And now finally, here’s Ruth, striding toward Gemma, two cups of coffee in her hands. Gemma’s heart lifts at the sight of her friend.
“Gemma,” Ruth shouts happily.
Ruth looks stunning as usual, her beauty effortless. She wears her hair pulled back with a tortoiseshell clip, two tendrils framing her face. High-waisted vintage mom jeans (they’re back in style, apparently, but you can only get away with them if you’re really skinny), a blue-and-white-striped agnès b. shirt, and an Old Navy cardigan. High-low—Ruth has mastered it. Gemma has mastered low-low. A pilled pair of yoga pants. An ancient Patagonia fleece, pockets filled with crumpled-up Kleenex and a dried-out tube of Blistex.
“You,” says Ruth, beaming at her. “All fresh-faced. You look like you’re in college.” She hands Gemma a coffee.
“You’re an angel.” Gemma takes a sip of her soy latte with two pumps of vanilla. Ruth knows just how she likes it.
Ruth adjusts her sunglasses. “Shall we?”
They start walking.
“So, I look twenty-one?” asks Gemma.
“Mmmm, thirty-five, thirty-six.”
“I thought you said college.”
“Yes, college. An untraditional student. You had your kid, now you’re back getting your master’s,” says Ruth.
“In what?”
“Interior design.”
“Ha-ha.” Her house is the opposite of interior designed. It’s just—interior.
“Get ready to speed up,” murmurs Ruth.
They’re closing in on a pair of older women. Ruth can’t stand to have anybody in her space. She likes to keep a distance of twenty or thirty feet between her and other people, which means when you agree to take a walk with Ruth you will regularly be asked to speed up. Gemma’s used to it. They trot by the women and resume their regular pace.
“Maybe you should go back to college. Maybe you should get a degree in interior design,” says Gemma.
Ruth gives her a small, distracted smile. “Funny you should say that.”
“You’re going back to school?”
“No, but I think it’s time for me to do something. Don’t you agree? Be honest. I’m bored out of my mind and I’m too focused on Marley. I’ve vacated myself. I feel crazy.”
“Welcome to the club.”
“When will this be over?”
“The worrying? The obsession? Never.”
“Come on, once they go to college? It’s got to get better.”
Gemma doesn’t know what Ruth has to complain about. She’s got the easiest child in the universe. Let Ruth spend a couple of weeks with Bee, that would give her perspective.
“I think you need a job,” says Gemma.
“Doing what? I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for fourteen years. I have a degree in English. I’m useless.”
They cruise past the bird sanctuary. Egrets and pelicans. And geese. Way too many aggressive geese. They scare Gemma. She hops around them.
“Maria’s leaving in January; she’s moving to New York. You can come work for me. Be my tutoring coordinator. You’d be great at it. All it takes is an organized mind.”
As soon as Gemma says this, she regrets it. Still riding high on Ruth’s compliment, feeling flush with goodwill toward her friend, she’s over extended herself. She doesn’t want to see Ruth every day. That would be the end of them. Their relationship couldn’t bear the weight of that intensity. Ruth is not a laid-back person. She doesn’t roll with the punches, like Maria.
“That’s kind of you, Gemma, but I think you’d get sick of me,” says Ruth.
“Sick of you? Never!” says Gemma enthusiastically, trying to mask her remorse.
“You mean it?”
“Yes, I mean it,” says Gemma, dialing her enthusiasm down a few notches. Ruth doesn’t notice.
Ruth drains her coffee and throws the cup in a garbage bin. “Wow. Well, I wasn’t expecting that, but great. I’ll think about it. It could be fun. You and me working together.”
She puts her arm around Gemma and gives her a squeeze. Gemma’s stomach contracts at the thought of seeing Ruth every day.
“I have another idea,” says Gemma. “Maybe a better one. One that would put your English degree to work.”
