BUT I FLOW is on her right.
And that’s all it takes. Bee practically skips into Jennifer’s office. Fifty minutes later the door opens.
“Take a seat, Bee,” says Jennifer. “I need to talk with your mom.”
Gemma follows Jennifer into her office. Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay. She sits down on the couch. Jennifer sits next to her.
“Well, I’ll just come out and say it—Bee’s awesome. So spirited. So smart.”
“Really?” says Gemma, her voice cracking.
Jennifer gives her a deeply empathetic look, and Gemma’s throat closes up. She tries not to cry.
Jennifer hands her a box of Kleenex. Gemma grabs a tissue and dabs at her nose. “What did she tell you?”
“I can’t tell you exactly what we spoke about, but I can say I’m confident you have a bright young woman on your hands. She’s got so much potential. Yes, she’s not living up to it right now, but she will. She just needs a little boost.” Jennifer crosses her legs. “I think she’s depressed. Nothing serious. But I think a little Prozac will bring it all together for Bee. I’ve had great results with it, and it’s fast-acting. A lot of girls use it the week before their period for PMS.”
“She’s depressed?” says Gemma. “Is there a reason?”
“My guess is it’s a combination of things. Sort of a triple threat of catalysts. There’s a hormonal element, for sure. She probably also has a genetic disposition for it—she said her uncle had depression?”
Gemma nods. “He’s been on Zoloft for years. What’s the third thing?”
“Losing her father at such a young age.”
Gemma sighs and tears up again.
“But, the good news is she’s a great candidate for medication,” continues Jennifer. “With the right dosage, I feel confident we can get her back on track.”
Gemma feels like they’ve averted a near disaster. Her girl is bright! Yes, a little sad, but sad is good. Sad means you’re alive. Bee’s always been a big feeler. Gemma has a sudden vision of them on a college tour. Ivy-covered walls, brick buildings. Bee turning to her and saying, “This is it, Mom, this is where I want to go.”
“Thank you,” says Gemma. “I’m so relieved. I thought something might be really wrong.”
Jennifer caterpillars her eyebrows. “She’s going to be just fine.”
BEE
Her mother hands her a glass of water and watches her take the orange pill. Will she ask her to stick out her tongue to make sure she’s swallowed it? It’s the same exact color as her mother’s Ambien but round instead of oblong. Every day, Bee counts the Ambiens. Her mother hasn’t taken any in a week. No faucets left on. No empty Eggo boxes on the counter. Her mother’s stressed (mostly because of Bee, and she feels guilty about that), but at least she’s sleeping again. And the best news? Business is picking up at Study Right. Her mother’s back to her regular work schedule: Monday through Friday, and a half-day on Saturday.
“Down the hatch?” her mother asks.
Bee sticks out her tongue and wags it back and forth. She feels like she’s in a movie.
“You don’t need to prove it to me.”
“I was just fooling around. I want to take it. I want to feel better.”
“Well, remember, the change isn’t going to be instant. Dr. Baum said it might not take effect for a couple of weeks or even a month.”
Bee can already feel it working. A tangerine warmth inside her, spreading slowly to her extremities. She’s probably imagining it; the brain was a very persuadable organ, Dr. Baum told her. It wasn’t like you could just wish for something and it would happen. It was more like Don’t put up mental barriers. Choose to believe this will make a difference. That’s what Dr. Baum said.
“I’m excited,” says Bee.
“I am too, honey. I think this is going to be really good for you.”
Bee wonders if her personality will change. Will she become a stranger to herself? Dr. Baum assured her that wouldn’t happen. If the Prozac worked for her, she’d be more fully herself, not weighed down by the depression.
“We should go,” says Bee.
Her mother grabs her briefcase and Tupperware; she always brings leftovers for lunch. They walk out of the house together and her mother casually says, “Don’t you think it’s time to forgive Marley?”
Bee can’t deal. “One thing at a time, Mom. I just found out I’m psycho. Give me a minute.”
“You’re not psycho, you’re depressed. Big difference.”
The car still smells new. Bee connects her phone.
