Did I Say You Could Go

by Melanie Gideon

  Surprised

  Surprised? That’s all you felt?

  For God’s sake, what did you FEEL Marley? Breathless. Panicked. And what does panic feel like? Like getting punched in the stomach. Blood roaring. Noodle legs. Blurred vision. Ears stopped up. Stomach twisted.

  It’s time to start telling the truth.

  Terrified

  RUTH

  Ruth cranks Prince’s Purple Rain on the drive home. Exhilarated, she pumps her fist. She’s taken her power back. It felt heady to throw that $100 bill at Marley and ignore her as she got out of the car. Marley was totally unglued. Good! Let her suffer! Let her panic!

  Of course, Ruth already looked at the bus schedule. There’s a 12:00 express to Sacramento. Marley will be fine.

  “Let’s Go Crazy” comes on next. Ruth lets the song take her. Her head bobs. She lassos her hand around to the beat. She’s nobody’s victim. She’s not somebody to be pitied. She’s going to Cabo. She’s booked the penthouse. Her own private butler. Spa treatments every day.

  She stops at a traffic light. A car pulls up next to her and the driver gives her side-eye, like she’s crazy. Ruth shoots the driver a nasty look and the driver gives her the finger.

  That finger lodges in her like a bullet. So unexpected. So violent. Cars honk—the light is green. Ruth presses down on the gas pedal but she’s so distressed, the car barely moves. Angry drivers swerve around her. Only three miles away from home. Only two. Only one. “I Would Die 4 U” comes on next, and Ruth is overcome with grief.

  She would die for Marley. She would! And she didn’t even say goodbye to her baby. She just threw money at her like she was a prostitute. And now she’s gone for two weeks.

  By the time Ruth pulls into the driveway she sees herself clearly. An unwashed, unkempt, smelly shell of a woman, braless in a stained robe. She looks homeless, except for the fact that she’s driving a freshly detailed Model S.

  I’m sorry. The bus leaves at 12:00. Or I can come back and get you. Just LMK, I’ll be there in twenty, she texts Marley.

  She waits in the driveway staring at her phone. Nothing. She pitches forward and hits her forehead on the steering wheel so hard she almost passes out. She can feel the bump rising from her flesh like it would in a cartoon. A unicorn tusk. Zoing! She needs to pay for what she’s done. No wonder she’s spending the holidays alone. She’s driven everybody she loves away. She always knew it would come to this.

  Please honey please. Just tell me you’re ok.

  Her phone trills and Ruth’s heart jumps, ready to repent. But it’s not Marley, it’s her mom pod.

  HappilyEverAfter: Hey gals! How’s everybody? I’m feeling so festive! DH and I are going to get the tree tomorrow. We always wait until the last minute hahaha. We make a day of it. My youngest makes blondies. My oldest starts a fire by which I mean she torches up a Duraflame, that kid couldn’t make a real fire if her life depended on it. Love this time of year!

  TortoiseWinsTheRace: Agree! I feel all this goodwill toward everybody. This douchebag cut me off in traffic and all I did was give him a jaunty little wave. Blessings ladies. This is the time of year to count our blessings. We’re so damn lucky. Dream! Live! Love!

  WhatYouSeeIsNotWhatYouGet: Karma, dudes, it’s a bitch. By the time I was six I knew exactly where my mother hid all the presents before she wrapped them, so they were never a surprise, now my DD does the same thing. I ask you, what is the point? I should just give her a wad of cash and let her shop for herself.

  OneWayAtATime: Omg, my daughters won’t leave me alone this time of year. They’re superglued to me. They’re constantly hugging me, kissing me, telling me what a good mom I am. I don’t want to sound braggy because the rest of the year they act like I’m not even there, but these two weeks—this is when it’s all worth it. Family is the only thing that matters.

  HappilyEverAfter: They’re probably sucking up to you so you’ll get them what they want.

  OneWayAtATime: You’re probably right but you can’t fake love, you know. Oh god I’m crying. I’m so ridic!

  Are these women serious? If she has to listen to any more of their self-congratulatory shit, she’ll off herself. She stumbles into the house, praying the neighbors aren’t watching. The ground lurches in front of her. She has no depth perception.

  Is she concussed?

