Mrs. Everything

by Jennifer Weiner

  “Sounds good,” said Jo as the woman came back, holding a telegram with Jo’s name typed on the front. Jo’s heart was in her throat as she unfolded it. EMERGENCY COME HOME NOW YOUR SISTER NEEDS YOU, it said. Jo leaned on the counter, staring at the words, and she must have made some noise, because Gina was there, patting her back, saying, “Breathe. Don’t worry. We’ll figure out how to get you home.”

  Bethie

  For the first week after she came back from Rhode Island, she felt so sick and sad, so used and dirty, that she could barely find the strength to leave her bedroom. Because she realized she’d have to say something, she told Sarah she’d been mugged at the folk festival. Sarah had sniffed, muttering under her breath about how she wasn’t surprised. “And that boyfriend of yours?” Sarah asked, standing in the bedroom’s doorway. She knew who Devon was, had even met him once, on campus, at Jo’s graduation, but she’d never said his name out loud. Bethie wasn’t sure what part of him she found the most objectionable: his age, his religion, or the way he so obviously lacked anything that could be called a job.

  “We broke up,” Bethie said, in a tone she hoped would preclude additional questions. By the time she’d made it back to the van, the sun was coming up, and Devon was looking at her like she was toilet paper stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe. She’d tried to explain what had happened—the bad trip, the boys in the trees, and what they’d done to her—but the only part of it Devon seemed to understand was that she’d been with someone else that night. He’d been cold to her the whole way home, dropping her off at her rented room without a kiss, or a word of goodbye. Bethie knew, without having to be told, that she wasn’t his girl any longer. She’d packed up her things and slunk back home to Alhambra Street.

  “Well. Finally, some good news.” Bethie had curled back onto the bed, her eyes closed. That was Sarah’s cue to leave, but she didn’t take the hint.

  “You can’t just stay here and do nothing for the rest of the summer,” she finally said.

  “Just let me rest,” Bethie begged.

  “I can ask at Hudson’s—”

  “Mom,” said Bethie. “Please. Just give me a few days to get myself together.”

  Sarah had grumbled, but she’d finally agreed, and Bethie had dragged herself under the covers like a wounded animal returning to its den. She felt feverish. Her head ached constantly, and it burned when she peed. I’m just tired, she told herself, just worn down, but the pain kept getting worse. Eventually, she was forced to call her old pediatrician, Dr. Sachs, after her mother had left for work. “I think I have an infection,” she whispered to the receptionist, who said that Doctor could squeeze her in that afternoon. Bethie took the bus to his office, took off her clothes and put on a gown, and lay on her back on a narrow, padded table covered with crinkling white paper. Cartoons of Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck and Goofy cavorted on the walls. A glass jar of lollipops stood by the sink, for good little boys and girls who were brave when they’d gotten their shots. Not too long ago, Bethie had been one of them herself.

  “Hello, hello!” said Dr. Sachs, bustling into the room. He was short and pink, with a head bald and shiny as a peeled egg. He’d tended to Bethie and Jo since they were little girls, treating their chicken pox and their ear infections. Bethie felt almost sick with shame as she whispered her symptoms. The doctor’s face became carefully neutral as he listened. “I’m going to do an exam,” he said, calling the nurse into the room before showing Bethie how to put her feet into the metal stirrups and let her knees fall open. Bethie squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to feel or hear.

  “We should wait until that comes back,” the doctor said. His voice was sympathetic but detached. “But, my dear, I’m about ninety-nine percent certain that you have gonorrhea.”

  Bethie lowered her eyes. Her face was burning.

  “It’s lucky we caught it,” Dr. Sachs said. “For women, where it goes undiagnosed, it can cause all kinds of trouble. You could end up sterile.”

  The word, and the thought that followed it, struck Bethie like a fist hitting her midsection. She bit her lip to keep from gasping, and she counted backward, sorting through the dates, trying to remember the last time she’d gotten her period.

  “Doctor,” Bethie managed to whisper, “what if . . .”

  Dr. Sachs must have followed the progression of her thoughts. He backed toward the door, one hand holding her chart, the other aloft. “I’ll call you when we have the results,” he said. “I’ll prescribe a course of antibiotics. I’ll call them right into the pharmacy for you to pick up. You should be fine,” he said, and managed a smile before vanishing. The raised hand, the haste of his exit, filled in the rest of the blanks: Don’t ask me to help you. I won’t do it.

