by Ann McMan
“Nonsense. You are a beautiful young woman. Your life is just beginning.”
“But it hurts,” I complained.
“I know it does, Almah. But it won’t always.” She steered me back toward the kitchen. “Take off your pants and I’ll wash them for you.”
I walked along the long, dark hallway ahead of her. “What will I wear?”
She patted me on the shoulder. “You go into the bathroom and wash.” She opened a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a clean, blue washcloth and towel. “I’ll bring you the things you need.”
A few minutes later, Bubbe tapped at the bathroom door and handed me a blousy pair of women’s underwear and some cotton pajama bottoms that must have belonged to my grandfather. They were tightly folded with sharp-edged creases, and they smelled like cedar. She had something else, too—a thick-looking white pad wrapped in some kind of gauze.
“Wear this inside the panties,” she said.
It did occur to me to wonder why she had such an item. Bubbe had to be nearly ninety—or so I thought. I looked from the stack of items up to her face. Her expression gave nothing away.
“They belong to your mother,” she said, seeming to sense my unasked question.
I took the items from her and she closed the door. “Come out when you’re ready and I’ll make you some hot tea.”
I did as I was told, and soon I was stretched out on her stiff horsehair sofa, with a rubber hot water bottle pressed up against my tummy, and a steaming mug of hot black currant tea in my hand. I could smell the thick slices of fresh challah toasting under her broiler.
“How long will this last?” I asked her.
Bubbe shrugged. “A week. Maybe less. It will pass before you know it.”
A week? I wanted to die. I’d never last a week. I sipped the hot, sweet tea. Something awful poked at the edge of my consciousness. Something I remembered from that movie at school. I looked at her.
“Will it happen again?”
She smiled at me. “Of course it will, Almah. Many, many times—until you are old, like me.”
I set the mug of tea down on a low table next to the sofa. I could feel my eyes starting to fill up with tears. My life was over. I would never be the same again. I shifted on the scratchy surface. The pad between my legs felt thick and foreign. I felt raw and exposed. I was sure that all my friends would know without my saying anything—and then I would be the one they whispered about behind their small, white hands.
Another thought occurred to me. It was even worse.
“What will I tell Mama?”
Bubbe patted my hand. “I will tell her. You rest now.” She got to her feet. “We will eat some bread and jam, and soon you will feel better.”
I closed my eyes and let the warmth from the hot water bottle begin to relax my sore muscles. I could feel myself starting to fade.
In the kitchen, Bubbe was still softly talking.
“When enough time has passed, we will take you to mikveh.”
I didn’t remember much after that. I think I slept for an hour or two, and by then, Bubbe had washed and dried my clothes. At her front door, she kissed me on the forehead and handed me a paper bag. I was pretty sure about what it contained. “For later,” she said.
I rode my bike home, and when I got there, I was shocked to find that the back door was unlocked. When I walked inside, my mother met me halfway across the laundry room. She had an odd expression on her face. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad, but she did not look happy. I started to hand her the paper bag when she reached out and slapped me across the face. It wasn’t a hard slap—more of a tap, really. But it made a loud noise that seemed to echo off the walls of the tiny room.
I was stunned. What had I done? She had to know it wasn’t my fault.
“It’s tradition,” she said without emotion. “It means you’re a woman now.”
I raised a hand to my face and stared at her.
“Don’t be so dramatic. Bubbe did the same thing to me.” Her voice sounded strange. It was almost apologetic. “Go up to your room now, and change.”
I didn’t know what else to do so I hurried past her, holding one hand against my cheek and grasping the rolled-up paper bag with the other.
When I got to my room, I was barely holding back the tears. She hit me because of some tradition? None of it made sense. My mother had never really been warm and fuzzy—but she’d never been cruel, either. And I couldn’t imagine Bubbe ever slapping anyone. Not even that old Mr. Fishel at the deli, who always tried to overcharge her by piling butcher paper on the scale before he weighed the brisket.
I noticed something on my bed. It was a big, square box with pink writing all over it.
Kotex. Judging by the size of the box, it must’ve contained enough of the darn things to last until I was as old as Bubbe.
I sank down on my bed and looked around the small room. The photos of Mia Hamm and Ellen DeGeneres that I had cut out of magazines and tacked up on the walls stared back at me. The images I woke up to every day now seemed unfamiliar. Like they belonged to somebody else.
My mother’s words still sounded in my ears. “You’re a woman now.”
Was I? The pain in my groin seemed to suggest I was.
I dropped back onto the bed and shoved the big, pink box off onto the floor. It landed with a thud. I had no idea what any of this was going to end up meaning—but I was pretty sure about one thing: because I had started to bleed, my life, as I knew it, would never again belong to me in quite the same way. Somehow, I had stopped being me, and had morphed into some kind of vessel. And all my innocence and childlike aspirations were now seeping out between my legs, and evaporating like gasoline on a hot, summer sidewalk.
And who was there to save me from such a fate?
No one.
Yes. They were right. I was a woman now.
