GEMMA
She’s just pulling the chicken strips out of the oven when she hears a thud from above, so loud the ceiling shakes. She freezes, filling with dread.
PART THREE
RUTH
Ruth’s nibbling on a piece of cheese when her phone rings. GEMMA. She’s pissed, so she lets it go to voicemail. Almost immediately Gemma calls again.
Ruth picks up. “Hey,” she says, doing her best to sound nonchalant, like she hasn’t spent the last couple of weeks fuming over Gemma’s occasional texts.
And Simon, that dick—apparently still very much in the picture. And worse than that? Gemma has chosen to hide it from her, as if she’s some crazy person who would put a hit out on Simon if she found out they were still a couple. She’d never take it that far. She had, however, given some serious thought to hiring a PI to come up with some dirt on him that she could somehow leak to Gemma anonymously. Alas, Ruth suspected there was no dirt. Simon was a decent guy with a hard life. He loved his son and would do anything for him, including accepting a so-called acting job for $30K to lead a stranger on and then break her heart.
He would tell Gemma eventually; the question was when. How much time did she have?
“Ruth!” Gemma cries, and then lets loose an unintelligible string of words. Gemma’s voice is somewhere between a shriek and a sob.
“I can’t understand you, Gemma. Slow down. Speak clearly.”
Gemma rasps, “I’m at Alta Bates with Bee. She tried to hang herself but she’s okay. It didn’t—work.”
What! Bee tried to hang herself? Bee was depressed but Gemma said she was doing much better. What should she say? How should she react to the news? Just act like a normal person. And how would a normal person act? Distraught. Empathetic. Compassionate.
“Are you fucking serious?”
Gemma wails.
“I’m just—so sorry. I—don’t know what to say. Poor Bee. Poor, poor Bee!”
She injects a note of hysteria into her voice, hoping it doesn’t sound contrived. Ruth always becomes strangely robotic when confronted with terrible news. A defense mechanism she’d developed as a response to the shock of her parents’ deaths. She’d never let herself fall to those depths again.
There’s a muffled sound, as if Gemma is covering the phone with her hand.
“But why? Why would she do that? You said she was doing great.”
“She was doing great. I don’t know what happened. Just get over here now please!”
Ruth can’t help herself, she asks, “Is Simon there?” She recoils at the thought of Simon crammed in the hospital room with her and Gemma.
“I don’t want him here. I want you.”
More longed-for words were never spoken.
* * *
Ruth grabs her purse and tucks a sweater into a DON’T WORRY, EAT HAPPY Bon Appetit tote bag.
Marley suddenly appears in the kitchen. Ruth literally jumps. “Stop sneaking around, Marley!”
“I’m not sneaking around, I just came downstairs to find out what you want for dinner.”
“I don’t want anything for dinner.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Gemma needs some help.”
“With what?”
“She just wants my opinion on something.”
Ruth has the sudden urge to bat Marley out of the way. To push her to the ground and trample her. Such is her need to get to Gemma.
* * *
By the time she gets to Alta Bates, Bee has been transferred to the teen psychiatric ward. Who knew there was such a thing? It sounds so after-school specialish.
“She’s on a seventy-two-hour hold,” says Gemma.
Gemma’s face is drained of blood. She will have to be the strong one. Ruth feels euphoric—she’s the winner. When it was a life-and-death situation, she’s the one Gemma called.
“Drink some tea,” urges Ruth.
They’re in the hospital cafeteria. Ruth wanted to see Bee but Gemma said they’d given her a sedative so she could sleep.
Gemma takes a tiny sip of her tea and pushes it away.
“How about something to eat? A muffin?”
Gemma looks past her, her gaze unfocused. Had they given her a sedative as well?
“A jump rope. Green and red striped. The one with the wooden ladybug handles? Marley has one, too. You got them for the girls one Christmas? That’s what she used. She hung it on the ceiling fan.”
“Oh my God,” whispers Ruth.