  Back at home, Bethie huddled on her bed, knees pulled up to her chest, rocking as she finally let herself consider the symptoms she’d been trying to ignore. Her breasts were tender, she’d thrown up two mornings in a row, and the last period she could remember had been almost three months ago. She’d have to find a way to learn for sure if she was pregnant or not. If she was, there was no way she could stay that way, no way she could convince Devon to marry her, even if she was one hundred percent certain that the baby was his. She needed to end this, to get this thing out of her, and for that she’d need money. Money and a name.

  Dev would know someone, but when she called his apartment in Ann Arbor, the phone just rang and rang. She called Marjorie Bronfman at school and at home in Plymouth. “I think Dev went back to that farm.” Marjorie’s voice was somber and respectful. She knew that Bethie and Dev had broken up, even if she didn’t know why.

  “Do you have a phone number?” Bethie asked.

  “I don’t think they’ve got a phone there,” Marjorie said, and Bethie squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the stained walls, the holes in the floorboards, the filthy little toddler, and groaned.

  “I really need to talk to him.”

  “I wish I could help, kiddo.”

  “You could,” Bethie began. She was trying to remember what Marjorie had told her about her life before college, if she came from money, if she’d have any connections. “Listen,” she said. “Do you know anyone who helps . . . you know . . . girls in trouble?”

  “Oh, Bethie.” Marjorie’s voice was low. “Oh, jeez. I can ask around,” she said. “Do you ride horseback? I have a friend who has a friend who was in trouble. She rode a really wild horse, and let herself get thrown. I guess that did the trick.”

  “I don’t ride,” said Bethie. She felt so exhausted, so dirty and ashamed, and the thought of figuring out where to even find a horse left her feeling even more weary.

  “Let me see what I can do.” The next day Marjorie called Bethie with what she said was a medical student’s number, but when Bethie dialed, the number just rang and rang. Bethie hid in her bedroom, telling Sarah that she was sick, making phone calls all day long while Sarah worked, calling every friend, every friend of a friend, searching for help and finding none. Her friend Flip’s older sister told her that if she had five hundred dollars she could get it taken care of in a clinic in Tijuana, but Bethie didn’t have five hundred dollars, or a way to get herself to Mexico. A sorority sister of Bethie’s freshman-year roommate had a number, but it turned out it was the same disconnected one that Marjorie had passed along. After five days of dead ends, Bethie had almost decided to try to take care of it herself, with a knitting needle. She was trying to figure out how much she’d need to drink to keep it from hurting too much without getting so drunk that her hands would be unsteady. Tomorrow, she thought. I’ll do it tomorrow. That morning, her mother figured it out.

  “You’re pregnant.” Sarah’s voice was flat as she stood in the doorway of Bethie’s bedroom, backlit by the morning sun. Instead of answering, Bethie rolled onto her side and buried her head in a pillow that had gotten just as greasy as her hair. “How could you do this?” Sarah’s voice rang out, loud and angry and hurt, and Bethie wanted to ex
plain, she wanted to say that this wasn’t something she’d done, that it was something that had been done to her, and that she was still her mother’s good girl.

  “Was it that Devon?” asked Sarah. Bethie didn’t answer. “Have you told him?” she demanded. “Will he marry you?”

  Bethie said, “I don’t know where he is.” She paused, gathering herself, before she said, “And anyhow, I’m not sure it’s his.”

  Sarah sucked in a breath. Bethie couldn’t see her mother’s face, but she could imagine it, forehead wrinkled, brows drawn, lips pursed in disgust. “Well,” Sarah said, “this is a fine mess. A fine mess you’ve gotten us into.” For a moment, Bethie thought that her mother would come sit by the side of her bed, to touch her hair, to tell her that she would help, she would fix things, she’d take care of Bethie and everything would be fine. Bethie wanted that, so badly. She wanted a grown-up to swoop in and clean up her mess, but her mother did not seem to be in a swooping frame of mind.

  “I’m going to telegram your sister.”

  Bethie sat up straight, panic lancing through her. “No! No, don’t do that.”

  “Jo has money,” Sarah said, as if Bethie hadn’t spoken. “And that rich girlfriend of hers might know someone who can help you.”

