Bee whiles away an hour on TikTok, then she spends another hour making her own TikToks, which are decidedly not ready for public consumption. She’s carefully planning her TikTok launch. She needs to figure out a brand for herself. She isn’t cute enough to rely solely on her looks to break out. What she needs is one out-of-the-ordinary talent. Does fantasizing about her future count? Haha. If so, she’d be a top influencer.
Bee goes to her bedroom and strips down to her underwear. She stands in front of the full-size mirror, scrutinizing herself. She’s trying to see how other people see her. To catch a glimpse of the stranger that lives inside her.
She arches her back. Practices her taken by surprise look. She spins, she prances, she bows for her unseen audience. She swells with energy. She is wanted. Coveted. Desired.
She runs out to the living room, puts on Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts” and cranks it.
GEMMA
Gemma gets out of her car. Even from the driveway she can hear the music blaring, the bass so loud the window casements shake. Is Bee having a party?
Yes, she is having a party—by herself. When Gemma walks into the living room she sees Bee dancing ecstatically. Lost in the music. Her eyes closed. Her head tilted back. Arms shot up in the air.
“Bee Howard!” shouts Gemma, trying to be heard over the din.
Bee sees her and gives her a look of sheer joy.
“Mom!” she cries. “Come dance with me!”
Dance with her? Gemma picks up the remote for the iPhone dock and Bee’s face transforms and darkens with rage.
“Nooo!” screams Bee, lunging for her.
Gemma punches the mute button and Bee literally collapses, as if somebody ripped out her backbone.
“Seriously? Must you be so dramatic?” says Gemma.
Bee lies there, unmoving, and Gemma thinks for one terrible moment that she might be dead. Can children have heart attacks? She holds her breath, willing Bee to breathe, and suddenly Bee erupts into weeping, and Gemma runs to her side. Is she on drugs?
“What happened? Did you take something? What did you do?”
Bee shudders. Is she having a seizure?
“Dammit, Bee, are you on something? Tell me!” She pulls Bee into her lap. “Open your eyes, look at me.”
“You ruined it. You ruined the song,” Bee wails.
“Honey, it’s no big deal, I just turned down the music.”
“The song’s gone, you killed it,” sobs Bee. “You killed it.”
American Pie. The day the music died. That’s what Gemma thinks.
Bee’s completely disassembled; she’s incapable of pulling herself together, and finally Gemma forces her into bed, not knowing what else to do. Bee falls asleep and Gemma calls Jennifer Baum. She describes the funk, the way Bee’s sadness burrowed into her, like an alien. It was like watching her be possessed.
“Bring her in. We may have to increase her dosage,” says Jennifer.
RUTH
Ruth steps out into the school hallway. She’s just finished with her last appointment of the day, a kid named Peter Stromboli who’s writing his essay on his struggles with eczema. Beneath his pants, his legs weep. He always carries an extra pair of jeans in his backpack in case he oozes through. He’s got a killer subject. He wants to go to Brown. He’s got the grades and the scores. Hopefully his essay will pull him through the door.
Her phone chimes. Her mom pod.
HappilyEverAfter: It’s November gals! I can’t believe it. The semester’s practically over. What’s everybody doing for Thanksgiving?
TortoiseWinsTheRace: We’re going to San Diego. To my brother’s house. This time we’re staying in a hotel so we can come and go as we please. If my SIL makes my nephew give us yet another cello concert insisting he’s going to be the next Yo-Yo Ma, I’m going to stab her in the eye.
WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: All the tribe is coming here. 18 people this year! I’m thinking of having it catered.
OneWayAtATime: We’re doing the soup kitchen in the morning and the women’s shelter for Thanksgiving dinner.
HappilyEverAfter: You’re such an inspiration OneWayAtATime.
PennySavedPennyEarned: What are your plans HappilyEverAfter?
HappilyEverAfter: My DH made us reservations at Boulevard. I get a year off from cooking. Yay!! And how about you PennySavedPennyEarned?
PennySavedPennyEarned: We’re having a quiet dinner with some old friends. Another mother and her daughter.
HappilyEverAfter: How cozy! How hygge! How Little Women!
