Bryan ran his hand through his wet hair, slicking it back, and smirked. “I just let her know it’d be a shame if we had to fire her. That’s all. Come on, that felt so good. Let’s finish,” he said, reaching out to pull her back onto his still-erect penis.
“What were you thinking?” She wriggled her wrists out of his grasp. She turned off the water, yanking a towel from the warming rack as she stepped out of the shower.
“You were freaking out that Winnie was still applying to Stanford when you called me the other day from the car. I had to do something.” He followed her out of the shower.
“My God, you can’t come right out and threaten her job.” Alicia stopped in front of her sink, wrapped the sumptuous Turkish cotton bath sheet (researched and selected by Maren) around herself, and opened a vial of her favorite age-slaying miracle skin serum (sourced by Maren from a celebrity dermatologist in LA). “What if she quits because of this? Did you even consider that?”
“Gimme a break.” Bryan stood with his hands on his hips, dripping water all over the floor. “She needs us a helluva lot more than we need her.”
“Really? Are you sure about that? Because I sure as hell don’t have the bandwidth to run our lives on top of running a company. Are you going to be the one who takes care of everything until we find someone else who can do the job as well as Maren?”
“Relax, Leesh.” His warm hands covered her shoulders. “I was just gently reminding her of her place.”
“I was managing the situation,” Alicia said through clenched teeth.
“And I was just trying to help.” Bryan’s erection pushed into her towel. “I actually thought you’d appreciate what I did.”
Alicia closed her eyes. The venomous, emasculating insults she’d hurled at Bryan after learning that Winnie was still applying to Stanford came roaring back at her. And his exile to the guest room. However misguided, Bryan had only been trying to make her happy and look out for Brooke. “I had it under control,” she whispered and dropped her head to his chest.
“Well, I made sure of it now, didn’t I?” He guided her head to his penis, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back as she finished him off.
* * *
Earlier in the week, Alicia texted Brooke an invitation for a mother–daughter Friday date night with their favorite estheticians—Trevor and Jules—for a relaxing evening of microdermabrasion facials and Chef Louise’s delicious tuna salad Niçoise for dinner. Brooke immediately responded with a thumbs-up and heart emoji. Alicia worried that if she shared her real Friday night plans with Brooke, her daughter might blow her off.
“Wait, where are Trevor and Jules?” Brooke said as she walked into the kitchen to find two strangers seated at the kitchen table. “I thought we were having a spa night. Oh no.” Brooke looked at her mom and covered her mouth with her hand. She started backing up. “Is this an intervention?”
Did Brooke need an intervention? Alicia feigned laughter as she got up to fix a plate for Brooke. Chef Louise had prepared tuna salad Niçoise for dinner, so at least that part was true. “Honey, meet your team. This is Professor Bejamaca, who you spoke with about your essays, and this is Deborah. She’s a professional proofreader. We’re finishing your Stanford application. I told you that last night,” Alicia lied. She could see Brooke’s eyes darting around the kitchen looking for an escape.
“Come on, B,” Bryan cajoled, pulling out the chair next to him. “The sooner you sit down, the sooner we can all be done. Professor Bejamaca over here wants to get home. The Red Sox are playing in Game 7 of the World Series tomorrow night, and he has owner’s box tickets thanks to your mom.”
Brooke flopped on the chair and pulled out her phone. In one graceful sweeping motion, Alicia slid a plate on the table in front of Brooke and snatched her phone out of her hand. “Professor Bejamaca brought copies of the five essays he wrote based on your interview. Professor, should we all start by reading them?”
The professor nodded his agreement.
“Great. Then we can discuss and vote on which ones we’ll use and tweak them as needed.” Alicia turned to the proofreader and handed her a folder. “Deborah, I’ve printed out the individual pages of Brooke’s Common App. Why don’t you get started on those while we work on the essays? You can use the living room so we don’t distract you. Bryan will show you the way.”