  * * *

  At 5:13 Ed calls, and Ruth panics. She put her daughter in danger. She literally tossed her to the curb. What was Ed going to do? Call child protection services? Take her to court and sue for full custody?

  Ruth wants to ignore him but she knows if she does, he’ll just keep calling back. Better to get the bad news now, otherwise she’ll just imagine the worst.

  She steels herself and picks up the call. “Ed.”

  “Ruth!” he bellows. “Hi there. Hi. Just wanted to let you know Marley made it in plenty of time for Oscar’s concert.”

  Why is he so happy? Why isn’t he ripping into her?

  “Uh, that’s good,” she says.

  “Oscar would have been devastated if she’d missed it. You were smart to put her on the bus. They took the express lane all the way here. Made great time. Marley loved it. Said it made her feel like a real adult. Like she was coming home from college for Christmas break.”

  So Marley had protected her. She hadn’t given her up.

  “Well, you guys have fun.”

  “Marley says you’re going to Cabo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sounds great. Think of us here shivering in the cold. It’s supposed get down into the thirties. It may even snow. Imagine that. A white Christmas in Sacramento.”

  “Imagine that. I have to go. I’m meeting a friend for coffee and I’m already late.”

  “Wait, Ruth.”

  “Yes?”

  “Listen, you know you’re welcome here anytime. If for any reason your plans change, just come spend Christmas with us. I’ll book you a room at the DoubleTree. We’d love to have you.”

  Ruth’s throat aches. “That’s a nice offer, but not necessary. My plans won’t change.”

  Goddamn you, Ed. Goddamn you for being such a good guy.

  “All right, then. Happy holidays, Ruth!”

  * * *

  What have you decided Simon?

  What are you going to do?

  Fine I’ll give you 20K more.

  Thirty.

  I’ll take you to court. I’ll sue you for services not rendered. Don’t think I won’t do it.

  Sorry. I’m not going to do that. I would never do that. I’m not a monster.

  I had no idea about Tom.

  I can’t imagine what life must be like for you.

  I’m trying here Simon I really am.

  Well fuck you too.

  Ruth has bombarded Simon with texts that he’s completely ignored. Clearly the man is an accomplished ghoster; why can’t he put that skill to use on Gemma? In the absence of any information, Ruth has grown increasingly paranoid. She hasn’t heard a peep from Gemma since she left for New Hampshire. What if Simon is spending Christmas with Gemma and Bee in New England? This possibility colonizes her mind until she can think of nothing else.

  Ruth drives to Simon’s. She parks across the street, a few houses down from his, and slumps in her seat, feeling like Tony Soprano, his car filled with empty Big Gulps and discarded hamburger wrappers. Only her car is filled with goodies from Whole Foods. Raw almonds. Cheesy kale chips. Raspberry kombucha. Brown rice shrimp tempura sushi and Castelvetrano olives. Oh, yes, and a quarter pound of freshly sliced prosciutto.

  She barely has time to eat her allotted seven daily almonds before the curtains in number 201 are yanked aside and Simon appears in the picture window, a mug in his hand.

  He isn’t in New Hampshire with Gemma! Ruth could just weep with happiness. She sees Tom sitting on the couch in front of the TV. Is that Elf he’s watching? Now she fills with something else. Not quite empathy, but its darker, more complicated cousin, pity
. Simon looks so forlorn, gazing out the window. What is he doing for the holiday? Are he and Tom going it alone? And has he said anything to Gemma yet? Has he confessed to her about their arrangement? No, he couldn’t have. She’d know if he did. She’d have heard from Gemma. Gemma would be in a rage.

  A few minutes later she starts up the Tesla. The almonds were stale. Now they’re stuck in her teeth.

  * * *

  That night Ruth gazes at herself in the mirror, hating what she sees. The onset of jowls. Her eyebrows growing sparser. A feathering above her lip.

  She googles “lonely abandoned what to do.”

  She googles “best friend dumped me.”

  She googles “losing weight rapidly not on a diet extreme stress.”

  Then she drinks half a bottle of Tito’s and packs her bag. Tomorrow—Cabo.

