Deep Down True

by Juliette Fay

  “Well, still . . .” said Morgan uncertainly. “Can I get the jeans?”

  Dana squinted at the tiny paragraph on the bottom of the page. “Is that right?” she asked. “Does it say two hundred and fifty-four dollars? I can’t tell without my glasses.”

  “Yeah.” Morgan sighed, defeated.

  “Wow. Maybe we should figure out a way to sell them instead of buy them, huh?”

  Morgan crossed her arms over her ribs, pressing in on herself as if to impose martial law on her anarchical body parts. Her chin trembled. “Why do I have to look so . . . like this?” she quavered. “I’m so ugly.” Tears slid down her cheeks.

  “No, Morgan,” Dana soothed, reaching out to hold her. “You’re beautiful, honey.”

  “I’m disgusting.” Morgan’s weeping escalated. “You don’t even know how bad it is! You’re pretty, so everyone likes you!”

  No I’m not and No they don’t were the first responses that leaped to Dana’s mind. Instead she said, “I’m glad you think I’m pretty, sweetheart, but if people only like me for that, then they aren’t real friends, now, are they?”

  Morgan groaned. “You don’t think being pretty matters because you don’t think you are pretty. You think people like you for you.”

  Hard as it was to hear her own daughter call her a social simpleton, the comment stung even more for the drop of truth it contained. And now there was confirmation that not only did Morgan know of her mother’s insecurities but in Morgan’s mind they were baseless.

  “Hey,” Dana said, pulling back so they faced each other. “Being pretty might get people interested in you, but it’s not what lasting relationships are based on.” She squinted in frustration. “And I don’t like hearing you say the only reason people like me is because of my looks. That makes me sound brainless and friendless.”

  Morgan sniffled loudly and reached for the box of tissues on her bedside table. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “Okay,” said Dana. She smoothed a tendril of hair off her daughter’s damp cheek. “Listen, sweetie. You don’t love me for what I look like any more than I love you for what you look like. We love each other because we do, and that will never go away.”

  “I guess,” whispered Morgan.

  “You are so loved, Morgan, and for all the right reasons. Not for what jeans you wear or how you look in them, okay?”

  “Okay.” Morgan’s eyes drooped, and she lay back on the pillows. Dana pulled the covers up and tucked them tight. She kissed Morgan’s cheeks and landed a last kiss on her forehead. “Cozy-sweet dreams,” she whispered, and turned off the light.

  She knew she had gotten off easy, that Morgan was tired and willing to be talked out of an industrial-size fit of self-pity. But Dana felt some small relief at having begun what she knew would be a long, hard swim against the social imperative to be perfect. It was better, at least, than waiting to get washed farther downstream.

  On her way to bed, Dana took a detour downstairs to the TV room. Alder was lying on the pullout couch, her face blank, the pink fleece blanket tossed haphazardly across her narrow frame. Her fingers worried at a piece of the hem.

  “Just came down to say good night,” Dana ventured from the door.

  Alder’s fingers went still. She gave her aunt a brief, wan smile. “Good night,” she murmured.

  “Alder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t seem too happy to get a call from Ethan.”

  “Not much,” said Alder.

  Dana wanted to come into the room, sit on the bed, straighten the covers. But she sensed it was better not to intrude as she tried to glean a little information about her niece’s social life. “Is he in one of your classes?”

  “What?” said Alder, turning her head toward Dana as if just noticing her. “No, I don’t know him from here. He’s from . . . before.”

  “Was he unkind to you?”

  Alder considered this for a moment. Her fingers began to work the hem of the blanket again. “Unkind,” she murmured.

  Dana felt weak as she sensed the depth of the girl’s sadness. She wanted so badly to come into the room, but Alder’s manner locked her out. “Alder,” Dana whispered from the doorway. “I’m here if you want to tell me.”

  Alder nodded and closed her eyes.

  The following afternoon Dana went to Cotters Rock Dental in hopes of convincing Dr. Sakimoto to accept a payment plan. She had no idea what his policies were, but he had given her the impression of a man willing to consider alternatives. And though she’d been wrong about people before, imagining kindness when there was in fact very little, she hoped she was right this time.