  “Mom, don’t call Jo. This isn’t her problem. She’s my sister. You’re my mom.” Bethie hoped that saying it would help Sarah put it in perspective, that she’d let Jo have her adventure and find a way to help Bethie herself, but Sarah had already turned to go. Bethie could hear the tap of her high heels on the floor, the front door opening and shutting, the car as it pulled onto the street.

  “Mom, wait,” said Bethie. She pushed herself out of bed, feeling her greasy skin, her filmed teeth. She hurried down the hallway, racing for the door, but her mother was already driving away, gripping the wheel tightly in both hands. Across the street, Mrs. Johnson, their new neighbor, stopped watering her rhododendrons long enough to give Bethie a wave. Bethie waved back and went inside. She plodded back to her bedroom, collapsed onto her bed, shutting her eyes, feeling the hot tears drip down her cheeks. She kept the shades drawn and the lights off and the covers pulled over her head, so that it was always dark. Three days after telling Sarah her news, she woke up and her sister was standing next to her bed.

  “Hi.” Bethie pushed herself upright and, to her shame, began to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” Jo asked. “Mom wouldn’t say.”

  Bethie pulled a pillow against her midriff and started to cry harder. She heard her sister sigh.

  “Okay,” said Jo. She touched Bethie’s shoulder and stroked her hair. “Okay. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bethie said again. “I told Mom not to tell you. I didn’t mean to ruin your trip.” She wiped her face with a corner of the pillowcase. “I tried to take care of it. I asked everyone I could think of, but I just kept getting the same name, and that guy’s phone’s been disconnected. Then I guess Mom heard me getting sick in the bathroom . . .” Bethie started to cry. “I’m such a dummy,” she said, and buried her face in her hands.

  Jo spoke carefully. “I assume you’ve considered your options?”

  Bethie gave a mirthless snort. “You mean, did I think about trying to get the guy to marry me? Sure. Except the problem is, there’s more than one candidate.”

  “Oh,” said Jo, who sounded as if she didn’t know what she was supposed to say to that. Bethie was sure that her sister was dying to ask what had happened, and how Bethie could have been so careless, and exactly how many possibilities there were, but her voice was calm, even mild, as she asked, “Want to tell me what happened?”

  Bethie wiped her eyes. Jo looked like she’d gotten taller on her trip, and her hair was longer than normal, pulled back in a twist that showed off the graceful length of her neck. Without raising her gaze from the bedspread—the same pink gingham check Sarah had bought when she was five—Bethie said, “I went to Newport. I took acid, and I had a bad trip, and there were these guys in a tree.”

  “Wait. What? Guys in a tree?”

  “They’d climbed up there to see the stage,” Bethie said. “One of them had a guitar, and one of them had some hash. They took me back to their tent. They had blankets and sleeping bags spread out on the ground, and I thought . . . I thought they were nice guys, you know?” Her voice cracked. “I thought that they wanted to help me.”

  Jo pulled Bethie close, until her sister was leaning against her, and put her arm around Bethie’s shoulders. “Do you know someone?” Bethie asked. “Or do you think Shelley does?”

  Bethie felt her sister’s back stiffen. “Shelley and I had a bit of a falling-out,” Jo said.

  “Oh,” said Bethie, feeling sorry for her sister and sorrier for herself.

  “But I know other people,” Jo said. “Let me make some calls.” She got to her feet, with her familiar, athletic grace, and for the first time since she’d come back from Rhode Island, Bethie began to feel like maybe things would be all right.

  * * *

  Three days later, she and her sister were waiting in the lobby of the Atheneum Hotel in the Greektown neighborhood in Detroit. They sat on a love seat upholstered in some shiny, slippery fabric, red with gold stripes. Jo wore cuffed jeans and sneakers and a U of M T-shirt. Bethie had showered and pulled her hair into a ponytail. She wore espadrilles, a madras skirt that felt snug at the waist, and a light-blue blouse. She sat with her feet crossed at the ankles and her hands folded in her lap, looking prim and virginal. As if it makes any difference, she thought. As if it matters now.