As Brooke picked at the salad, her anger radiated in every direction. Alicia refused to engage and instead smiled at Professor Bejamaca while they waited for Bryan. She glanced at her watch. He was probably hitting on the poor girl. “Brooke, honey, why don’t we just get started,” Alicia said. “Writing isn’t Dad’s strong—”
“Really, Alicia?” Bryan interrupted as he walked back into the kitchen. “Just because I’m not some brainiac professor and I didn’t graduate from some superelite college doesn’t mean I can’t add value here. But you know what? It looks like you’ve got this covered.” Bryan stormed out of the room, leaving the rest of them stewing in an uncomfortable silence. Alicia stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with Brooke, but she could feel her daughter’s glare boring into her. Professor Bejamaca’s head was bowed. What must he be thinking? The sound of the front door slamming broke the silence.
“Why do you always have to be such a bitch to him?” Brooke asked.
“Why don’t we start reading,” Alicia said, her voice barely a whisper.
Moments later, Alicia heard the front door open again. Relieved Bryan had changed his mind, she turned her head to apologize and usher him back into the fold, but instead she was stunned to see Maren walking into the kitchen carrying their espresso maker. “Oh hey, Maren,” Alicia said, going for breezy to mask her shock. “I’m surprised to see you here so late.”
“Sorry to interrupt. I had the espresso machine serviced.” Maren set the heavy machine down on the counter. “Wanted to make sure you could have your coffee in the morning.”
“You’re such a peach.” Alicia cast a nervous glance at Professor Bejamaca, knowing she had to introduce Maren without letting on the true reason for the professor’s visit. Digging her fingernails into her palm, Alicia said, “Professor, this is Maren Pressley, my personal assistant. Maren, this is Professor Bejamaca. He’s visiting from Boston, and we’re just discussing his fascinating research.”
Brooke exhaled sharply at the obvious lie Alicia was trying to feed Maren.
“Nice to meet you, Professor. I’ll be back in the morning,” Maren said, smiling first at Professor Bejamaca and then at Alicia.
Before the door closed completely behind Maren, Brooke tossed her copies of the essays on the table and said loudly, “These essays don’t sound like me at all.”
“Without knowing you well, Brooke, it’s difficult to capture your voice,” Professor Bejamaca explained. “We can work on the tone and edit the language so the essays sound more authentically like you. But we should probably focus first on picking the essays we want to refine.”
“But these are all stupid and boring,” she said, pushing the papers back toward the professor. “This isn’t at all what I told you I wanted to say.”
“Brooke, honey, Professor Bejamaca’s writing is so crisp and descriptive,” Alicia said, putting her hand on her daughter’s arm. “And these are the topics your outside college consultant, Cynthia McIntyre, recommended last summer. I’m sure she knows what she’s talking about.”
“I think I’ll just use the essays I wrote last summer at that boot camp you made me go to,” Brooke said.
Alicia swallowed. Hard. Brooke had been right about those essays the first time; they were abominations that wouldn’t even get her accepted to community college. Alicia mentally tallied up the $25,000 she’d paid Cynthia plus the $15,000 fee she was paying Professor Bejamaca (plus the Red Sox tickets and what it cost her in fuel and pilot time to fly him round trip on her plane). And the $95,000 Range Rover for Broo
ke. Who spends $150,000 on five fucking essays? Four years of EBA tuition for just over three thousand words. Obviously, money wasn’t the issue, but still. Alicia screwed on a tight smile while she collected some more constructive thoughts.
But Brooke wasn’t done. “I saw you added babysitting to my activities résumé. I’ve never babysat for anyone in my life. I feel like you and Cynthia want me to lie on my college application.” She crossed her arms and gave Alicia the death stare.
“Brooke, don’t be ridiculous. You babysat your cousins the last three summers when we were in Telluride.” She hoped her daughter wouldn’t fact-check that quasi-truthful statement and further embarrass her. Her cousins had been with them at their house in Telluride, that was true. And they definitely acted like children, even if they were all in college. “Why don’t we just pick two of Professor Bejamaca’s essays to submit and we can all get back to the rest of our lives? Professor, perhaps you have two you’d recommend?”