TortoiseWinsTheRace: How is it Little Women? Two daughters and two Marmees?
HappilyEverAfter: You know what I mean, stop being so pedantic.
OneWayAtATime: Oh, news flash! I almost forgot to tell you. Gemma has a boyfriend.
HappilyEverAfter: Gemma has a boyfriend?
PennySavedPennyEarned: I heard they’re about to break up. Maybe she’s broken up with him already.
OneWayAtATime: Really? I saw them practically making out at Philz the other day.
“Ruth,” says Bee. “Hi. What are you doing here?”
Ruth tears herself away from her phone. Bee looks unwell. She has purple smudges under her eyes.
“I’ve started a little business. Helping kids with college essays.” Ruth can’t believe Gemma hasn’t told Bee. This is big news.
“How are you doing?” Ruth asks.
Bee shrugs and says, “Sorta low,” and Ruth thinks, What do you have to be down about? You’re popular. You’re skinny. You walk down the hall and people call out your name.
“Well, it’s only ten days until Turkey Day,” says Ruth enthusiastically. She hasn’t heard anything from Gemma about Thanksgiving yet, not one word. She already ordered the honey ham.
“You’re still doing it, right? I mean Gemma is? Thanksgiving at your house?”
“I think so,” says Bee.
“Your mom hasn’t said anything about it?”
“She’s probably just busy and it slipped her mind. SATs are next week. Kids are freaking out.”
“That’s what I thought,” says Ruth. “Well, I’ll just wait to hear from her I guess.”
Was her pod right? WAS Simon still in the picture? Ruth assumed they were over, based on what Gemma had told her during their walk. But what if they’re still a thing? And what if Gemma is going to blow her off to have Thanksgiving with Simon?
“I’ve got to go,” says Ruth. “I have another session.”
“Oh. With who?”
“With whom,” Ruth corrects her. “And I can’t tell you. It’s confidential.” She walks away jauntily, as if she’s a success. As if she’s got a waiting list a hundred kids long.
GEMMA
Gemma texts Ruth an invite to Thanksgiving. You bringing the ham?
She should send a more formal invite but she’s just not up to it. They haven’t done Thanksgiving with the Thornes in years. It was always just the four of them. Gemma remembers now how she’d begun to feel trapped. Once she’d tried to expand, open up the circle.
“Let’s do an orphans’ Thanksgiving,” she’d proposed to Ruth when the girls were in second grade. “Invite some other people.”
Ruth shut it down immediately. “We are not orphans,” she said brusquely.
Gemma protested. “I wasn’t talking about us. I was talking about other people. People who have nowhere else to go.” But it was too late. The word orphan had contaminated the conversation. Orphan, of course, was a loaded word for Ruth. A trigger. How insensitive of Gemma to use it so cavalierly.
The menu had never varied in the past; Ruth was a traditionalist and insisted on the same meal every year. They had turkey and a small ham. Gemma always made roasted carrots, garlic mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts, and acorn squash. There were two pies, one apple, one pumpkin, and hand-beaten whipped cream. God forbid they use whipped cream out of a canister.
Gemma sits on the couch with her laptop and googles Thanksgiving side dishes. Corn pudding! Parker rol
ls! Roasted beets with grapefruit and rosemary! She’ll switch up the menu. That’s what she’ll do.
Gemma yearns to create new rituals. Bee needs that, too, a real change of pace. Gemma’s contemplating the idea of taking Bee home to Derry for Christmas, but she’s worried about Ruth’s reaction. She committed to Aspen weeks ago. How would she even approach Ruth? Did she really have the nerve to back out at this late date?
She asked Simon for his opinion and the shocked look on his face was all the answer she needed.
“Why do you need Ruth’s permission?” he asked.
“Because I owe her.”
“Owe her for what?”
Hmm, let’s see. Resurrecting my business. Saving me from bankruptcy. Buying me a new car. Forgiving my daughter for assaulting her daughter. And that’s just in the past two months; Gemma owes Ruth a huge debt from years ago. Leaky roofs, termite infestations. Plague. Pestilence. Floods. Ruth took care of it all. It’s practically biblical what she owes Ruth.