Years ago, when they were in the first flushes of friendship and hungry for each other’s histories, Gemma had read Ruth’s thesis: “Feminism and Sacrifice in the Poems of Sylvia Plath.” It was a dense read. She’d used the word interstitial seven times.
A little furrow of doubt pops up between Ruth’s eyes.
“College essays. It’s the only part of the SAT prep business I don’t handle. I outsource it,” says Gemma. Even though she knows Ruth doesn’t need the money, she says, “College essay tutors get paid tons. A hundred twenty-five, a hundred fifty dollars an hour. If you’re really, really good and your kids get into Ivies, two hundred, two hundred fifty. I send my clients to this woman, Leyla Haas, in Berkeley. She taught English at City College for years. She loves it. It’s seasonal work. Incredibly rewarding. You’d be a natural at it, Ruth.”
“Really? College essays?”
Gemma takes out her phone and googles “college prompts.”
“ ‘The lessons we take from obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, setback, or failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?’ ” Gemma recites. “That’s a common app prompt. Kind of boring.” She scrolls through the prompts. “ ‘ “I have no special talent,” Albert Einstein once observed. “I am only passionately curious.” Tell us what you’re curious about.’ ”
She waggles her eyebrows at Ruth. “Interesting, right?”
“Hmm,” says Ruth, unconvinced.
Gemma keeps scrolling and hits the college-prompt jackpot. “ ‘Twenty years ago, the world met Harry Potter and his companions. One of the more memorable lines from the J. K. Rowling series was spoken by Albus Dumbledore. “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” What ideas or experiences bring you joy?’ ” Gemma reads. “That’s good. Huh, huh?” She pokes Ruth.
“Not bad,” concedes Ruth.
“It’s a niche market. I bet you’d find it fulfilling. I could start sending business your way tomorrow.”
“Where would I work?”
Gemma is not going to make the mistake of offering up Study Right again. “Leyla works out of her home,” she suggests.
“Absolutely not,” says Ruth. “What if Marley was there? It would be too weird. Her classmates traipsing through the house. Besides, she’s self-conscious these days. She’s gained a lot of weight. She’s so bloated. I’ve started putting Metamucil into her smoothies, that’s the only way she’s regular. She’d kill me if she knew, but imagine not shitting for five days.”
“Right,” says Gemma, thinking the weirdness would not be Marley, it would be Ruth’s stunning Craftsman. Parents want their tutors to live in nicely kept-up middle-class houses. They want them educated and successful, but not too successful. In it for the right reasons, to help their precious child unearth their authenticity and package it all up in five hundred wow words.
Wait a minute, Ruth put laxatives in Marley’s smoothies without telling her?
They’re at the top of the lake now. White-shirted, khaki-panted boys and girls from the local school do wind sprints, sit-ups, and push-ups.
“I know! The school library,” says Gemma. “Kids get tutored there all the time.”
“That could work I guess,” Ruth says.
“It’d be all on your schedule,” says Gemma. “You decide how many clients. You decide the hours. Start small, see if you like it, and if you do, build.”
“Fifty bucks an hour,” says Ruth. “I don’t need the money.”
“Fifty bucks isn’t enough,” says Gemma. “You won’t get any business. Parents need to think they’re getting something valuable. A hundred bucks.”
“A hundred,” says Gemma firmly. “And you’ll have to increase your rates when you get more business.”
“I don’t feel right about that.”
“Then donate the money. Create a fund so you can take on some kids for free.”
Ruth claps her hands together. “Oh, Gemma, it’s a perfect idea. Thank you. I never would have thought of it myself.”
And for once, Gemma feels like the powerful one. She’s not the one struggling. The one with the fucked-up daughter who needs a handout. She’s the one in control, dispensing advice, throwing business Ruth’s way.
“So how are things with Simon?” Ruth asks.
Mmm, not so great. Simon has been taking longer and longer to reply to her texts. She checked in with him this morning. A simple hope you have a great day and it’s been over two hours and still no response.