  There was a new person seated at the reception desk, bent over, squinting at a magazine of some kind. Dana could see the salt-and-pepper roots in her brassy red hair.

  “Half a sec,” said the woman, not looking up. “Now, what am I supposed to make of that?” she muttered to herself. Glancing finally at Dana, she hoisted up a set of knitting needles tangled in yarn. “Does that look right to you?”

  “It looks like the start of something . . .” offered Dana.

  The woman studied the shapeless loops. “You think?”

  What kind of receptionist are you? Dana thought irritably. “Um, is Dr. Sakimoto running late?”

  “Oh, you have plenty of time.” The woman smirked, pushing her brittle hair off her face. “It’s a mess back there. He’s one of those micromanagers. I’ve temped long enough to know when someone’s going all micro on me. I figured out yesterday to just let him do it all himself. Brought my knitting to keep me busy. Go on back if you want to,” she offered smugly.

  Dana gave her an incredulous stare. Never in all my years of managing temps . . . But this was not her business. Dana went down the hallway and clicked her fingernails hesitantly against the office door.

  “What.”

  Dana pushed the door open. Dr. Sakimoto was behind his desk, hunching forward toward his computer screen. “Oh, for godsake,” he muttered as he rose to greet her. “Dana, I am so sorry. I’ve got the receptionist from hell out there, and I’m trying to do all the billing myself. Please forgive the chaos. Let’s take care of that tooth, shall we?”

  “Do you think we could talk for a minute first?”

  “Certainly.” He motioned to the upholstered chair where she’d learned of Morgan’s purging.

  “Oh, we don’t need to sit down,” she said quickly. “I know how busy you are.”

  “You, Mrs. Stellgarten, have got to be my most considerate patient,” he said, smiling warmly. “Take all the time you need.”

  Dana hitched the strap of her purse back up to her shoulder and held on to it, gripping the soft leather as she described her “present, temporary circumstances.”

  “Please don’t apologize,” he said, almost before she’d finished. “Of course I’ll do a payment plan. And trust me, you won’t be the first. Ask my bookkeeper—he’s ready to kill me.” He led her into the operatory by his office. In the next room, she could hear Marie the hygienist gently admonishing a patient, “Floss is your friend, you know . . .”

  “Your receptionist, Kendra—she must have a really terrible case of that stomach bug,” Dana said as she slid back into the enormous vinyl chair.

  Dr. Sakimoto chuckled. “Actually, she has a very wonderful case of a bun in the oven.”

  “She’s pregnant? She’s so young—I didn’t even know she was married!”

  Silently he raised his eyebrows at her as he snapped on his latex gloves.

  “Ohhh,” murmured Dana. “Is she . . . Will she be okay?”

  “She’s got some sorting out to do, but she’s very happy, telling the whole world about it.” He clipped the bib around her neck and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her shoulder.

  “But why isn’t she here now?” asked Dana.

  He let out an aggravated groan. “She can’t take the smells! That’s why she was tossing her cookies, not the bug. So she’s on medical leave until
the nausea subsides.” He gently raised her upper lip to examine the temporary on her tooth, then turned to organize his instruments.

  “I don’t mean to butt in . . .” ventured Dana.

  “Be my guest.”

  “That temp out there is very unprofessional. I don’t think I ever had one who was that bad.”

  “She’s an unmitigated disaster—honestly, she’s killing me. You’ve hired temps?”

  “Well, not recently, but years ago I managed a legal office in Hartford, and I used temps sometimes. If I’d had one like her, I would have requested someone else. I’m sure you can ask the supervisor at the agency for someone more . . . skilled.”

  Dr. Sakimoto listened to her, a tube of numbing gel in his hand, his brown eyes blinking slowly as he took this in. “Hold on,” he said. “What about you?”

  Dana shifted in the chair. “Well, it’s really not my place to speak to her supervisor . . .”