The professor adjusted his reading glasses. “Yes, I think the one about being attacked on social media about the pregnancy test and the one about exploring your relationship with religion after spending the weekend at the Vatican with the Pope.”
“Those are excellent choices, Professor,” Alicia said. “Brooke, don’t you agree?”
“Fine, whatever. Does that mean we’re done?” Brooke asked, pushing back her chair.
Alicia ignored her petulant daughter. “Professor Bejamaca, it looks like we’re all set. Thank you so much for your help,” Alicia said. “I’ll request an Uber to take you to the airfield. My pilot’s on standby. She’ll have you back to Boston by early morning. Go Red Sox!” She handed him an envelope containing payment for his services, two World Series tickets, and a copy of his signed nondisclosure agreement.
An hour later, Deborah finished proofreading all the components of Brooke’s application. For an extra $1,000, she agreed to make the changes online and upload the essays for Brooke. All that was left was for Brooke to hit Submit. Unlike every other task associated with the entire college admissions journey, Alicia only had to ask her to do it once. And then Brooke held out her hand for the keys to the brand-new, fully loaded, pearl-navy Range Rover she knew was waiting for her in the garage.
Memorial Hospital Emergency Room
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2:30 A.M.
When the Unauthorized Entry doors finally swung open, Maren stood, her heart pounding. A man in blue scrubs, clearly exhausted, walked into the waiting room and pulled the surgical cap from his head as he came toward Maren, revealing a mop of curly brown hair.
“Mrs. Pressley? I’m Dr. Grant. Your daughter is in recovery now from surgery.”
Relief swept through Maren. She’s alive. “Oh thank God. So she’s going to be OK? What kind of surgery?”
Dr. Grant rubbed the back of his neck. “When she arrived, she was disoriented with an obvious head wound. We did a CT scan, which is our standard procedure for a head injury. Unfortunately, that test showed an acute epidural hematoma, which is a broken blood vessel in the brain that causes bleeding between the brain’s outer membrane and the skull. We drilled a small hole in her skull so we could tie off the blood vessel and stop the bleeding.”
“Wait, are you saying my daughter just had brain surgery?”
He nodded once. “It’s rare that I can say this in my line of work, but in this case, it sounds worse than it probably is since we were able to catch the bleed so early. It’s lucky your daughter was found and transported here quickly, because with a brain bleed, things can change pretty fast.”
“Oh my God. Please tell me she doesn’t have brain damage.” Maren searched Dr. Grant’s face for more clues.
“I never make promises, but I expect she’s going to do well. We’ll be able to assess her neurological function in a few hours once she’s out of recovery. When we get her up to the ICU in the morning, you’ll be able to see her.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Why don’t you go home and try to get a few hours of sleep?”
“Is there any chance at all I can see her tonight?” Maren asked. “Please. I really need to see her.”
“It’s possible, but just for a minute or two at most.”
Maren tamped down the questions swimming in her head. “Thank you so much, Doctor, for taking such good care of Winnie.”
“You know, Mrs. Pressley,” Dr. Grant said. “With these rental scooters all over the place, we’ve seen a huge uptick in head injuries. Kids aren’t wearing helmets. Your daughter got extremely lucky this time, but tell her she needs to wear a helmet from now on. Doctor’s orders.”
“Yes, of course,” Maren said. “That’s if I ever let her leave the house again.”
As she wobbled and reached back for her chair, Maren replayed Dr. Grant’s terrifying words: We’ll be able to assess her neurological function in a few hours… For Winnie’s entire life, Maren’s only mission had been to give her the kind of unconditional love and support Maren herself had been denied. But now, Winnie needed more. She needed a mom who wasn’t a coward. A mom who would fight for her. Maren looked up at the sterile square ceiling tiles and vowed, hand to heart: she was done screwing around with Winnie’s future. If Winnie pulled through this, first Maren would nurse her back to health. Then she’d figure out who did this to her daughter. Finally, she’d make damn sure Winnie got everything she deserved. It was two days until the deadline, and if her brilliant, beautiful, hardworking daughter wanted to go to Stanford, Maren would not only have her back, she would join the battle.