“She’s tiny, you know, weighs maybe a hundred and ten pounds, she thought the jump rope would hold her weight and it did, until she lost consciousness. Then it snapped and she fell to the floor. The doctors said another four, five minutes and she’d be gone. And what was I doing? I was downstairs, macerating shallots. My baby. She wanted to die, she was dying, and I was chopping vegetables. I’ll never forgive myself for that,” Gemma sobs.
* * *
Gemma unburdens herself of all the details. Discovering Bee on the bedroom floor, gasping for air. Desperately trying to loosen the jump rope while crooning honey, sweetheart, my love, my darling, baby girl, Bee-bee. The scent of her daughter’s freshly washed hair. Her socks patterned with penguins and snowballs. The yellow foam in the corners of her mouth. Her indigo lips.
Ruth takes all these details from Gemma and locks them away in her vault. Gemma is released of her burden. It’s Ruth’s to shoulder now. It’s the least she can do. Ruth is strong. Ruth is a Titan.
She was born for this.
MARLEY
It’s just after nine when her mother comes home. Marley’s watching Love Actually, a movie she knows is terrible but never fails to perk her up. She wants to live in its world of Christmas pageants, middle schoolers who break out and sing like Mariah Carey, Andrew Lincoln before he started killing zombies.
Marley pauses the movie. Her mother pours herself a giant glass of wine and sits down in the Eames chair.
“You won’t believe what’s happened.”
Based on the weirdly intense expression on her mother’s face, Marley treads carefully. “Something good?”
“Good? Marley, look at me. Do I look happy?”
Actually, she does. She looks pumped up. Adrenalized.
“I have some bad news,” her mother says, bowing her head dramatically.
* * *
Her mother just tosses Bee’s suicide attempt to her, the heaviest of blankets, an unbreathable fabric so dense she’ll suffocate from the weight of it, as if it’s nothing.
“Gemma thinks it’s the Prozac,” says her mother. “One of the side effects is suicidal ideation.”
The pupils of her mother’s eyes are so dilated that Marley can barely see her irises. Gemma has no idea about Cam. She never looks at Bee’s social media. She leaves her, literally, to her own devices.
“It wasn’t the Prozac. It was Cam,” she says.
A few beats, and then her mother gives her a vacant look. “What’s Cam?”
Marley opens her app to find his Insta is gone. Deleted. Every comment, every post—every digital trace of him, scrubbed. It’s like he never even existed.
“Well?” says her mother.
“He deleted his account. He’s not here anymore.”
“Who’s not here?”
“Cam. This kid. He and Bee were boyfriend and girlfriend.”
Her mother looks like she’s fighting off a smile. “Did they have sex? Does Gemma know about him?”
Her mother’s questions are irritating and all wrong, little mosquito bites that she’s forced to attend to, to slap out of the way. She’d said “boyfriend and girlfriend” because that was language her mother could understand.
“I doubt Gemma knew about him. They met each other online. He was genuinely nice to her. But then, something must have happened, I don’t know what, and he turned on her. He was just screwing around with her, I guess. And Bee fell for it because she was lonely.”
“Bee was lonely?” her mother s
coffs.
Her mother could be so cold. “Yes, she was, and why is that such a surprise?”
“Okay, Marley, calm down.” Her mother sighs. “This is all so—unexpected.” She actually has the nerve to look put out.
“It’s screwed-up, Mom, completely screwed-up, just say it.”
“I’m not going to say that, Marley. I’m not going to add fuel to the fire. And by the way, I’m not the enemy here. I’m doing everything I can to help Gemma and Bee.”
Ruth gets up and empties her nearly full wineglass into the sink. She walks to the bar cart and stoops, perusing the bottles. “Tequila. Casamigos, perfect. This is George Clooney’s brand, did you know that? Made him billions. Do you want some? Just a little taste? I’d let you. It’s not a normal night. Have a shot with your mom.”
“I don’t want a shot. Bee just tried to hang herself,” Marley growls.