  “No!” He waved her off with laugh. “I mean, you temping! You’ve obviously got the skills, and you’ve got your financial set-back. Plus, you’d really be helping me out. One more day with Brassy Betty out there and I’ll end up on the eleven-o’clock news.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .” Dana shook her head. How could this work? It was a full-time job. Who would be home for the kids in the afternoon? With Morgan in her present state, she needed adult supervision now more than ever.

  “Think about it,” he urged her. “It would solve both our problems.”

  The guilt she felt at turning him down soon trickled toward indignation. How could he ask her to do this, knowing everything she was dealing with? He continued to chat amiably as he worked, but all she could think about was the pressure she now felt to solve his problem and his insistence that it would solve hers, too. How did he know what was best for her? She knew it was unreasonable, but her anger swelled nonetheless.

  “Now, this is what we call a try-in,” he was saying. “The veneer is placed with a little glycerin so you can make sure you’re happy with it before it goes in permanently.” He lowered the chair and held out a hand mirror. “Go over by the window so you can see it in natural light.”

  Looking in the mirror, all she saw were the worry lines carved between her pale brows, and her temper flared. “It doesn’t look right,” she said.

  “No?” he said, coming up beside her. “Let’s have a peek.” He was an inch or so shorter than she, an effect that was amplified by his scrunching down and squinting up at her mouth as he gently pressed back her upper lip. “What’s off about it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know . . . The color’s wrong.” She heard the bitterness in her tone, the absence of courtesy, and it made her even angrier. It was his fault she felt like a shrew.

  “You think?” he asked mildly.

  She glared into the mirror to avoid his gaze and tapped at the tooth. “This one’s a different shade from the others.”

  “Dana,” he said, the corners of his mouth tensing to avoid a smile. “That’s your real tooth. The other one’s the veneer.”

  She turned to stare blindly out the window, willing her unfounded fury back into its cage.

  “Hey,” Dr. Sakimoto murmured. “That wacko temp of mine is not your problem. You’ve got enough on your mind right now. And you’ve got to do what’s best for you.”

  His understanding surprised her, and it served to tame her anger. “You were right about Morgan,” she said finally. “She’s purging.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded.

  “She won’t admit it.”

  “She’s ashamed. We all hide what we’re ashamed of.”

  Of course we do, she thought. And yet this secret was out—to her dentist, of all people. She pulled air into her lungs and let it go. “The tooth is fine,” she said.

  “It’s gorgeous,” he agreed, motioning her toward the exam chair, “if I do say so myself.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “ODE TO JOY” WAS ONE OF THE FIRST PIECES MORgan had learned when she’d taken up the cello two years ago. After practicing endlessly, she’d performed it for her parents. Dana’s memory was vivid: Morgan’s frown of concentration as she struggled to hit every note correctly and the bloom of pride once she’d finished and looked up to find her mother’s reaction. This was replaced by mild disgust as she glanced at her father, a hint of uncharacteristic dampness welling in his eyes.

  “Dad,” Morgan had chided, “your allergies are out of control!”

  Helpless to respond, Kenneth had looked to Dana. A glance had passed between them then, a rare instance of pure and perfect communication. Yes, that glance said, she’s real. This beautiful, talented, human manifestation of life’s grace is real, and she came from us.

  Kenneth had reached over and squeezed Dana’s hand so hard she thought her pinkie might break, but she didn’t care. She squeezed back and said, “Morgan, could you get Daddy a tissue?”

  “Looks like he needs a whole box,” Morgan had muttered as she left the room.

  Kenneth had pulled Dana into a quick but forceful embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered. It seemed to be the thank-you she’d been waiting for her whole married life—a thank-you for everything, all of it. “Thank you,” she’d whispered back.

  The undiluted purity of that moment stayed with them long after Morgan had returned with the tissues and they’d showered her with praise and affection. For weeks they were more considerate and more attracted to each other than they’d been in years. He would call her during the day just to see what she was up to, and she made every single one of his favorite meals. They were affectionate during the day, passionate at night.