“Okay,” says Gemma.
“Just okay?”
“I don’t know. He’s been kind of distant lately. It wasn’t serious anyway. I mean we basically just met. And if it doesn’t work out, no biggie. It’s not like I’d be devastated.”
This isn’t true, Gemma just doesn’t want to talk about it with Ruth. In fact, she’s fallen hard for Simon and wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps something happened with Tom that’s distracted him. She has firsthand knowledge of how quickly life can change when your kid is in crisis.
“I thought you really liked him. I mean—you had us all over for that fancy dinner so you could introduce us to him. That’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?”
“Ruth, can we please not talk about this now?”
But Ruth presses on. “Did he break up with you? He did, didn’t he? How could he break up with you? You’re perfect! That asshole. No wonder you’re so upset. Jesus, men suck.”
Why is Ruth digging at her like this? It’s almost like she wants her to break down.
“I’m not upset, Ruth, I just don’t want to talk about it. Please drop it.”
Ruth puts her hands up in defeat. Gemma hears a muted chime from her pocket. Simon?
“So, change of subject. I want to do something for you. For us,” says Ruth.
“You’ve done so much for us already, Ruth. We’re fine. We really are.”
“Come to Aspen with me for Christmas. You know Marley’s going to be at her father’s and I’ll be all alone, so please, please say yes. I’ve already got Paul Prentice lined up.”
Paul Prentice! Gemma’s mouth waters just hearing his name. He cooks for all the stars and their families when they vacation in Aspen: Tom Brady and Gisele Bündchen, J. Lo and A-Rod—and one lucky private citizen, Ruth Thorne.
Paul was their personal chef in Aspen when the girls were in kindergarten, first, and second grades. One Christmas, Gemma stumbled upon his invoice. Ten thousand a week! They ate like kings. Or queens. Ruth, Marley, Gemma, and Bee.
Then there was Bluestone, the home Ruth always rents. A slope-side mansion with a heated pool, a home theater, and a bowling alley. A luxurious vacation, an escape! It could be just what she and Bee need.
“Well, let me talk to Bee and get her input, but geez that sounds really nice,” says Gemma.
MARLEY
November 10, 7:30 p.m.
So tell me one thing your mother’s done that made you feel bad, Marley.
She blamed me for not getting invited to Bee’s birthday party
Interesting. Can you say more?
She said she understood why Bee dumped me. Because I have zits. Because I don’t dress better or act confident. Because I’m so needy and I give off this desperate vibe that repulses people
Oh, Marley. That must have hurt.
She’s right. I am a bottomless pit of need. I’m so hungry ALL THE TIME. For food. For attention. For everything. I know it sounds ridiculous because we’re rich and I have everything but sometimes I feel like I have nothing. Nothing I do or say means anything to anybody so why even try. Nobody cares. Except maybe Gemma. She sends me texts every now and then. She calls me sweetie
I care, Marley. So Gemma’s a good friend to you? Kind of like an aunt?
I guess
Marley, what are you feeling right now?
Like shit. Like I sold my mother out. Why did you make me do that?
You didn’t sell your mother out. You simply told me something that happened that was painful.
She’s not a terrible person
I didn’t say she was.
I wouldn’t be who I am without her
And who are you, Marley?
I’m strong. I’m smart. I’m not a quitter. I’m resourceful
There you are, Marley. I see you.
I’ve gotta go
You’re upset. Please don’t leave like this.
I have to FaceTime with my father. He’s expecting my call.
Will you tell him about what your mother said?
He knows everything
Good. I hope your conversation with your dad brings you comfort.
Marley sits on her bed, her head in her hands. She’s a liar. She doesn’t have a FaceTime call scheduled with her father, and she won’t be telling him what her mother said. Her father knows nothing about the cruelty Marley has endured at her mother’s hands over the years. If she told him, it would not only expose her mother, it would expose her. All her humiliating bits. She is gross. She is somebody to be ashamed of. To dodge. To ignore. Telling the truth is simply out of the question. What happens in their house stays in their house—that’s their unspoken pact. Besides, she only has four more years and then she’ll be free.
