And she wants to erase us too.
Last week, you told her not to give up on the dream of Minnesota and she LOLed.
Lol MK I’m not moving. Never seeing Harry again.
You just sounded so excited about going there. You never know… maybe you will
Right. Kind of like you and your new little boyfriend… see we DO know lol
That’s not fair. That was… that was one kiss.
LOL MK. Face it. I’m not moving to MN. BI is home. You’re not leaving Phil. He’s home. These are facts. This is why we drink our wine LOL
But she’s not honest with you, Mary Kay. After she blew you off with an LOL, she sent two follow-up emails to HR reps in Minneapolis. She’s allowed to make her moves but she discourages you from making your moves. She suffers and so she wants you to suffer and now she’s wide awake, pounding on the glass walls of my Whisper Room, screaming like a bad actress in a B movie. I crack my knuckles. I can do this. I can take on her voice. And I have to because the two of you text all fucking day. You type. Same way you do every fucking morning.
How’s life?
IT IS SEVEN A.M. WHY DON’T YOU WOMEN LEAVE EACH OTHER ALONE? I breathe. This is the upside to this mess. I get to change your life. I type.
Sweetie omg big news. Fingers crossed. I’m in a mad rush to Minneapolis for a job interview yeeee and I already talked to a couple guys on Bumble lolol who knows but yeeeeee lolol xoxo
My heart is pounding, the sun is up. Did I do a good job? Do you buy me as Melanda? Here come the dots—please, God, you owe me—and here comes your response.
Congrats!
It’s a win and I needed a win and you text again, sharing your own news—you’re getting a haircut today. I put Melanda’s phone in my pocket—she told you, Mary Kay, she’s in a mad rush—and it will be satisfying to see you growing, weaning off your “sister,” but now it’s time for the hard part.
I have to go and face my attacker.
When I get downstairs, I don’t look in the cage and my Whisper Room was never supposed to be a cage. I stand in front of my TV and Melanda’s behind me, locked up and screaming—You’re a fucking pervert—but I owe it to you to try and make her see the light. She spits at the glass and it turns out the Whisper Room isn’t actually soundproof, which means that I hear every word of her abuse. “You are a fucking pedophile and a psychopath and a fucking sociopath and you will pay for this, you sicko. Let me out. Now.”
Ha! That is not how we catch flies, Melanda, and I sigh. “Well, make up your mind. Which is it? What am I, exactly? All three or just one?”
I sit in my chair and I take out my flash cards. She is the teacher but I am the professor and I was up all night making a lesson plan. She bashes the glass wall with her fists. “PEDOPHILE!”
I sigh and shake my head. “Wrong.”
“Fuck you.”
“Come on, Melanda. You’re smarter than that.”
“I know, Joe. I know about your dirty Bukowski book.”
You must have told her I thought Nomi might like Bukowski over the phone because I didn’t see that in your texts. “For God’s sake, Melanda, you should know that reading Bukowski is a good way to learn about vile men. You’re an English teacher.”
She blinks fast and pivots. “For your information, I’m actually trained to spot pedophiles and using a mom as a conduit, well, that’s the oldest trick in the book. Obviously.”
“I think your meditation apps are making you paranoid.”
“Make all the snide jokes you want, sweetie. I know what I saw. You’re a monster. You are a pedophile and you will be the one who winds up behind bars.”
“Moving on,” I say. And I pick up my flash cards. “I found your diary in the notepad app on your phone…”
“No. No you didn’t.”
She bangs on the glass and I choose one of my favorites. “Date,” I say. “November first. ‘MK calls and expects me to pick up as if I don’t have a LIFE but when I call HER does she pick up? Nope! Too busy with her familyyyyyyy. Try being alone you mommy whiner!’ ”
She makes earmuffs. “Stop it.”
I pick another flash card. A real gem. “Date: October twenty-seventh.”
“You are a child molester, you sicko. These are notes. I get PMS. That is private.”