  Eventually it faded. Their conversations slipped back into a simple conveyance of information: the septic system was due to be pumped; Grady had poison ivy again. They went to bed at different times rather than together for the purpose of intimacy. With a leaden sadness, Dana realized this return to a businesslike relationship hadn’t surprised her. She knew then that they would never achieve the kind of indelible love she’d hoped for all those years ago. Apparently Kenneth had come to the same conclusion. It was soon thereafter, Dana later calculated, that he’d taken up with Tina.

  But rather than a reminder of failure, “Ode to Joy” had become an overture of hope in Dana’s mind. That feeling of utter connection was possible; if she had achieved it once for those few brief weeks with Kenneth, she might someday be granted another chance. Maybe next time it would take.

  Dana had assigned the “Ode to Joy” ringtone to Morgan’s incoming calls. It rang on Dana’s cell phone as she pulled out of the dental-office parking lot. The call was brief. “Can I go to Kimmi’s?” Morgan shouted from the noisy school bus.

  “Sure. What time should I pick you up?”

  “I can’t hear you! I’ll call you from Kimmi’s!”

  As she approached her house, Dana could see the avocado green station wagon in her driveway. She had a momentary inclination to keep driving, maybe surprise Grady by picking him up at school. But Grady loved the bus ride home with its reliable rowdiness. Besides, this girl Jet was just another teenager, Dana reminded herself, not a member of some suburban drug ring. You can handle this, she insisted. Go meet Alder’s friend.

  The girls were in the kitchen, Jet on her cell phone, eating from a can of salted almonds. “No way,” she said into the phone as she crunched on the nuts. “Nuh-uh!” Alder nudged her, and she raised a hand and a quick glance to Dana, a faux-casual gesture that came off as impertinent and uncertain at the same time. Dana smiled and turned to Alder. “How was school?”

  She shrugged. “Schoolish.”

  Jet fired another almond into her mouth and said, “I hope you told him he was a freak.”

  Dana tried to focus on Alder. “Do you feel like you’re all caught up in your classes?”

  “Hmm?” said Alder, distracted. “More or less.” She nudged Jet again.

  Jet held up a finger to indicate she’d be off in a minute. “I didn’t say that,
and I wouldn’t say that, and I’m so done with this,” and she snapped the phone shut.

  “Jet, this is my Aunt Dana,” Alder said, corralling Jet’s attention before it wandered off again.

  “Hi, Aunt Dana.” Jet grinned a little too brightly.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Jet?” said Dana. “Those almonds are pretty salty.”

  Jet glanced to Alder for interpretation, then said, “Uh, sure. Do you have any Red Bull?”

  “Red Bull?” asked Dana, startled. Wasn’t that something musicians and celebrities drank? She couldn’t remember if it contained alcohol.

  Alder laughed. “It’s one of those energy drinks with like a ton of caffeine in it.” She turned to Jet and gave her a little whack on the arm. “And no, my aunt does not stock Red Bull for her kids, Jet. She’s a responsible adult.”

  Jet gave a sly smile. “She doesn’t look that responsible.” This was clearly a compliment. “I bet she has a private stash somewhere.”

  “Please,” Alder snorted. “If she had a private stash, it wouldn’t be Red Bull, for godsake.”

  “What would it be, then?” challenged Jet.

  Dana’s skin prickled with anxiety—what would her private stash be?

  Alder slung her arm around Dana’s shoulder. “That’s her business.”

  Jet’s phone began to ring, a thumping, intrusive sound, and she checked the caller ID. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” she told it. “Oh, shit—” Quick look to Dana. “Shoot! I gotta go. Walk me out?” She hooked her arm in Alder’s. To Dana she said, “Nice to finally meet you.”

  “Nice to finally meet you, too,” said Dana.

  From the mudroom Dana heard Jet’s loud whisper. “See, I was good!”

  “Shut up,” murmured Alder. “What were you—raised by wolves?”

  “You’ve met my mother!” Jet let out a howl, and they laughed as the door slammed behind them. Alder had left her sweatshirt on the kitchen counter, and Dana walked it back to the TV room. The corner of a piece of paper peeked out from behind an end table where Alder had stacked her homework. Dana tugged out the paper and recognized Alder’s handwriting.