* * *
She FaceTimes her father anyway. He picks up immediately.
“Marley! What a surprise!”
Marley hears Oscar and Luciana in the background. She’s reading to him. Is that Goodnight Moon? Marley’s chest burns with jealousy.
“What’s doing?” he asks. “You look great!”
Marley does not look great. Her eyes are swollen from crying. Her cheeks bright red.
“Not much.”
“No reason for the call?”
“I just—was missing you.”
His face softens. “I miss you, too, Marls. Christmas is too far away. I can’t wait that long. Do you think you could steal away? Maybe the weekend after Thanksgiving?”
“Dad!” Marley hears Oscar shouting.
“I’m FaceTiming with Marley,” he shouts back.
“Daaaaaddd,” Oscar shouts again.
“Darling, hold on a sec.” He puts his phone face up on the coffee table and the screen fills with a blue sky and puffy clouds. Luciana is an artist, and nearly every wall and ceiling is covered with her murals. Oscar’s room looks exactly like the forest in Where the Wild Things Are.
Their home is the complete opposite of Marley’s sterile house. It’s messy, but a good messy. Books and magazines strewn across the dining room table. A half-finished game of chess on the floor. Abandoned mugs of tea everywhere.
Her father teaches high school history; Luciana is an administrator in the Psych Department at Sac State. Their lives are abundant, even if their finances are not.
A rustling and her father picks up his phone. He peers into it. “Sorry about that. I was prevailed upon to read the last page of Goodnight Moon. Apparently, I have quite the this is the last book now go to bed voice.”
“Right,” says Marley.
“So what about the weekend. Will you check with your mom?”
“Okay.” Marley will not be checking with her mom. She’s lucky to be going for two weeks to her father’s at Christmas. She doesn’t want to do anything to put that vacation in jeopardy.
“And how is your mom?”
Marley hesitates and then says, “She’s good. She’s working with some kids on their college essays. Trying to start a little business, I guess.”
Her father’s eyes crinkle up with approval. “Well, that’s marvelous news. I bet she’d be rea
lly good at that.”
“I guess. I’d better go. Haven’t finished my homework yet.”
“I’m proud of you, Marley. You have such an amazing work ethic.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Let me know about the weekend.”
“I will. Talk to you soon. Bye.”
“Bye, kiddo.”
Her father stays on for another ten seconds or so, his index finger punching the screen, a confused look on his face, trying to end the call. “Luciana, can you—” he shouts, then his face disappears.
BEE
It’s a beautiful Saturday. Her mother is at work. The SLUTZ are at the Emeryville mall. Well, all the SLUTZ except Bee. She’s still mad about the party and the way they abandoned her. They hadn’t meant to, they’d said. They all thought she’d been picked up by her mother. Apparently, she’d been so drunk she’d been staggering around calling for her mom. How effing embarrassing. Like she was some little kid. Nobody ever thought to search for her. If they had, they’d have found her passed out behind the TV. Those bitches.
Still she misses them. A few more days of depriving them of her presence and she’ll let them welcome her back in.
She picks up her phone and starts scrolling mindlessly. She has a public Insta and as of today 1,282 followers, but it’s gotten a little boring. No matter what she posts, she gets hundreds of likes, most of them from strangers, many of them bots or creeps. She scrolls through only the first thirty or so of the comments, which are usually kids from school, the rest she ignores.
She makes herself a PB&J for lunch. Downs it with a tall glass of milk and finishes it off with six Oreos. No matter what she eats she doesn’t gain weight. That will change, her mother said, so enjoy it while you can. Her appetite is enormous these days. She wonders if it’s the Prozac that’s making her so hungry.
Did I Say You Could Go Page 14