  The lobby was long and dimly lit, with a bar at one end, doors to a ballroom at the other, and the check-in desk in between. It smelled like smoke and the previous night’s drinks. In the open area between the front doors and the reception desk were groupings of furniture, chairs and couches and low-set tables. Bethie imagined that, later in the day, the bar would be bustling. Waitresses would move through the room, offering cocktails; businessmen would sit at the tables and the couches, eating salted peanuts with their martinis, and the rumble of their voices would fill the cavernous room, but for now, the place felt abandoned, like a stage felt after a show. A single bored-looking clerk in a white shirt and a green vest stood behind the desk. A bellman, similarly uniformed, leaned against the wall just inside the revolving door. A man in a hat and a trench coat, with a suitcase in his hand, got off the elevator and walked through the lobby, his footfalls echoing. He tipped his hat to Bethie and Jo, returned the bellman’s “Good morning,” and pushed through the door.

  Bethie sat, hands plucking at her skirt. The elevator doors slid open again. Heels clicked across the marble as a middle-aged woman approached. Her white hair was teased high around her head, and so thin that the weak light of the lobby shone right through it, and her pinkish-white skin was pleated with wrinkles around her eyes. She wore a brown skirt and a yellow sweater, and her stubborn, bulldog-like face and cat-eye glasses reminded Bethie of the vice principal back at Bellwood High. She looked the sisters over. “Which one?” she asked.

  Bethie got to her feet. Jo also rose. “Can I come?”

  The woman shook her head. “Wait here. I’ll bring her down in an hour.”

  “Why don’t you go for a walk,” Bethie suggested, hoping that she didn’t look as frightened as she felt. “I’m sure . . .” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll be right here,” said Jo.

  The woman stood, waiting wordlessly until Jo realized what she wanted. Jo reached into her purse and handed her an envelope full of cash. It was, Bethie knew, the money Jo had planned on spending on her trip, visiting Goa and Udipalya, Jaipur and Dharamsala, Pushkar and Nepal. Jo had told her the names of the places, pronouncing each one with reverence and care. I can’t wait, Jo had told her. I can’t wait to get out of here. The woman opened the envelope and peeked at the money. Bethie couldn’t look. She imagined that each bill in the fat stack repre
sented a different city, a day or two that Jo could have been somewhere else. She imagined stretching out her hand, grabbing the money, driving Jo to the airport and telling her, Go. But then what? She couldn’t imagine past that point. Where would she go? What would she do? How would she manage, alone with a baby?

  The woman tucked the envelope into her purse. “Good luck,” Jo whispered, and squeezed Bethie’s hand. Bethie tried to smile before following the woman to the far end of the lobby, where the elevator swallowed them up.

  The woman didn’t speak on their ride to the eleventh floor. In silence, she led Bethie to a room in the middle of the hall. There was a bed with a sheet spread out on top of the dull gold comforter, and two chairs set up at its base, with towels draped over their tops. The wallpaper was light-brown, with a repeating pattern of a bundle of stalks and fringes that Bethie thought was meant to be a sheaf of wheat. “Take off your skirt and your underpants, and lie back on the bed,” said a man. He wore a blue jacket and a beige-and-red tie, and a white shirt, old but neatly pressed. His hands were bare. Bethie wondered if he’d washed them, and if he really was a doctor, like Jo’s friend Shelley had said. “Legs up here,” he said, indicating the chairs. He picked up a metal instrument, long and thin, and Bethie closed her eyes and wished she’d dropped acid, or smoked pot, or even had a gulp of vodka, anything to take herself out of her body, away from this moment.

  “Hold still,” said the man. “You’ll feel a sting and a pinch.” That, Bethie hoped, was the anesthesia. She says it’s a real doctor, Jo had told Bethie, after Shelley had finally given her a name. He’ll take good care of you. She felt the promised sting, felt the pinch, felt a faraway cramping sensation, like someone rummaging deep inside of her. “Please stop crying,” she heard the man say. His voice was angry, but the woman just sounded bored when she told Bethie, “He needs you to hold still, hon.”

  An eternity crawled by. Bethie closed her eyes and tried not to hear or to feel. Finally, when it was over, the woman gave her a thick sanitary napkin and a bottle of pills, with the instruction to take one in the morning, one at night. If she developed a fever, she was to go to the hospital, and to tell them that she’d just started bleeding, that nothing had been done to her. “You were never here,” the man said as the woman helped her to her feet. He looked her up and down, and Bethie called on her theater training. Act like you’re brave, she told herself. She stood up straight and made herself meet his gaze, taking in his greasy hair and his small, squinting eyes. “Thank you,” she said.