Did I Say You Could Go

by Melanie Gideon

  Gemma opens her door and slips inside.

  BEE

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come?” asks her mother. “I’m going grocery shopping. Then to Target. It might do you good to get out. Get some sun on your face. I’ll buy you gummy bears,” she says in a singsong voice.

  Once upon a time gummy bears could make everything right. Now the idea of gummy bears fills her with despair. She’s so far past gummy bears. The mood stabilizer has dulled her taste buds. In order to wake them up she needs something extreme like Atomic Fireballs or Toxic Waste sour candy, which they don’t carry at Safeway. She shudders at the thought of running into Frankie or Aditi at the market. She’s never leaving the house again.

  Her poor mother. The look on her face. Forced happiness and cheer while a silent ticker tape runs repeatedly across her brow… we’re home now, we’re safe, we’re good.

  Were they?

  “I’d love some gummy bears,” she says.

  “Great!” says her mother enthusiastically, as if she’s just been told she got an A on a test. “Just regular gummy bears?”

  “Gummy frogs or sharks if they have them.”

  “Oh, sharks, fun! Text me if you think of something else you want.”

  * * *

  They came back from the hospital yesterday. Bee has the weekend off, and starting Monday she’ll begin a six-week outpatient program. Individual therapy. Teen support group. Yoga. Cognitive behavioral therapy class.

  Ruth’s volunteered to drive her back and forth to Alta Bates every day so her mother doesn’t have to take time off work. This is a huge relief to her mother. I don’t know what we’d do without Ruth, she says over and over again. Both Bee and her mother have taken to repeating themselves. Neither of them have the strength to call each other out on it. Staying on the surface requires all their effort.

  Bee will take a leave of absence from school for the rest of the semester. When she thinks about the fall term she’s overcome with fear. Stay in the present. That’s one way to reduce anxiety. Mindfulness is another class she’ll be subjected to at Alta Bates. It’s an expensive program. Their health insurance covers only half of it. I don’t know what we’d do without Ruth. She’s paying for the other half.

  Bee picks up her phone. The only person who’s texted her in the last three days is Marley, and she hasn’t had the energy or courage to text her back yet. It’s time now.

  Hey Marls you there?

  I’m here. You home?

  Ya

  I’m not going to ask if you’re ok

  I’m sure you’ve been asked that question a thousand times

  By my mother most likely lol

  I just want you to know that what he did to you was so messed up

  Does everybody hate me?

  They’re assholes all of them

  Do you hate me?

  I didn’t mean those things I said about my friends

  You weren’t included in that group

  Shit you know what I mean

  I’m fine B

  You don’t have to apologize to me

  How could she have forgotten this? The sweetness between them. The loyalty. The history they share. And Bee, she just tossed Marley away and for what? A fake boyfriend. Fake friends. Friends who didn’t listen, who didn’t care, who probably know she tried to off herself and still haven’t reached out.

  What do you need right now?

  What did she need? To be in her twenties, her thirties. To have put this far, far behind her.

  Atomic Fireballs?

  Haha I’ll be there in an hour

  Bee does not want to see Ruth. Even though Ruth has been so helpful, it’s exhausting to have her around. She looks at Bee with those sad eyes. A gaze that searches, searches, searches. That drains her like Edward Cullen drained Bella Swan.

  Mom’s out. I’ll Uber, texts Marley, reading her thoughts.

  Bee has been so stingy in the past with Marley, doling out her x’s and o’s one at a time, or not at all. What a terrible person she was. So pinched. So mean.

  The doors unlocked xxx

  * * *

  Marley’s practically bought out Le Bon Bon. She dumps a slew of clear cellophane bags filled with loot on the coffee table: cinnamon bears, watermelon slices, Hot Tamales, blueberry strips, Atomic Fireballs, Toxic Waste sour candy, gummy cola bottles, Ring Pops, saltwater taffy, Bazooka gum, candy corn, and cherry licorice nibs.

  Bee knows the candy at Le Bon Bon is five dollars a pound. She must have spent twenty dollars easy.