  * * *

  On Christmas Day, Ruth goes to the pool around noon. She’s been up since five. She wanted to come down earlier but couldn’t bear the thought of being the only one there, everybody else in their rooms opening presents. The resort is full of families. Ruth is the only single person at the resort. This is not an exaggeration.

  By noon the pool is packed, overrun with joyful, sunburned children. Thank God she has a cabana.

  Ruth lies on the chaise, her noise-canceling headphones on, eyes closed, trying to block out the family in the cabana next to hers. A crying baby. A father who continually asks his five-year-old tantrumming daughter to explain how’s she feeling. Who cares how she’s feeling. She’s five. Don’t negotiate with her. Just tell her to shut the hell up.

  Ruth sighs dramatically and rolls over, drapes a towel over her head. She’s paying $2,500 a night for the penthouse. She is not going to be chased out. This is her space. Hers!

  “I’m so sorry,” says a woman’s voice.

  Ruth lifts the towel. A woman, still a little chunky from having recently given birth, smiles apologetically. Her cabana neighbor.

  “They’re savages,” she says. “If only someone would kidnap me. Or better yet, kidnap them.” She grins. “I’m Noelle.”

  Ruth turns over and sits up. She’s wearing a forest green bikini. She’s eaten nothing but fruit for days. Her stomach is flat, flat, flat. “I’m Ruth.”

  “Merry Christmas, Ruth.” Noelle makes an embarrassed face. “Happy holidays, I mean.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  “Phew,” says Noelle. “You have to be so careful with what you say these days.”

  Ruth nods. “Sometimes I’m afraid to open my mouth at all.”

  Noelle laughs. “Your cabana is so—”

  Ruth has a deluxe “Hollywood” cabana. A fridge stocked with sparkling waters, strawberries, pineapple, cheeses, charcuterie, champagne, wine. There’s a sofa in the back and a flat-screen TV. An Oriental rug. The cabana came with the penthouse. It’s hers for the entire week.

  “I know. It’s a little embarrassing,” says Ruth.

  “Ours is—”

  Hers is crushed Cheerios on the concrete. A wadded-up dirty diaper in the garbage can.

  “Join me,” says Ruth.

  Noelle looks at her cabana then back at Ruth. “Really? Oh, I’d love to. The baby’s sleeping. Maybe just for a little bit. I’m sure your husband’s coming back any minute.”

  “I don’t have a husband,” says Ruth, looking down at her lap, her eyes filling. “It’s just me now.”

  * * *

  The resort is small and exclusive. Word spreads of the mysterious, beautiful woman celebrating the holidays alone. Is her husband dead? Are they divorced? What exactly does “it’s just me now” mean? Nobody knows, but it’s clear the woman has been abandoned somehow.

  Noelle’s family adopts her. Other couples invite her to join them for drinks, for dinner. People introduce themselves to her, kindness beaming from their faces. They fawn over her. She is the center of attention. She loses even more weight. She becomes even more beautiful. The gaunt, grieving Ruth.

  She doesn’t have to fake it. She is bereft. She’s texted Marley a dozen times. Adoring, thankful, apologetic texts, but Marley is giving her the silent treatment and Ruth can’t blame her. The important thing is Marley didn’t tell on her. She clings to that.

  No texts or calls from Gemma either. Ruth is trying to be her best self, to not take Gemma’s lack of communication personally. Her friend is struggling. Bee’s depression has been sucking up all of Gemma’s energy. She’s desperate to know if the visit to New Hampshire has worked its magic. Is Bee feeling better?

  GEMMA

  “Martini?” asks Gemma’s brother, Scott.

  “It’s four in the afternoon,” says Gemma.

  “And your point is?” says Scott, retrieving the Grey Goose from the freezer.

  “I don’t drink until five. I have rules.”

  “Oh, she has rules,” says Scott to his husband, Jacob.

  “Well, that’s very civilized and all, but your father and Shirley will be here in forty-five minutes. I think that calls for a little pregaming, don’t you?” asks Jacob.

  Jacob’s a furniture maker. His signature table, the Alcott (he names all his pieces after New England authors), featured in October’s Architectural Digest, has a waiting list a year long. If Jacob’s the right brain of the marriage, Scott, a scientist at a biologics company, is the left. Scott’s an utterly reliable human whom Gemma adores.