Part 2
15
Maren
TWO DAYS UNTIL STANFORD EARLY ADMISSION APPLICATION DEADLINE
Maren waited at Memorial another hour after Dr. Grant left in hopes they might let her catch a glimpse of Winnie, until the nurse finally delivered word that she should go home and come back in the morning. Though she viewed the suggestion of sleep as optimistic at best, she went home anyway to take a quick shower, hoping to rinse off the stale stench of desperation from her body. It was nearly four a.m. when Maren walked in her front door, and she was back at Memorial by six.
Two hours later, an ICU nurse finally led Maren to Winnie’s room down a long hallway. She entered the room prepared for the worst, or so she thought, until she laid eyes on Winnie for the first time. Were it not for her thick mane of blond hair, now matted with blood, she might not have recognized her daughter at all. She almost couldn’t bear the sight of her but then instantly berated herself. The small shaved section on the right side of her head near her temple, peeking out above the bandages, made no secret of the fact that she’d just had a hole drilled into her skull. Maren grabbed the bed rail and fought off a wave of light-headedness. Then she took a slow, girding inhale and forced herself to study Winnie’s face for familiar signposts. It was hard to see past all the swelling and bruising. Please let her brain be intact. I can handle almost anything, but not that.
Winnie’s blue hospital gown stuck out from the top of the sterile white blanket, and her right arm was in a cast. Searching for a body part she could touch without causing more pain, Maren settled on Winnie’s left hand. With her index finger, Maren traced a small heart on the palm of Winnie’s hand, their secret code for “I love you” from Winnie’s childhood. No response. Maren began talking, hoping her voice might rouse Winnie from what seemed to be a restless sleep. If Winnie could just give her a sign. “Winnie,” she said. “It’s me. Mom. Please wake up. I need to know you’re OK. I love you so much. Please, Winnie?”
Winnie stirred but didn’t open her eyes.
“Winnie, please wake up,” she pleaded, this time a little louder. “Winnie, honey…you’re in the hospital. Can you open your eyes for just a second?” She traced another heart, this time pressing a little harder.
Winnie’s head shifted slightly toward Maren’s voice, and it appeared she was struggling to open her left eye, just a slit.<
br />
“I’m right here, Win. Can you see me?”
In response, Winnie wiggled her index finger and contorted her lips into a hint of the smile Maren adored, and that was enough. Maren burst into tears. A wholesale breach of the seawall. She kissed the top of Winnie’s head, dripping no small amount of tears onto her daughter’s battered face, but she didn’t care as long as Winnie recognized her. “I’m s-sorry, sorry—” she said, choking back her sobs. “But you know who I am, right, Win?”
Winnie nodded.
“Oh thank God. I’ve been terrified. I love you so much. We’ll get through this, I promise.”
Winnie winced, her pain evident.
“Win, you were in a bad scooter accident. Do you remember anything?”
“No,” she mouthed.
“Anything at all from last night?” she prodded as one of the monitors started beeping. It sounded like a piece of heavy machinery backing up on a construction site.
The ICU nurse rushed in, took one look at the offending monitor, and said, “Her heart rate is elevated. I think she’s had enough excitement for now. Why don’t you go get some coffee?”
The nurse’s brusque tone indicated that this was an order, not a suggestion. Maren felt her face flush. “But I just got here.”
“In the ICU, visiting hours are governed by the patient’s condition, not the clock.”
While she was peeved about being shooed out of her daughter’s room, she feared doing anything to set back Winnie’s recovery. Nodding at the nurse, Maren said, “Please take good care of her.” She grabbed a handful of tissues from Winnie’s bedside and wiped her nose.
The nurse turned toward voices coming from the hallway. “On second thought, here comes the team on rounds. You may as well hear what the attending has to say. Stand in the corner over by the sink and stay out of the way.”
Maren did as she was told.
Girls with Bright Futures Page 15