“When you’re feeling better, okay?” says her mother. “Talk to her.”
Bee plays one of her mother’s favorites. Billy Joel’s “And So It Goes.” Her mother hears the opening piano chords and her face crumples.
“Oh, Bee,” she says. Everything unsaid is in her Oh, Bee. Everything they’ve been through together. Their tiny family, just the two of them. They’re okay—they’re going to be okay.
In every heart there is a room. A sanctuary safe and strong.
Bee’s face crumples too. Is this happiness? She hasn’t felt it in such a very long time.
MARLEY
Marley swivels her head in front of the mirror, trying to see how big her ass looks. Huge. Mammoth. She grabs her leg and pinches. Are these what you call thunder thighs? Every time Marley goes by a mirror she thinks, Is this what I look like? She has a sinking feeling her bathroom mirror is a skinny mirror. Will people notice she’s gained weight?
Her mother has certainly noticed. The fridge is filled with fat-free yogurt, cut-up vegetables and fruit. Marley isn’t allowed to cook anymore; instead they have meals delivered by a company called Clean. If she has to eat one more dry chicken breast she will vomit. But vomiting would be good. A few days of vomiting and she’d lose five pounds easy.
She’s hungry all the time and there’s nothing good in the house. Her mother doesn’t buy cookies anymore. Marley’s so desperate for something sweet that she’s been getting up in the middle of the night and eating brown sugar, just stuffing spoonful after spoonful of the crunchy crystals into her mouth. She salivates thinking about the molassesy goodness.
She puts on a new sleeveless blouse. It’s a tunic, designed to skillfully flatter. It works. It hits her at the skinniest part of her legs. Maybe she should cut her bangs. Really short bangs. High school is a time to reinvent yourself after all. Yes, short bangs and snug sweaters (she does have great boobs) and A-line skirts. Fit and flair—that’s the way she should be dressing to accommodate her figure.
Marley’s phone chimes. GEMMA.
How are you doing sweetheart?
Marley sits on her bed and cries. After a while she texts Great!
K. You let me know if you need anything. ANYTHING. Let’s have lunch soon just you and me.
“Marley!” her mother shouts from downstairs. “Time to go to the gym!”
She’s booked them into spin class. They’ll sit next to each other and sweat. At least Marley will sweat—profusely. Her mother wi
ll glance over at her, a look of disdain on her face, signaling to her to wipe her brow, as if Marley isn’t aware she’s sweating. It’s one of the few times Marley can ignore her because the music is earsplittingly loud. Afterward, without fail, her mother will say, “I never knew a person could sweat so much.” As if Marley could control it, like she could control her appetite if she wanted to, it was just a simple matter of desire.
* * *
After spin class, when they get home, Sander’s truck is parked in the driveway.
Marley puts up her hood. She doesn’t want him to see her like this, hair plastered to her scalp with sweat, her leggings damp at the crotch.
Sander is coming down the stairs when they walk in. Marley keeps her distance.
“Hey,” he says, bowing his head. He darts out the door, and Marley wants to die. He won’t even look at her anymore.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she says.
Her mother follows her up the stairs.
* * *
The floor has been swept of wood shavings, but she sees it instantly: Sander has installed a padlock on her bedroom door.
Bewildered, Marley says, “Why is there a padlock on my door?”
“Because you need one. To keep you safe.” Her mother smiles.
“From who? I don’t need to keep anybody out.”
“It’s not for you, it’s for me,” says her mother. “To keep you in.”
Marley gasps. “Why would you need to keep me in?”
“Because you have no willpower.”
Marley shakes her head, not getting it, confusion and alarm coursing through her.
“Every night, you raid the pantry. You think I don’t hear you?”
Called out, Marley feels soft and sludgy as Slime. How she’d loved Slime when she was a girl. The marbled unicorn color.
“You can’t do this. It’s not legal,” she says desperately.
“It’s legal. It’s my house, I can do whatever I want. And it’s not a punishment, Marley, it’s a kindness. You can’t control your appetite so I’m taking control for you. Brown sugar? For God’s sake, Marley, talk about desperation.”
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