Her mother pours herself a shot, tosses it down, then pours herself another. “With that ladybug jump rope I bought the both of you for Christmas when you were kids. Do you still have yours?” She raises her eyebrows at Marley. “I’m not saying this is Gemma’s fault, but she’s been quite lax. She’s always given Bee too much freedom. It’s unbelievable that she had no idea about this Cam.”
The reality of Bee’s suicide attempt suddenly pierces her. Oh, god, Bee! She was the last person Marley would expect to try and take her own life. Yes, she was lonely. Yes, she was sad. But Bee was strong. She was stubborn and proud. She rarely backed down from anything. Why didn’t she just tell Cam to fuck off?
“We should tell Gemma. Everybody in school knows. Probably all the moms, too.”
Her mother shakes her head. “I don’t think so. At least not tonight. She’s got enough on her plate.”
* * *
Marley’s just turned off her light when she hears a noise in the hallway—a key being inserted in the padlock. The door swings open and her mother stands there in a sheer silk nightgown.
“Marley bear,” her mother says in a choked voice. “Can I sleep with you?”
Marley sighs and pulls back the covers. Her mother climbs into her bed, making nasty, snuffling noises. Marley moves to the edge of the mattress. Her mother snuggles up and spoons her; she can feel her breasts pressing into her back.
“We almost lost Bee,” cries her mother. “I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you.”
A few minutes later, her mother is asleep.
March 15, 11:52 p.m.
Soleil are you there?
I’m here Marley. What’s up? It’s pretty late.
Bee tried to kill herself
What? Oh no Marley! Is she okay?
I think so. I haven’t seen her yet. She’s in the hospital. I feel terrible
I’m so sorry!
I didn’t know things were so bad for her
It’s not your fault Marley, don’t blame yourself
I wasn’t a good enough friend
That’s not true. Not judging by everything you’ve told me. You’re being hard on yourself.
I was jealous of her
That’s okay Marley.
Sometimes I wished I was her. But not now
Ten red hearts, ten yellow hearts, ten purple hearts. Marley are you at home alone?
Mom’s here. In my bed
Oh, is that good? I mean, helpful?
She’s really upset. She went to the hospital and saw Gemma, but not Bee, Bee was sleeping. They gave her a sedative. They gave Bee a sedative, not my mother
So you’re comforting her?
I guess so
And who’s comforting you?
I don’t deserve comfort
Of course you do. Marley it breaks my heart to hear you say that.
Crying face. Rocket ship. Moon
You’re wishing you were somewhere else?
Can you stay with me just a little longer?
Marley?
GEMMA
Gemma lies on the cot in Bee’s hospital room. She’s been up all night. Around 2:00 a.m. she thought about asking the nurse for an Ambien but didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Asking for a sleeping pill given the circumstances seems illicit. She doesn’t want them to think she’s some sort of an addict. She already feels like the staff is judging her, and who could blame them? Her daughter tried to commit suicide. How could a mother be so checked out as to not realize her daughter was hanging from a ceiling fan in her bedroom? What was going on in that home? How had she missed the signs?
But there weren’t any signs to miss! Bee had been not only stable but also really happy. Wait, that was a sign, wasn’t it? She was too happy. Had she been faking it, approximating what happy looked like to set Gemma’s mind at ease?
Bee has a double room, but for now it’s just them. How many suicidal kids do they get? Gemma wonders. One or two a week? One or two a day? Last night the intake nurse outlined what the next three days would look like. They’d already contacted Dr. Baum and she would be here first thing in the morning. After that, there would be visits from a family therapist who would talk to Bee and Gemma both separately and together. Then they would launch right into group therapy. Gemma would attend a parent support group, Bee a teen group session.
After the seventy-two-hour hold, Bee would most likely be able to come home, but she’d have to participate in a six-week step program. She’d need to come back to Alta Bates daily for individual and group therapy. Gemma has no idea how she’s going to handle this with work. Bee’s obviously going to have to take a leave of absence from school.