6
Happy Hour
“Hold up. I want to talk with you about something.”
Linda had followed Kate out of the restaurant. The Outliners had just finished their morning session and were now splitting up to work on their draft essays.
They were making slow progress. Montana seemed more preoccupied with preventing Quinn from bringing about the apocalyptic maritime disaster that Viv kept predicting. And V. Jay-Jay didn’t do much more than sit in her chair and use her body language to make it clear that she thought the entire group process was a ridiculous waste of time. Kate was finding it increasingly hard to disagree with her.
Barb never missed an opportunity to express her concern when the entire group got together to compare notes. They were at the end of the first week, and it was looking uncomfortably like the group would be unable to complete its contributions to the project before their time together ran out.
Kate stopped and waited for Linda to catch up with her. Linda was breathing heavily. Kate wondered if that meant she had started smoking again. Linda was always trying to give up something—usually without success.
“Have you got a minute?” Linda asked.
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“Let’s go out on the lawn and sit down for a minute.”
Okay. That sounded serious.
“Is everything okay?” Kate asked.
Linda nodded. “Better than okay. Come on. Let’s grab a couple of chairs.”
They walked out across the lush, green grass. It was a cool morning, but warm in the sun. Kate made a beeline toward a couple of chairs that were nicely situated in the open, facing the lake, but Linda stopped her and pointed toward a cluster of other chairs that sat in the shadow of a large maple tree.
“How about over there? I have a headache and don’t really want to sit in the sun.”
“Okay.” Kate pulled her lightweight jacket closed. She followed Linda to the chairs she’d indicated. Linda didn’t waste any time after they sat down.
“I’m retiring.”
Kate was stunned. Linda was only in her mid-fifties. “From the
magazine?”
“From everything. I’ve been at Gilded Lily since it first went live back in 2009. I’m tired and I want to quit.”
“Is everything okay?”
Linda looked confused by Kate’s question. “With?”
“Well. You.”
“You mean am I sick or anything?”
Kate nodded.
“No.” Linda sighed. “Not exactly.”
Kate opened her mouth to follow up, but Linda held out a palm to silence her. “I’m not sick.”
“I don’t get it. Why don’t you just take a sabbatical?”
“From an online magazine? Kate, if I so much as go out for lunch I practically have to reintroduce myself to the staff when I get back.”
That part made sense. Working in television was pretty much the same way.
Linda was shaking her white head. “I probably could’ve handled this intro a bit better. I think I just successfully undercut my argument.”
“What argument?”
Linda smiled. “I want you to take my place.”
Kate’s eyes grew wide.
“Before you ask,” Linda added, “I’m not kidding.”
In her gut, Kate was pretty sure about what Linda was suggesting, but her brain wasn’t allowing her to admit the possibility.
“What exactly are we talking about?”
“I want you to take over as editor in chief of Gilded Lily.”
Jesus Christ.
She stared at Linda.
“No,” Linda repeated. “I’m not kidding.”
“Why me?”
“Why not you? You’re perfect. And now, with your network media following, you’ve got the street cred to take the magazine to the next level. You need to know that the board is one hundred percent behind this. They’re prepared to offer you a very sweet package.”
This wasn’t happening. It was like fate had just handed her a gold-plated, Get Out of Jail Free card. That is, once she navigated getting out of her GMA contract.
“I have a contract with ABC.”
Linda was unfazed. “Patty’s people will take care of it.”
Patty was the magazine’s publisher. Her father was a cutthroat intellectual property attorney with offices on the Upper East Side.
“God.”
“Kate?”
Kate looked at her.
“You can get out of New York.”
“And go back to Atlanta?”
“Not necessarily. You can live wherever you want—as long as you have access to an airport and high-speed Internet service.”
This was not happening. It was too easy. Too convenient. The timing was too coincidental.
She felt herself starting to panic. The sleeping dogs of fear and suspicion that lived inside her began to rear their heads. What if it didn’t work out? What if she got what she thought she wanted and it ended up being another colossal mistake?
She wasn’t ready. She needed more time—more time to calm down. More time to be sure.
“I have to think about it.”
Linda nodded. “I know you do. I’ll email you the details of the offer. You can let me know something in a day or two.”
Kate didn’t reply.
“Kate?” Linda leaned forward in her chair. “This is a great opportunity for you. You can do work you’re good at and really make a difference in ways that matter. Don’t walk away from it.”
“You are.” The words were out of Kate’s mouth before she could stop them.
“Touché.” Linda sat back. “One day I’ll tell you why. For now, just accept that I’ve done my time and need to go in another direction—by choice. If you agree to take this job, I’ll know I’m leaving Lily in great hands—and that matters to me.”
“I don’t mean to be a bitch.”
“I know you don’t. It’s second nature.”
Kate laughed. “You really do know me, Linda.”
“That’s right. I do. And that’s why you need to trust me. This is right for you, Kate. Just right.”
Just right? That remained to be seen.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good. I can’t ask more than that.”
“You promise you’re okay?”