I maintain my composure and I read Melanda’s diary. “ ‘Sometimes I just wish I could MURDER MK so smug like she’s first woman to ever have a crush at work GET A LIFE GRRR and if Nomi was my kid like just no. Be a role model STOP FLIRTING YOU SLUT HE’S NOT IN LOVE WITH YOU NOT EVERY GUY IS SO CRAZY ABOUT YOU and buy some fucking pants WHERE IS MY PERIOD FUCK YOU WORLD.’ ”
“Stop it, Joe. You have no idea. Female friendships… they’re complicated.”
I go into her texts and open the history of Melanda and Seamus. “Huh,” I say. “Is that why you drunk-text Seamus asking who was a better lay back in high school?”
She spits at me, as if I’m the one who texts Shortus—I still can’t believe you slept with him, it stings, it does—and I sigh. “I’m not judging you, Melanda. I’m just trying to help you see that sometimes… you’re wrong.”
“FUCK YOU, PERVERT.”
I pick another card. “November fourth. ‘I would be living in Minneapolis by now if not for Married Kay. I HATE HER. Nomi should be living with ME and UGHGHGHGH.’ Married Kay,” I say. “Clever.”
She looks at me. “You won’t make me think I’m the bad guy, you sicko. You were stalking Nomi. I saw.”
“Huh,” I say. “You know, Melanda, I guess what hurts the most, besides my rib cage…”
She rolls her eyes. An emoji come to life.
“I get it. This isn’t an easy place to be single. Hell, I live next door to a family. You and I… we’re in the minority. You try to do good… I try to do good, but you decided that because I’m single, there must be something wrong with me.”
“And I was right. You’re a pedo.”
“Melanda, I am not a pedophile. But after reading your notepad, I gotta say, I do wonder what you were doing in the woods…”
“Oh you sicko, I was looking out for Nomi.”
“Ah.”
“The Bukowski… the Woody Allen… I knew it then and obviously I really know it now. I see you.”
I pick another flash card. “ ‘Feels so freaking good to tell DeAnn and Eileen that I will be the one taking the credit for the incubator. These young girls are SO FUCKING ENTITLED and someone needs to smack them down because they have NO IDEA how hard it is to be a woman in the real world.’ ”
She sits up straight as if there’s a book on her head. “What’s your point?”
“You don’t see the hypocrisy? ‘Women supporting women.’ You’re literally erasing the women who support you.”
“I am not the one on trial here.”
“You called me a pedophile. You attacked me but look at you. What about you? You hate your best friend and you’re stealing credit from your fellow sisters.”
She folds her arms, indignant. “Nice try, pervert, but you don’t know the first thing about my life. Eileen and DeAnn are college kids. I’m not ‘erasing’ their work. They don’t have a fucking clue about how hard it is to be a single woman in a school system. Let them try going into a school every day where everyone treats you like a leper slash whore because you’re not married. And they think you should just be able to work every day all day because you don’t have a ‘life,’ like there’s something inherently wrong with you if you’re alone.”
“Christ, Melanda. Just admit it. They’re wrong about you and you were wrong about me.”
“Well, unlock the door and let me go and I’ll know for sure that you’re not a predator.”
“Melanda, I wish I could trust you, I do, but I wasn’t grooming Nomi and you attacked me and this is on you.”
She bangs on the glass, which hurts her hand more than it hurts me. “Let me out. Now.”
Her phone is in my pocket and it
buzzes. And it’s you: When do you fly to MN?! So excited for you!
Melanda drops her fists. “Is it MK?” She’s trembling now, shaking, and her sizable vocabulary is boiled down to a single word. “SICKO!”
I write back cuz this is what you gals do. Leaving in a few hours!
Melanda knocks on the glass. Softer now. She’s a teacher again. “Joe, look… I’m sorry. I was paranoid and I did judge you, okay? I really thought you were just latching onto MK to get to Nomi… I mean MK is old.”
You’re not old.
“Joe,” she says. “I mean it. I’m sorry. And if you let me go… Look, you’re right. We both overreacted. And no one has to know about this. Now that we’re talking… well, you’re right. We are on the same side. We can be.”
I wasn’t born an hour ago and I sigh. “There’s a remote on the bed.”
She kicks the wall as if she’s the only one trapped. “Fuck you.”