  “It’s like Willy Wonka,” says Bee. The sight of the candy cheers her enormously. The bright colors. The wacky packaging. The red twist ties. “You got so much.”

  Marley sits next to her on the couch. She takes a deep breath and says in a small shaky voice, “I’m so sorry, Bee. I wasn’t there for you.”

  “You’re sorry? For what? You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re the only one who’s stuck by my side. I should be apologizing to you. I’ve been such a bitch. I can’t believe you still want to hang out with me. I’m so sorry, Marley.”

  Marley waves her away. “No, you don’t understand. I haven’t been a good friend.” Her voice is constricted, like somebody is squeezing all the air out of her throat.

  “What? Of course you have. You’ve been the best. I’ve been the shitty friend,” says Bee.

  It’s such a relief to say it out loud. To confess to Marley.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” Bee asks.

  Bee puts her arm around Marley and Marley collapses against her. Bee remembers when they were really young, Marley crying because she was too scared to ski down the bunny hill. How sad she felt at seeing her best friend so upset. She would have gone to war for Marley back then.

  “Of course,” whispers Marley. “Of course I do.”

  Bee starts crying and Marley cries with her. Shoulders heaving up and down. Hiccups and gasps. Trying to catch their breath. Finally, the tearstorm passes.

  Marley blows her nose loudly. “Well, that was a shitshow,” she says. “I wonder how many calories we just burned? Crying really takes it out of you, I hear.”

  Bee googles it. “One point three calories a minute.”

  “Awesome! We’ve earned a reward. Let’s move on to the candy portion of the evening then, shall we?” says Marley.

  They both sit forward and take in the pile of candy.

  “We could start with the Fireballs but if we do that we won’t be able to taste anything after,” says Bee.

  “I suggest we start sweet, then move to sour, then for the finale, the cinnamon family,” says Marley. She starts separating the candy into piles.

  “Netflix?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “WALL-E?”

  “Perfect.”

  * * *

  A little while later, Gemma comes home. She smiles when she sees the two of them on the couch. Bee feels proud. She’s done this—she and Marley. They’ve made her mother happy. The house feels safe. Like it’s waking up after a long sleep.

  Gemma puts her phone and purse on the table and carries the groceries to the kitchen.

  “Cocoa?” she calls out.

  And even though the girls are stoned on sugar, they yell, “Yes, please!” It’s the idea of the cocoa, not the cocoa itself, they want.

  Gemma’s phone chimes five times in a row. “Your phone is going off, Mom!”

  “Can you bring it to me, please?” Gemma yells.

  Bee grabs Gemma’s phone. “Her mom pod,” she says to Marley. “IN ONE EAR AND OUT YOUR MOTHER. She’s SoccerMommy#1.” Bee rolls her eyes.

  “But you never played soccer,” says Marley.

  “Exactly the point,” says Bee.

  MARLEY

  “I’ll be back in a few hours,” says her mother. “Hopefully Kay will be running on time. Her first appointment was booked.”

  Her mother’s hair looks perfect. She’s going for a blow-out that she doesn’t need. Marley knows it
’s because she craves touch. Somebody to hold her head, run their fingers through her silky locks.

  Marley wants to tell her mother to blink. Her eyes are unnaturally wide open. She’s drinking too much coffee and she’s so skinny. Her clavicles poke out of her chest like knitting needles.

  “When’s the last time you ate? Let me make you a sandwich. You need some protein.”

  Her mother ignores her. “I think I have PTSD. My heart feels like it’s beating a thousand times a minute. I need to meditate or sleep or take a hike, or get a massage, but I have to be there for Gemma. Be her rock. I can’t let her down.”

  “Let me help. You need support, too,” says Marley.

  Her mother pinches her left nostril shut and breathes through the right. Then pinches the right and breathes through the left.

  “Can you sit down for a minute before you go?” Marley suggests.

  “I don’t want to be late.” Her mother gathers up her purse. Slings a scarf around her neck. Her skin is mottled red.