“Not quite yet.” Linda smiled. “But I will be.” She got to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go make some progress on those infernal essays. I refuse to sit through another one of Barb’s exasperated diatribes.”
Kate stood up, too.
Avoiding Barb’s exasperation was now the least of her problems.
“Seriously? Deli sandwiches do not require this much scrutiny.”
Darien was drumming her fingers against her pant leg. V. Jay-Jay had been poring over the sandwich descriptions on the menu board for more than ten minutes. It was nearly eleven-thirty, and the place was starting to get busy.
V. Jay-Jay continued to ignore her.
“Come on, Vee.” Darien tried again. “It’s lunch—not a lifetime commitment.”
“Do you mind?” V. Jay-Jay finally acknowledged her. “I’m trying to minimize damage here.”
“Damage? Damage to what?”
“My gastrointestinal system.”
“Oh, give me a break. You weren’t worried about your GI system yesterday when you pounded those two Snickers bars.”
“That’s different. I have a weakness for confections.”
“Well, I’m no connoisseur, but I think some people would argue that Snickers bars don’t rise to the level of ‘confection.’”
“Regardless, I have to be careful about not ingesting too many nitrites or BHA.”
“What the hell is BHA?”
“Butylated hydroxyanisole.”
Darien rolled her eyes. “Of course. How could I have forgotten?”
“The more you distract me, the longer this will take.”
“Fine. Let’s simplify. Just get the veggie wrap.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes it is. Vegetables are uncomplicated. You taught me that.”
“Not all vegetables are uncomplicated. Some have unfortunate side effects.”
Darien sighed. “Why don’t you just take a break from the vegan stuff and eat half of mine?” She held up a white bag.
“Yours?” V. Jay-Jay looked dubious. “What did you get?”
“A number six.” Darien pointed it out on the board. “The Eutaw Springs Special.”
“Eutaw Springs? I’m no expert on the American Revolution, but wasn’t that a blood bath?”
“Beats me.” Darien shrugged. “I must’ve cut class that day.”
“Right.” V. Jay-Jay took the bag from Darien and sniffed at it. “What’s on it?”
“Pastrami, corned beef, and Swiss on dark pump with coleslaw and Russian dressing.”
V. Jay-Jay handed the bag back to her. “I see this sandwich comes by its name honestly.”
Darien sighed. “I think I saw some raw turnips in the cooler back there. Why don’t we just score a couple of those and be done with it?” She warmed to her idea. “We could even call it a Scarlett O’Hara.”
“You’re not really achieving your goal to speed this process along. Why don’t you go get us some drinks while I order?”
“Great idea. Do you want your usual?”
“I have a usual?”
“Sure. Those weird-ass, Moxie seltzer things.”
“Yes. Right. Get me one of my weird-ass usual’s.”
Darien smiled at her. “I’m all over it.”
“I’ll meet you up front at checkout.”
Darien turned around and began to make her way toward the drink coolers. In the time she’d been standing there deliberating the evils of meat preservatives, the place had filled up with hungry, early-season vacationers. The corridors were narrow at best, and now they were rapidly becoming choked with people who seemed to have little inclination to make way for someone wanting to go in the opposite direction.
“Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Thanks.”
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Good god. It’s not like this joint is gonna run outta ham.
She all but slammed into the back of a tall man who was bent over looking at bags of chips. Something about him seemed familiar. He had a full head of carefully coiffed blonde hair and he smelled like he’d taken a bath in Old Spice.
Oh, Jesus.
Darien nearly dropped her bag. She backed away from him in horror and retraced her steps. This time, she didn’t bother to apologize as she shoved her way back through the same crush of people. She just wanted to get out. She didn’t bother to find V. Jay-Jay. She just made a beeline for the exit.
Once she was in the parking lot, she sagged against the side of the building and tried to steady her breathing.
What the hell was he doing up here? New England wasn’t his usual stomping ground.
And why the fuck did I have to trip over him again?
She realized that her hands were shaking. People who were walking toward the store were giving her odd looks. She wiped at her nose. It was running.
I gotta get outta here.
She couldn’t just take off and leave V. Jay-Jay behind. She looked around for someplace to go and try to settle down.
There were a couple of picnic tables across the road. They overlooked the lake. That might work. She could walk over there and figure things out. Get her bearings. Maybe I’ll see him leave, and I can go back inside and find Vee.
Fat chance. Even if he left he’d never be gone. Her reaction to seeing him again was proof enough of that.
This was fucking surreal. Two seconds ago, her biggest problem was picking out the right kind of fizzy drink. Now she felt like she’d fallen down a rabbit hole and landed right in the middle of her worst waking nightmare.
Looking at the water helped. So did squeezing her hands against the rough planks on the picnic table. Watching the waves advance and retreat was hypnotic. It reminded her that there were bigger forces than her fears. Things like the tides.
“I’ve got a credit card and a car.” That’s what her best friend, Amy, told her. “I never have to be a victim again.”
But Amy’s advice was always predicated on running away—running farther and faster than whatever was chasing her.