The good news is that Bee’s out of danger medically. She was one of the lucky ones. Gemma got to her so quickly that she didn’t have to be intubated or put on a ventilator. She hasn’t displayed any symptoms of neurological damage. Her oxygen levels are back to normal and at the moment, she’s asleep. The only overt sign of her suicide attempt is the ligature mark on her neck. Gemma makes a mental note to tell Ruth to bring a scarf when she visits today. If the bruises aren’t hidden Gemma knows her eye will be drawn to Bee’s neck again and again. That ridiculous jump rope with the ladybug handles will be imprinted on her memory forever.
Gemma looks out the window. The sky is slowly brightening to a bluish green. She checks her texts. She was supposed to meet Simon for a drink last night.
Ordered you a Manhattan!
Are you almost here?
Drank your Manhattan.
Gem where are you?
Just tried to call. I’m getting worried.
Please reach out as soon as you get this.
His texts are incomprehensible. Alien. Messages from another planet, another life that no longer belongs to her.
The ordinary world of appetizers and cocktails, boyfriends and Burmese takeout, fretting over the water bill, learning to embrace her love handles has vanished. She and Bee have been cast out of that universe. She can feel herself floating up and away. Before becoming smaller and smaller until finally it’s nothing but a smudge of unidentifiable color. Will there be an after? She doesn’t know. She can’t imagine it. She’s stuck in the eternal now.
She texts, I’m sorry Simon but I need some space. Got a lot going on. I’ll be back in touch soon.
* * *
Gemma goes to the cafeteria to get breakfast. She forces herself to sit there and eat like a normal person, one bite at a time, when what she really wants to do is shove the food down her throat and sprint back to Bee’s room. When she returns to the ward, she runs into Dr. Baum, who has just come from visiting Bee.
“Gemma,” she says, her face suffused with concern and warmth.
Gemma’s eyes start leaking, they let down, exactly the way her milk would let down when she just so much as peeked at a sleeping infant Bee. Uncontrollable, the animal body.
“Dr. Baum,” Gemma says.
“Jennifer, please.”
Gemma hangs her head, the terrible mother, the mother who missed all the signs.
“This is not your fault,” says
Jennifer. “You understand that, right? Nobody is blaming you for this. Nobody.”
Jennifer draws her in for a hug and Gemma stiffens. Is this appropriate? Is Jennifer allowed to hug her? But it feels so good. A benediction. She clings to Jennifer. They cling to each other.
* * *
They move to a private room. A framed Ansel Adams photograph on the wall. A bowl of dusty potpourri.
“I want to taper her off the Prozac,” says Jennifer. “I’d like to put her on a mood stabilizer. Seroquel.”
“A mood stabilizer? Not an antidepressant? I thought she was depressed.”
“She is depressed, but I suspect she’s been having periods of mania, too. Sleepless nights? Pressured speech? Impulsivity?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Yes.”
“I think she’s bipolar.” Jennifer’s bracelets chink. Her tattoos comfort Gemma. I am rooted. But I flow.
“Now, I don’t want you to worry. We can manage this well with medication. It may take a while to get the right med, and we may have to add in another—oftentimes it’s a cocktail that works—but we’ll get Bee back on her feet.”
Gemma nods. She hesitates and then asks, “Do you think it was the Prozac?”
“That triggered the suicide attempt? Possibly. But maybe not. Did something happen? Was she struggling in school? Failing a class? Did she have a fallout with a friend?”
“I don’t think so. She seems to be more popular than ever. Her phone never stops ringing.”
“Mmm,” says Jennifer.
“You think something happened?”
“You’ll have to ask Bee. She didn’t disclose anything to me. I think she’s waiting to tell you.”
The idea of talking to Bee throws Gemma into a panic. Why did she do it?
After Jennifer leaves, she opens her Momonymous app and scrolls through yesterday’s feed.
LoveYouMore: OMG the Cam shit has hit the fan!
WineLuvva: An Instagram boyfriend is not a real boyfriend. I kept telling my DD that.
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