  “It’s so nice you offered to drive Bee to her program. She’s really grateful. So is Gemma.”

  “Yes, well—” Her mother struggles to shrug on a coat over her bulky sweater. One of her arms gets stuck.

  Marley tugs on the coat, trying to help.

  Her mother squirms. “I don’t need any help.”

  Marley continues to pull at her mother’s arm. It’s like undressing a toddler.

  “I said I don’t need any goddamned help! Get the fuck away from me.” Her mother spins around and pushes her hard.

  Marley reels backward, staggering across the room, fighting to keep her balance. Something has been unleashed inside of her mother. Something she’s kept tamped down for a long time is now free and running amok.

  Just wait until you get home.

  This phrase pops into Marley’s head. It repeats itself over and over again on a loop, incessantly, unceasingly, until Marley feels like her brain will explode.

  March 19, 10:22 a.m.

  Soleil what if somebody you knew did something really bad?

  How bad, Marley?

  Our conversations are private right? Patient-client confidentiality?

  Yes, absolutely. Unless that “somebody” has put somebody else in danger. Is somebody else in danger, Marley?

  I’m not sure

  Are you in danger?

  That’s not what I’m saying

  Okay, what are you saying?

  Just checking for a friend. Yellow heart. Namaste hands

  GEMMA

  “I’m afraid I have bad news,” Sophie says. “He used a VPN.”

  “What’s a VPN?” asks Gemma.

  “A virtual private network. It means his IP address can’t be traced.”

  “People can have their own private networks?”

  “Sure. People want to browse with anonymity.”

  “So what does that mean for us?”

  “Well, there’s a minuscule chance the VPN leaked, but I doubt it. I can’t in good conscience continue to take your money and give you hope. I can refer you to somebody else if you like. Maybe they’d have a work-around. I’ve only been in the biz for a couple of years—there’s lots of people with more experience than me.”

  They are two weeks into Bee’s step program. Two weeks tapering off the Prozac and two weeks on the new mood stabilizer. Bee’s sleeping well, Warrior Oneing and Warrior Twoing, living mindfully (by taking twenty minutes to eat a raisin), and spilling her guts daily to her support group at Alta Bates—the Wolves. That’s what they call themselves. Bee came up with the name. Did Gemma know that wolves symbolize courage? No, she had not. The Wolves are also a nod to Virginia Woolf, whom all the Wolves apparently hold in high regard, as does Dr. Baum. I am rooted. But I flow. Gemma doesn’t love that they seem to be romanticizing Virginia Woolf’s suicide, but she lets it go. She much prefers the Wolves to the SLUTZ.

  All in all, things are much better. Is it time to call off the search? Continuing to look for Cam keeps him alive, and at this point Gemma would prefer to bury him. Also, there’s the cost to consider. Ruth has been paying for the investigation, and it’s not cheap: $150 an hour for Sophie’s time.

  “I wish I had better news,” says Sophie. “If you want that referral let me know.”

  * * *

  Ruth is laughing as she and Bee walk in the door.

  “Hey,” Gemma calls out.

  “You’re home! Go kiss your mommy,” Ruth says to Bee, pushing her toward Gemma.

  Bee kisses her on the cheek. Her scent is a mixture of the outdoors and grapes. Many of the Wolves vape. Every day she comes home smelling of chemical-tinged fruit: banana, strawberry, raspberry.

  “Missed you, Mummery,” Bee says.

  So now Gemma is Mummery. She has no idea where Bee came up with that name but she likes it. It’s shaggy and comfortable, like a worn-in recliner.

  “You all right?” Bee asks.

  This is new, too. Bee asking Gemma about her day. Taking her emotional temperature. Gemma doesn’t know how she feels about this. She always imagined someday they’d leave behind their mother-daughter roles and become friends, and that period would last a good long time. And then much, much later, they’d revert back to their original roles only switched; Bee would be the mother and she would be the one who needed looking after. What she hadn’t expected? For the reversal to come this early. But she never could have predicted that Bee would attempt suicide, either. Her sweet, narcissistic, attention-seeking child. Still sweet. The other adjectives didn’t apply so much anymore. She’d molted them. Shed them like a winter coat.

