“Please, Mom, don’t. You can trust me,” she begs.
“It’s happening. Deal with it. I won’t lock the door until I go to bed. Eleven at the earliest. The important thing is you’ll be protected from making bad choices. I’m on your side. I’m your biggest fan. I want you to be your best self.” Her mother squints at her like she’s three years old. “Oh, Marley bear. Can’t you see, this is a positive thing?”
Marley tries one last time. “But what if my friends come over?”
“What friends, Marley?” her mother snaps. “Don’t make this into some big thing. It’s nothing. It’s a weight-loss plan and it’s temporary. As soon as you lose the weight, I’ll have Sander take it off. And I didn’t tell him the truth if you’re wondering. I told him you were sneaking out to meet with some boy.”
She winks.
October 10, 9:12 p.m.
Guess what Soleil? I lost three pounds
Did you want to lose three pounds Marley?
I want to lose thirty pounds
Thirty pounds? Really?? Skeptical face with raised eyebrow.
I have a new diet
What is it? Gluten-free? Vegetarian? Please don’t tell me you’re doing that Paleo thing. We are not cave people.
Moderation. That’s my diet
Well that sounds sane!
Mom’s helping me. It’s a team effort. It was her idea. Eat everything just eat less of it. And no nighttime eating. That’s the most important thing
So sort of an intermittent fasting? You only eat between certain hours?
Exactly!
You sound excited.
I am. And so is Mom. Smiley face. Taro Boba tea.
Ninth grade can be tough. It’s such a transitional year but you’re off to a great start. Making good choices. Being true to yourself.
Ya
How about your dad? Do you talk to him often?
We FaceTime every week. We’re pretty close. I mean he knows everything that’s going on in my life. Well not everything but ya know
That’s great. How often do you see each other? Do you have an every other weekend arrangement?
Technically we do but it’s a couple of hours to Sacramento and I just have so much more homework now. So really it’s just on holidays and in the summer
Is that enough contact for you?
It’s enough contact for my mother lol
She doesn’t want you to see your father regularly?
Um no. That’s not what I meant. It’s more of she doesn’t want to drive me. There’s always so much traffic.
There are other ways to get to Sacramento.
Really it’s fine. I’m fine. You don’t need to keep asking about it
Gotcha. Okay. So is there anything else going on?
Not really
You’re sure? How are things with Bee?
I have no idea. We don’t speak anymore.
Ouch. That must be really tough. How do you feel about that?
Tbh I don’t feel much about it. I guess I’m not all that surprised. She’s dumped me before. I don’t know why I thought it would be different this time
She doesn’t sound like a trustworthy friend.
Ya
I’m sorry, Marley.
I’m over it
So are you hanging out with anybody new?
Sometimes I sit with this kid Lewis at lunch
Interesting. Tell me more.
I knew you were gonna say that. Gotta go. I’ll check in when I’m ten pounds lighter
Wait, we have lots of time. Let’s keep talking.
I’ve got a history test tomorrow
All right, Marley. Do you want to set up a time for our next session? We can do that, you know. Set up a regular time.
No I’d rather just check in when I need it
Check in anytime, Marley. Yellow heart, purple heart. Evergreen tree.
GEMMA
“Orange is the new ‘it’ color,” says Ruth, handing her a bottle of OPI’s Freedom of Peach.
Ruth is treating Gemma to a pedicure at the Claremont Spa.
“Mmm,” says Gemma. She wants Don’t Toot My Flute—a gorgeous lavender.
“She’ll go with Freedom of Peach,” Ruth tells Gemma’s nail technician, and because Ruth is paying, Gemma goes along with Ruth’s color choice. She doesn’t care about her toenails anyway. They’re beyond help.
Gemma says to the nail technician, “I’m sorry, my feet are kind of gross.”
The nail technician says, “I’ve seen worse,” and Gemma laughs.
Ruth glares and Gemma knows exactly what she’s thinking. This is the Claremont, not some hole-in-the-wall nail place on Fruitvale.