“Let’s just say she’s been very good to us and leave it at that.”
Simon seemed to be drifting away, but then he returned full of apologies. Gemma had been right. Something had indeed happened to Tom. He wouldn’t give Gemma details but assured her everything was back to normal. Now he replies to her texts within minutes, which Gemma feels guilty about.
“You don’t have to get back to me immediately,” she told him. “You must be crazy busy at your job.”
“You’re my job,” he joked.
Bee walks through the door. There’s a tenderness between Gemma and Bee, as if they’ve both just come back from a war.
“You’re home early,” says Bee.
“My three p.m. canceled. It was the last appointment of the day.”
Bee pours herself a glass of milk. She still loves milk. She’s the only teenage girl Gemma knows who still drinks it.
“So, Ruth was in the library, helping kids with their college essays.”
“Really?” says Gemma, playing dumb. She doesn’t need to tell Bee that was her idea. Let Ruth have her dignity. Let Bee think Ruth came up with the plan all on her own.
“I guess she’s starting a college essay business,” says Bee.
“Huh. Well, that’s a great idea. She does have an English degree. Makes sense.”
Bee drains the rest of her milk and puts the glass in the sink. “She asked about Thanksgiving.”
“I just texted her. She’s bringing the ham.”
Bee nods and picks up her backpack. “Geometry test tomorrow.” She disappears upstairs.
Gemma texts Ruth, Congratulations on starting your new business!!! So happy for you!
Ruth texts back a thumbs-up emoji, an unenthusiastic response that spooks Gemma and makes her wonder if she somehow left her phone on, butt-dialed Ruth, and spoke her thoughts about going to New England for Christmas out loud. She knows that’s ridiculous, she didn’t butt-dial Ruth, and Ruth is not a mind reader, but just in case (and to assuage her guilt) she texts back a string of hearts and wineglasses.
RUTH
An hour before Ruth is expected at Gemma’s house for Thanksgiving, she gets a text.
Hi-ho! Invited Simon for dessert last minute. Tom’s at his mother’s. Simon will be alone. I felt bad for him. Hope that’s okay!
So, they hadn’t broken up and now Simon’s muscled his way into their Thanksgiving. This had probably been Gemma’s plan all along and she’d sprung it on Ruth at the last minute so there’d be no time for her to protest.
* * *
Thanksgiving dinner is the Bee Show. She talks nonstop about her classes, her brand of lychee body wash, the compliments people give her, the boys that flirt with her, the singing lessons she wants to take, tryouts for volleyball, for drama, what does everybody think—can she join the French club even if she isn’t taking French? When somebody tries to introduce another topic, Bee deftly turns the conversation back to herself again and Ruth stews. How dare Bee monopolize everybody’s attention. How dare she hold them all hostage with her stream-of-consciousness verbal diarrhea. She shoots Gemma what is going on with Bee looks, and why the hell aren’t you stopping this looks, but Gemma’s enraptured, hanging on Bee’s every word like she’s a celebrity, ignoring Marley and acting as if Ruth isn’t even there. Finally, Ruth can’t keep quiet any longer.
“Could you just shut the fuck up, Bee?” Ruth shouts. “For one moment do you think you could just zip it? You’re exhausting us. For God’s sake, take a breath.”
“Ruth!” Gemma gives her a look of muted horror.
Nobody says anything after that. They eat the rest of their dinner in silence.
Now the girls are in the kitchen, washing dishes. Ruth and Gemma sit on the couch, archly, primly, two feet between them like strangers.
“I shouldn’t have said that to Bee. I was out of line,” says Ruth.
Gemma whistles a long sigh. “You’re not wrong. She was a total motormouth. I didn’t realize it until you said something.” She flicks a crumb off her sleeve. “I’m worried about her.”
Ruth had to sit through an hour of Bee talking about herself and now she’s going to have to sit through another hour of Gemma talking about Bee? Dear God.
“I’ve taken her to see—” begins Gemma.
The doorbell rings. Gemma’s dour face transforms. “Simon,” she gushes. “Am I good?” Gemma bares her teeth for inspection. She has a speck of pepper lodged between her gum and left canine.