  Is this the kind of two-way relationship Ruth has had with Marley all these years? Marley’s always so in tune with her mother, providing for her, cooking for her, taking care of her. Gemma was such a fool, turning away from Ruth, her most loyal friend.

  And then there’s Simon. He refuses to give up on her. He texts her most days. Thinking of you. Hope all is well. I’m here when you need me. Not if you need me. When you need me. She’s starting to think that day might come.

  “Hey, before I forget, we’re having a block party next Saturday. Bouncy castles. Food trucks. A DJ. We’d love to have you guys join us,” says Ruth.

  Bee shoots Gemma an anxious glance.

  “Only if you feel up to it,” says Ruth. “You can decide last minute. Just thought I’d throw it out there.”

  “We’ll think about it,” says Gemma.

  “Going upstairs,” says Bee.

  “Kay, sweetie.”

  “Bye, bye, little birdie,” Ruth calls out. Bee doesn’t respond.

  “Do you want some tea?” asks Gemma.

  “It’s almost five. How about a little wine?”

  Normally Gemma doesn’t drink on weeknights, but they’ve been thrust into a new life, so why not create some new rules? She pours them each a glass and they sit at the kitchen table.

  “She’s doing so well,” says Ruth. “It’s only been two weeks but there’s such an improvement, don’t you think?”

  Ruth sits slack in her chair, her arms dangling by her side; she looks deeply relaxed. So relaxed Gemma wonders if she’s stoned. Or maybe she’s taken a pill. She has a medicine cabinet filled with antianxiety meds. She revs high.

  “I just love her so much,” says Ruth, blinking back tears. “I hope you know that.”

  “Oh, Ruthie.” Gemma reaches across the table and squeezes her hand with its perfectly manicured nails. Ruth’s winter shade is Red My Fortune Cookie. Gemma’s nails are bitten to the quick, her cuticles ragged. Maybe Ruth will notice. Maybe Ruth will invite her to the Claremont for a mani-pedi. It’s time to start taking care of herself again. Pay attention to her grooming. She’s really let things go.

  * * *

  “Do you want to stay for dinner?” Gemma asks. It’s six thirty. They are well into their second glass of wine. “Marley can Uber over.”

  “No, I’d better go home. You’re welcome to join us. Marley’s
cooking, and she always makes too much. We’ll be eating leftovers for days.”

  “Marley is amazing, you know that, right?”

  “She’s a good girl.”

  “And so smart. So on it all the time. She’ll probably end up at Stanford or Cal.”

  “We’ll see. She watches Gilmore Girls obsessively. She probably wants to go to an Ivy. Leave the West Coast before the big one comes.”

  There’s too much to perseverate about. Mudslides. Fire. Earthquakes. Her paltry emergency supplies. But those were worries for another day.

  “So, listen, I talked to Sophie today. She says she’s at a dead end. Apparently Cam used a VPN.”

  “What’s a VPN?”

  “A private network. Like a private browser, I guess? It makes you untrackable. Untraceable. Whatever, they can’t find you.”

  Ruth huffs. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Well apparently it’s real. And people use them all the time, according to Sophie.”

  Ruth’s mouth puckers. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s only been at this a little while. Let’s hire somebody with some real experience.”

  The thought of starting anew with another cyber forensics person exhausts Gemma. She wants to put Cam behind them and she wants Ruth to agree, to give her permission to get out. But is that lazy? Neglectful? Should she be pursuing Cam to the ends of the earth?

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find somebody else. Leave it with me,” says Ruth.

  Gemma sighs.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just, oh, Ruth, I’m tired. The idea of starting from square one with another investigator just makes me so—”

  “So you’re just going to give up?” asks Ruth.

  Gemma takes in Ruth’s raised eyebrows, the surprise etched into her forehead in the form of three horizontal lines—reproach.

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m not giving up!”

  Ruth gives her a droopy dog smile that’s meant to comfort but instead is deeply unsettling.