And I gotta say, Mary Kay. I’m a little offended because I’m the victim here. I have gone out of my way to be Mr. Fucking Good Guy and now because of her my Whisper Room is a cage and Dr. Nicky is right. You can’t control other people. You can only control your own actions. Melanda doesn’t deserve my help, but lucky for her, when I see anyone trapped in a cage, even if it’s their fault, well, what can I say? I’m a good fucking Samaritan.
She screams for help and I nod at the remote on the bed. “Go ahead,” I say. “Pick it up. I have a project for you.”
She is quivering—it could be an act—and she picks up the remote and the screen lights up and there they are, all of the movies in her iTunes account. See, Mary Kay, Melanda obsessively takes inventory of every calorie she puts into her body. But she needs to take that analytical obsession in a different direction. She needs to think about the movies she watches over and over again. I try to explain this to her but she is the same old dog. “Oh God,” she sighs. “You’re not a pervert. You’re a psychopath.”
“You call me a psycho? I’m the ‘pervert.’ Melanda, would you look at the size of your Woody Allen collection? You own more of his movies than I do!”
“It’s different,” she snarls. “I’m a woman. You have to know the enemy.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “You own Anything Else and Melinda and Melinda and those aren’t even in the fucking canon.”
She simmers. “Get me out of here.”
“This is a teachable moment, Melanda.”
“This is not happening.”
“Oh, sweetie, I think we’ve established that this most certainly is happening.”
“You’re a sick man.”
“Well, like you, I do appreciate Crimes and Misdemeanors.”
“That movie belongs to Anjelica Huston,” she snarls. “Not that pig.”
I’m on her phone, pacing, and I wish you could see me right now, Mary Kay. “Okay,” I say. “Welcome to Melanda’s Movies 101.”
“Stop it.”
“We casually buy movies in the middle of the night, but sometimes our selections say a lot about our underlying issues.”
“No.”
“You like your female bonding stories—Beaches and Romy and Michele and Terms of Endearment—and you identify strongly with Bridget Jones. You own all three movies, plus Jerry Maguire and New in Town. Huh. Perhaps the woman you identify with most is Renée Zellweger.”
She turns red. “There was a fucking sale, you idiot.”
“You’re also a fan of the psycho woman genre. The Hand That Rocks the Cradle… Single White Female…”
She sinks to the floor and she’s crying now, she’s moving forward—yay!—and I hunker down like a counselor, meeting her at ground level. “Melanda, it’s okay. We’re both in shock. We both lost our tempers…” It’s not true—I acted in self-defense—but sometimes you have to lie to your pupil. “We need a minute to decompress…” And I need a minute to figure out what to do with her. “You were burnt out. Anyone can see that. So just take this for what it is, some time to self-reflect. These movies are your bedtime stories, your comfort foods.”
She blows her nose on her shirt. A GIRL IS A GUN. “You’re insane.”
“Forget about me, Melanda. I’m worried about you. You could have gotten hurt out there…” She looks at me like I’m the crazy one. I carry on. “Look,” I say. “Every Sunday you plan a detox from your phone. You turn off your notifications but you never go through with it.”
She bites her lip. Then she clocks the Safeway bag I put in her room while she was sleeping. “Can you put the TV in here? I have sensitive retinas.”
“Melanda…”
She knows not to press me—she’s a fast learner, Mary Kay—and she juts her chin at the table. “What’s in the bag?”
“Your favorite thing in the world,” I say. “Safeway donut holes.”
She almost smiles, because what a thrill it is, even under circumstances like this, to be known for who you really fucking are.
13
I’m at the fucking gym—gotta be seen, gotta normal the fuck up—and Seamus is working out two feet away, singing along to Kid Fucking Rock, who waxes nostalgic-pervert about his whiskey-soaked glory days mounting an underage girl by a lake. Ugh. You and I—well, you and Melanda—are texting and for the second time in five minutes I plant my kettle bell on the ground to read your latest missive.
You: Drink this afternoon before your ferry? What time is your flight?
Melanda: Sweetie I wish but I am sooooo busy lol why
Melanda’s phone rings—you’re calling her, oh shit oh shit—and my stomach muscles quiver like I just finished a fucking Murph and I can’t talk to you—I’m not her—and I can’t talk now—I’m in a fucking gym. I send you to voicemail and I type. Fast.