  “Do you want it dirty?” asks Scott, opening a jar of olives.

  “Why not,” says Gemma. A minute later Scott places an icy cold drink in front of her. “Wow, martini glasses and everything. Fancy.” Gemma doesn’t own any cocktail glasses. Some wineglasses—that’s it.

  “Guess we know what we’re getting you for your birthday,” says Jacob, stirring the beef stew that’s bubbling away on the stove. He pokes his head into the pot and sniffs. “It needs something.”

  “It doesn’t need anything,” says Scott. “Move away from the stove.”

  “How about a pinch of cinnamon?” suggests Jacob.

  Scott growls at him, and Jacob smirks.

  A burst of laughter from upstairs. Emma and Sam, Scott and Jacob’s thirteen-year-old twins, and Bee are watching Friends. Gemma just turned them on to it. They’ve been binge-watching the show for hours.

  Gemma hasn’t said anything about Bee to Scott. She’s been waiting for just the right time to confide in him, but she’s starting to think maybe there won’t be a right time. Emma and Sam are down-to-earth, precocious, and happy kids. They seem to be sailing through puberty with absolutely no effort. Gemma feels like a failure as a mother. She’s let Bee down somehow. Bee’s struggles are her fault.

  “I wish you guys would come more often,” says Scott. “The twins adore Bee. It’s been way too long.”

  Scott’s phone pings with a text. “Christ, they’re on their way already.” He shakes his head. “I told them five. Shirley’s always early. She wants to get in and out of here as fast as possible. She’s given him a bedtime, can you believe it? Eight.” He clamps his lips together. “Like he’s a child.”

  “He always went to bed early,” says Gemma.

  “At eleven!” sputters Scott.

  Jacob puts his arm around Gemma. “Just do what I do. Think of dinner as an episode in a sitcom. Helps you to keep your distance.”

  Scott harrumphs and downs his martini. Gemma does the same.

  “Another?” he asks.

  * * *

  Gemma’s spent very little time with her father, Paul, since she arrived in New Hampshire. He and Shirley had only come for a few hours on Christmas Day.

  “Coors Light?” Jacob asks Paul.

  “Oh, yes, please,” he says, his eyes brightening. Coors Light has been his beer for as long as Gemma can remember.

  “No, darling,” says Shirley. “You remember what the doctor said.”

  “I didn’t know you went to the doctor,” says Scott.

  “We don’t tell you everything,” says Shirley.
“We are adults.”

  “Yes, you are!” says Jacob, in a chipper voice.

  “So you can’t drink beer now, Dad?” asks Scott.

  “No alcohol whatsoever,” says Shirley.

  “How about we let Dad answer for himself,” says Scott.

  “Where are the kids?” asks Paul. “They didn’t even say hello.”

  “They’re upstairs watching TV. They’ll join us for dinner. So why can’t you drink alcohol?” asks Scott.

  “I’d love a beer!” says Paul.

  “Then you shall have it,” says Scott, grinning. “Shirley, may I have a word in the kitchen, please.”

  Shirley sighs loudly. “I’ll be just a minute, Paul.”

  They leave and Gemma’s father clasps his hands on the table. His fingers are mildly swollen. Flesh pokes out of either side of his wedding band.

  “So, Dad, how are you feeling?” asks Gemma. “Things all right with Shirley?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “Just asking. We all just want to be sure you’re happy. Right, Jacob?”

  “Right,” echoes Jacob.

  Paul nods. “It’s been so long since you’ve been here,” he says to Gemma. “Why have you stayed away so long?”

  Gemma reaches across the table and takes his hand. “I’m sorry. There’s just been—a lot going on. It’s been rough lately. With Bee. We’ve been struggling.”

  Jacob gives her such a kind, empathetic look that Gemma thinks she should move back to New Hampshire. Maybe that would solve all their problems.

  “Oh, Tink,” says her father.

  It’s been more than thirty-five years since her father called her Tink, short for Tinkerbell, her favorite Disney character when she was a child.

  Jacob tears up—so much for the sitcom. “I’ll go see what’s keeping them in the kitchen,” he mutters.

  Now it’s just the two of them at the table.

  “I’m hungry,” says her father.

  “Scott’s famous beef stew for dinner,” says Gemma.