“Ow!” Ruth yanks her foot out of the nail technician’s hand. She leans forward inspecting her foot. “Am I bleeding?”
“No, ma’am,” says the nail technician, looking terrified. “It’s just that you have thick cuticles.”
“I do not have thick cuticles. I’ve never heard of such a thing. And don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ I hate that word. It’s insulting.”
Gemma sneaks a look at Ruth’s toes. She does not have pretty feet. It’s the only part of her that isn’t perfection.
“Are you on Match?” Gemma asks Ruth. “Or Hinge?”
“No, why? Are you?” Ruth retorts sharply.
Whoops, sensitive subject. At least she didn’t ask about Tinder. Ruth’s in one of her moods. Now Gemma will have to spend the afternoon pussyfooting around her. Well, screw that.
“Ruth, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Did I do something to make you angry?”
Ruth sighs dramatically. “Marley’s father just called to confirm the dates for Christmas and New Year’s. She’ll be gone for two weeks.”
“Oh, right. I think Marley mentioned that when we had lunch.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was kind of looking forward to it.” Isn’t it time Ruth got over it? Marley has been traveling back and forth to her father’s for years.
Ruth’s face blanches. Gemma should clearly talk about neutral topics—movies, books, music—but she can’t help herself. There’s a part of her that wants to needle Ruth. Get her going.
“Is Ed really that bad?” she asks.
Ruth’s nostrils flare.
Ruth has a little bit of a horse face, Gemma thinks. How has she not seen that before?
“Are you serious? How can you ask me that question?”
Gemma is determined not to back down. She wanted lavender toenails but Ruth forced her into peach.
“He seems like he’s a good dad. Marley adores him. I know they FaceTime regularly. And his wife and son seem to love Marley. It’s just hard to believe he’s a—sex addict,” Gemma whispers.
Splotches of red appear on Ruth’s neck. If she was capable of sputtering, she would be sputtering. Instead her mouth falls open, slack.
“It just doesn’t make sense. Not from everything Marley’s told me,” says Gemma, thinking if Ed really were a sex addict, how would he get visitation rights? There had to be more to the story.
“And what exactly has Marley told you?”
“She just seems so happy to go.”
“Why do I feel like I’m on trial?”
“You’re not on trial, Ruth, don’t be silly.”
“Then why are you interrogating me?”
“I’m your best friend, Ruth. I’m just asking you some questions. Trying to understand what’s really going on. You can tell me the truth. I’ll always be on your side.”
Gemma’s declaration of loyalty sounds false to her own ears. Even as she says it she knows it’s not completely true. Her loyalty has limitations.
“I’ve been telling you the truth all along,” shrieks Ruth, “and you won’t fucking listen to me!”
The heads of the other customers swivel in their direction, their eyebrows raised, a certain sort of contained glee in their faces. One of their tribe is breaking down, is losing it in public no
less.
Ruth realizes she has an audience and abruptly changes her tone. “It’s just so painful to talk about. Ed broke my heart. You don’t know how lucky you are. So in love with your husband, even now, when he’s been gone for years. He treated you like a queen. You were beloved to him. You and Bee were his entire world. What I wouldn’t give for a love like that.”
Gemma fills with remorse. Why did she push Ruth? Why did she want to get a rise out of her? Shit. She’s going to have to apologize again.
Gemma picks up Ruth’s hand and pats it. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Forgive me, Ruth, forgive me.”
The customers get back to their People and Star magazines.
“I have a lump,” says Ruth after a while.
RUTH
Ruth had been so panicked by Gemma’s poking, her insinuations, that the untruth (she can’t bear to call it a lie because it wasn’t premeditated) just slipped out: I have a lump. If she’d been thinking clearly, she could have taken it back. There were many ways to finish that sentence. I have a lump… in my throat. I have a lump… of a daughter. But she hadn’t been quick enough.
In my left breast. That’s what she’d said.