Melanda: lol sorry but I can’t talk, too busy.
You: I get it but can you just talk for two minutes?
NO, MARY KAY, SHE CAN’T.
I type.
Melanda: Lol sooooo sorry but I’m running so late. Is this more Joe drama?
My heart pounds. But this is your pattern.
You: ugh yes and no I just wish we could go get a drink
We wouldn’t be in this fucking mess if you talked to me more than you talk about me and Shortus yanks his earbuds. “What’s up with you, Chatty Cathy?”
“Nothing,” I say. “My buddy in New York is having issues with his wife.”
Shortus grunts. “Sucks to be him. But that doesn’t mean it should suck to be you or us, New Guy. Take that shit outside. It’s distracting.”
I’m not New Guy anymore—I live here—and all these fitness junkies are only here because it provides distraction from their lackluster lives. Shortus reinserts his earbuds and I wipe down the kettle bell as if my hands are dirty and walk outside to deal with you.
Melanda: I wish we could go drink too but yeeeeee flight so soon!
You: And yay flight! You know I always root for you even if the idea of you ACTUALLY moving makes me feel insane. I really felt like a drink today but oh well so happy for you!
That hurts, Mary Kay. You don’t feel insane about Melanda. You miss me. And Melanda has no time for you—she’s watching one of her favorite Woody Allen movies—and you need a reality check.
Aw, sweetie you’ll be okay. Give my love to Phil and Nomi xo
You don’t like the patronizing tone—I know you and I don’t blame you—and I drive into town and pop into Blackbird—just another normal fucking day, no woman trapped in my basement—and the fecal-eyed multigenerational family is here. I bump into the grandfather’s chair and Nancy glares at me as if it wasn’t an accident and they’re all as cold to me as they are warm to each other. Motherfuckers, all of them. But at least they saw me. Normal Joe! Nothing to see!
You’re not Nancy, Mary Kay. You’re not happily married. But you’re not texting me to meet up for a drink and that’s the problem. I cross the street and head for the T & C and Melanda’s phone buzzes. It’s you again—shocker—and you want to kno
w what she’ll wear for the big job interview. This is sadly normal for you two. She sends you her date outfits and you weigh in—I like the red—and she argues with you until you eventually give up—What matters most is how you feel in it. Gotta run. Phil’s home and as we know this is a miracle—but right now you’re in the salon, you’re bored, and you badger Melanda a second time.
Need pictures! Let me live vicariously through you.
There are so many problems with this statement, Mary Kay. Melanda can’t send you a selfie. She’s wearing the T-shirt she had on when she attacked me—A GIRL IS A GUN—and you are too young to feel like the only living you have left to do is vicarious. I turn the screw.
lol that is so sad. No offense but I feel like the Joe stuff is making you crazy.
You deflect and say that you might get bangs today—just fully become my mother—and that’s a cry for help but Melanda is a bad friend. I read enough to know what she would say so I lie to your face: Do it. You can rock bangs! You have the face for them and you are NOT your mother. Send me pic if you do gotta run so busy before flight lol
You give a smiley face. Send pics! I’m here! Excited for you, M!
You’re acting out. Cutting your hair instead of coming clean with me just because your best friend is about to get on a plane. You text again.
Pics please!
Melanda has 24,985 pics in her phone, most of them pictures of her, standing in front of a full-length mirror. I choose a recent selfie and send it to you with the shrugging brunette girl emoji—her favorite—and you are typing. A lot. This isn’t a fucking essay contest. It’s a yes or no question and then here you are.
Wait I thought you returned that blue dress last week? When we were in Seattle?
My heart alarm goes off and no. NO. This would be easier if there weren’t ten thousand texts between you two and so many fucking pictures of so many fucking outfits and I close my eyes. WWMD.
Ugh long story but more like get me off this rock no offense lol just excited to go
That was cruel, maybe too cruel and you’re silent. I send another photo of Melanda in mustard pants and a green sweater—was she trying to be vomit for Halloween?—and once again: nothing. I studied your conversations and this isn’t how it goes. Radio silence is bad and it makes me nervous for me, for you. Are you telling the stylist about what just happened? Did I fuck up?
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