“You’re good.”
Gemma beams at her. “You don’t know how much it means to me that you like Simon so much. That you approve.”
“Yes, well,” says Ruth, unable to finish her sentence for fear of giving her true feelings away.
* * *
Gemma opens the door and Simon steps into the house, a pie in his hands.
“I brought a pecan. I make one every year. It’s my specialty,” he says.
Of course it is. He’s such a fake. Can’t Gemma see that? How has she fallen for this crap?
Simon nods at Ruth. “Nice to see you again, Ruth. Hope I’m not intruding.”
Simon smells faintly of lime and cedar. It reminds Ruth of a perfume her mother used to wear. He’s stolen it, besmirched her sacred memory. She wants to slap the scent off him.
“And where’s Tom?” she asks.
Simon gives a sad smile. “With his mother.”
“Oh, too bad,” says Ruth.
“I’m sorry. I know being without him must be so hard during the holidays,” says Gemma.
And how pray tell does Gemma know that? She’s never had to be without Bee for Thanksgiving or Christmas.
“Maybe you could FaceTime with him. We could all say hello,” Ruth suggests, her voice overly bright, like a kindergarten teacher.
“They’re at a restaurant,” says Simon. “And I suspect the last thing he wants is his old man calling to check up on him.”
“With a group of strangers looking on, no less,” says Gemma, shaking her head at Ruth. “Silly Ruth.”
Ruth hasn’t been called silly in thirty-something years.
* * *
The day gets worse. Marley slides a second piece of Simon’s pie onto her plate. Ruth won’t comment on her overeating in public. It’s such a loaded subject she doesn’t trust what might fly out of her mouth.
“The pecan pie is sooooo goood!” kvells Marley.
Ruth’s piece sits on her plate untouched, the pecans stiff in the hardened corn syrup. She wouldn’t eat it if you offered her a million dollars. She’d been so charmed by Simon when they’d all had dinner together a month ago. She’d let him draw her out. One question led to another led to another. It was intoxicating to be the subject of such intense attention. She senses him studying her from across the table. Trying to figure out how to break through to her once again. She won’t make it easy for him this time.
Bee isn’t making it easy for her either. She stares past Ruth, giving her the silent treatment while Marl
ey continues to shovel it in, daring her to say something, and Gemma gazes at Simon, starstruck.
* * *
“Black Friday,” Ruth says to Marley the day after Thanksgiving. “I’m hitting the mall.”
Ruth knows that Marley knows she’s lying. She’d never descend upon the stores with the masses. Ruth prefers to shop on weekdays, when the stores are empty.
“Sounds like fun,” Marley says.
Committed, Ruth keeps up her charade. “Do you want to come?”
“Um—no thanks, I’m good.”
* * *
Ruth pulls up to a yellow house on the corner of Thirty-Eighth and Iverson. She powers down the Tesla. Her car screams ROB ME; she should have Ubered. She walks across the lawn, or what passes for a lawn. It’s brown—no drip systems in this neighborhood.
The house is a duplex. She knocks on number 201.
She hears footsteps. She takes a step back on the porch, suddenly frightened. What was she thinking, coming here unannounced?
The door swings open. Simon glares at her. “What the fuck, Ruth.”
She glares right back at him. “What the fuck, Simon. You were supposed to break up with Gemma weeks ago.”
* * *
The Craigslist ad read:
Seeking male actor for role of X-ray technician/single dad. Must be over six feet. Age 35 to 50. You are fit, handsome, charming, funny, educated, and erudite. If you have to look up the definition of erudite you need not apply. Pay: EXCELLENT if you meet all the qualifications.
Ruth held auditions at an El Cerrito McDonald’s. The response to her ad was—puzzling. Had people even bothered to read it? Men who were barely five feet tall and three hundred pounds showed up. There was a seventy-two-year-old retired dentist with a raging case of halitosis; a twenty-four-year-old skateboarder who spent nearly forty-five minutes trying to convince her he was thirty-five; a pair of identical twins who were Jeffrey Dahmer doppelgängers, wire rim glasses and all.
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