And now, as she scans the Mayo Clinic’s page detailing the various kinds of breast biopsies, she is offended on her own behalf. Angry at Gemma for forcing her into this situation. She may be a truth stretcher, but she is not mentally ill. She does not have Munchausen’s.
However, her statement did cause the desired outcome—an outpouring of Gemma’s love and concern. And then a different line of questioning ensued.
What can I do? How long have you known? Why haven’t you told me? I feel TERRIBLE you’ve been going through this yourself.
Ruth feels terrible, too, as she peruses the page. So many decisions to make. Should she go for the fine-needle aspiration? A core needle biopsy? A surgical biopsy?
Ruth decides on the core needle. It’s the most common of the biopsies and it’s done under a local anesthesia. She knows Gemma will google the hell out of the procedure. She better be prepared.
Ruth’s phone chimes. A text from Gemma. Sometimes she feels like Gemma is listening inside her head. Maybe in her lifetime her smartphone will have metamorphosed into a smart implant and she’ll be able to download a constant stream of her thoughts and feelings to Gemma. How amazing would that be?
When’s the appointment? I want to come with you. I’m not letting you do this alone.
Joy washes over Ruth. Such a rare emotion for her—she can’t remember the last time she felt its pounding, thrumming breathlessness. She may as well milk this.
Not for a week!
What? That’s unconscionable. How can they make you wait a week?
A week in which Gemma treats Ruth to her full attention. Like a knight, she swears her fealty to Ruth. She issues assurances it will all be fine. The biopsy will come back normal. She’s been praying on it, she’s actually been to church on Ruth’s behalf. And there’s no need to tell Marley. No need to scare her. They’ll carry this burden, just the two of them. They’ll see it across the finish line.
Ruth has never experienced such pure, undiluted love. She’s been waiting all her life for this kind of attention. She grows weak with happiness. At night, she palpates her breast. Maybe she does have a lump. Maybe she does have cancer.
The day before the supposed biopsy, Ruth calls Gemma.
“They had a cancellation, I’m going in to do the biopsy right now.”
“Right now? Damn, I have a meeting. I wanted to drive you.”
“I can drive. It’s not like they’re putting me under or anything.”
“Okay, I’m out of here at five, I can pick up Marley, have her over for dinner.”
“There’s no need,” says Ruth in a trembling voice that isn’t faked. She feels quivery and sad this is coming to an end. “I should be home long before then.”
“Okay. So will you have the results today?”
Hmm, maybe she can drag this out just a little bit longer. “Monday,” says Ruth.
“Ugh. More waiting. Why don’t you come for lunch on Sunday?”
* * *
Ruth arrives at Gemma’s twenty minutes before they’re supposed to meet. She knocks on the back door and lets herself in; it’s unlocked as usual.
“Gemma!” she shouts. “Beeeee!”
No answer. The house is empty. Ruth does a quick sweep of the kitchen. The fridge is packed with blackberries and hummus and fresh chicken soup; Gemma must have just done a TJ’s run. She sifts through a stack of unopened mail. Nothing but bills and credit card applications. She rummages through the junk drawer—what a mess! Hasn’t she heard of drawer organizers?
She goes upstairs to Gemma’s bedroom. On her bedside table is a copy of Brené Brown’s Rising Strong. “If we are brave enough often enough, we will fall. This is a book about what it takes to get back up.” Ruth snorts.
She opens the bedside table drawer. A jumbo pack of hot pink earplugs. A tube of Smith’s Rosebud Salve. And a half-full bottle of Ambien. Now, that’s a surprise.
Only twenty-four hours until her pretend biopsy comes back and only twenty-four hours left of Gemma’s undivided attention. What is she going to do when it’s over?
* * *
Five minutes later, Gemma bustles through the kitchen door, a bag of takeout in her arms, a startled look on her face.
“Ruth. You’re here. We said twelve, didn’t we?”
“I just got here a minute ago. I let myself in, hope that’s okay. You really should start locking that door, Gemma. Crime in this neighborhood has increased by twenty percent. I read that in the Chron this morning.”
Gemma ignores her warning. “Is Bee around?” She nudges the door shut with her foot.
“I don’t think so. I called upstairs and nobody answered.”
“She must be at Coco’s.”
Ruth plasters on a fake smile. Fucking Coco. Fucking Madison.
“Let me help you.” Ruth takes the bag from Gemma and puts it on the counter. “You’re such a doll. What did you get?”
“Burma Moon,” says Gemma, grinning. “Tea Leaf Salad, Mango Chicken, Garlic Noodles.”
Ruth’s face falls. “Burmese? I hate Burmese. All that fermentation. Dried shrimp sprinkled on everything.”
Gemma wrinkles her brow, confused. “You said it was your favorite.”
“I never said it was my favorite.”
“You did. You said you loved Burma Moon.”
Ruth shakes her head. “I really can’t take this kind of accusation right now.”
“Accusation? Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little bit?”
“Well, it’s not like you’re blameless.”
“Ruth, what the hell. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Do I have to spell it out?”
“I guess you do.”
What’s with the attitude? Ruth’s the wounded one here.
“It seems you have so many friends that it’s hard to keep them straight. It must have been one of your other friends who said they loved Burma Moon. Madison, most likely.”
Gemma tucks her chin into her chest. She’s doubting herself now. “I’m sorry, Ruth. I thought it was you. I could have sworn it was you.”
“You need to take some omega threes. Get your vitamin D and B levels tested. Iron, too. Your memory?” Ruth twirls her finger.
“I thought after I stopped—”
“Stopped what?”
“Nothing.”
“The Ambien?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Bee told me.”
“She did?”
“She was worried. Don’t get mad at her.”
“When did she tell you?”
“I don’t know, a month ago or so? She made me pinkie swear not to tell you I knew.”
Gemma tosses the bag of takeout in the trash. “I’ve been off it for a while now.” She opens the cupboard
, trying to keep her voice from quavering. “I have chili, ramen. Annie’s Mac and Cheese.”
“Hey, didn’t your grandfather have Alzheimer’s?”asks Ruth.
Gemma’s mouth puckers, like she’s eaten something sour.
“Lawrence, that was his name, wasn’t it? I remember you telling me about going to visit him in the memory unit with your dad and brother. Long time ago now. I assume he’s passed?”
Gemma bites her lip. “I could make poached eggs. That’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?”
“Probably something to keep in the back of your mind. He was in his eighties when he was diagnosed, right? It wasn’t like early onset or anything?” Ruth flashes Gemma a sympathetic smile.
“Jesus, Ruth.” Gemma slumps against the counter.
“Oh, God, Gemma, did I scare you? I’m sorry. I just think—well, we shouldn’t bury our heads in the sand.”
“I’m not burying my head in the sand,” Gemma shouts.
“Gemma, doll. Don’t panic. If anything happens, and I’m sure it won’t, this is probably just garden-variety, middle-age, perimenopausal stuff, I’ll take care of you. And if anything happens to me, you’ll take care of me. When we’re old we’ll move in together, like The Golden Girls, oh, I love that show!”
All the blood drains from Gemma’s face; she’s the color of a doily.
“Gemma, are you okay?” Damn, she went too far. She always takes it too far.
Gemma ignores her and starts setting up the coffeemaker. She grinds the beans; a screeching sound fills the room. This is going all wrong.
When Gemma’s done grinding and sets the coffeemaker to brew, and the rich, comforting smell envelops them both, Ruth says, “By the way, I heard yesterday, I’m all clear.”
Even though Ruth has completely disassembled Gemma, Gemma still manages to give her a genuine smile of happiness.
“Really. That’s so great. I’m so relieved.”
Yes, she is relieved, so relieved that after Sunday lunch, Ruth doesn’t hear from her all week.
* * *
In Gemma’s absence, Ruth turns to her pod. MY MOTHER MADE ME DO IT is definitely filling a void, and Ruth is relying on them more and more.
Did I Say You Could Go Page 10
