Deep Down True

by Juliette Fay

  “It’s not babyish to want to be called by your actual name, Grady.” But he was done with the subject and went up to his room to work on his latest Lego creation.

  That night, after football practice, Dana approached Coach Ro as he stuffed equipment into a black duffel. “Do you have a minute?” she asked. He had one knee down as if genuflecting before the altar of the duffel. Even from a squat he was intimidating.

  “Sure,” he said, still ramming footballs and plastic cones into the bag. When he looked up and saw Dana, he stopped, the brown clipboard in his hand arresting in midair. There was a corner missing from the clipboard, she noticed, as if someone had taken a bite out of it.

  “Well, first I wanted to thank you for coaching.” Dana smiled, hoping her friendliness would soften him. “You’re doing a wonderful job, and I know the boys aren’t always easy!”

  Coach Ro nodded. “Some of them really need the discipline, that’s for sure.” He stuffed the clipboard into the bag and yanked on the zipper to close it. When he stood and squared himself, he was a good head taller than she. “You’re Stelly’s mom,” he said. “You’re always here.”

  “Well, I try to get to the practices as much as I can. And I wanted to mention—”

  “That’s good. Football’s kind of scary to some of them. Parents showing up gives them courage.”

  “They’re so busy knocking each other over, they barely seem to notice.”

  “They notice,” he said.

  Dana glanced over at Grady, squatting on the ground apparently waiting for something. Then another boy came running up and tried to leapfrog over him but couldn’t quite make it past Grady’s helmet. He slid down off Grady’s back, clutching himself between the legs. The other boys laughed, and Dana could hear one of them say, “Right in the nuts!”

  Coach Ro chuckled. “That’s why God invented athletic cups.”

  Dana smiled tentatively. “I just wanted to ask . . . if you don’t mind . . . I think Grady would rather be called by his real name. Not Stelly.”

  “He asked me to call him Stelly.” Coach Ro slung the duffel over his shoulder and turned toward the parking lot. Laying his free hand on Dana’s shoulder blade, he guided her to walk with him. The feel of his big, thick-fingered hand lingering on her back flustered her.

  “He told you . . . ?”

  “Well, you know, with a name like Grady . . .” Coach Ro said, as if it were obvious. “How come his father’s never here? Work late?”

  “Well, yes . . . He’s a . . .” What was he again? “He’s in sales, and he travels a lot.” And what was wrong with the name Grady? “Also . . . he lives in Hartford now. He doesn’t . . . We don’t . . .” Coach Ro was looking at her, waiting patiently for her to knit her tangled words into actual sentences, and this, too, was distracting. “We’re divorced.”

  His ears slid a few millimeters back into his sandy blond crew cut. “Huh.” After a beat he continued. “So you don’t care if I call him Stelly, right? It’s good for a kid to have a nickname.”

  Yes, okay, a nickname like Buddy or Chip or even G, as Alder called him. But Stelly?

  Coach turned to go, calling over his shoulder, “Keep coming to practice. It’s good, you being here.” He turned back, gave her a smile and a wave. Then he bumped into the fender of his massive black pickup and almost toppled over. His eyes darted toward her to see if she’d noticed. Dana quickly averted her gaze so as not to compound his embarrassment.

  When she corralled Grady from his leapfrogging teammates, she muttered at him, “Why did you ask him to call you Stelly?”

  He shrugged and handed her his helmet. “Just sounded cooler than Grady.”

  Morgan had gone to a friend’s house after school. Well, not a friend, exactly, but a girl who, like Morgan, played cello in the middle-school orchestra. Morgan hadn’t been able to master the piece for an upcoming concert and had been pestering Dana for help.

  “But, sweetheart, I keep telling you I don’t read music!” Dana had said rather vehemently last week. “It’s like asking me to teach you . . . I don’t know . . . boxing.”

  She had offered to get a tutor, but Morgan had said, “Forget it. No way is some, like, musical genius coming over here to tell me how bad I am. I already know how bad I am.”

  Dana was stumped. It was hopeless. Then Morgan mentioned this morning that she was going over to this girl’s house to practice and could Dana drop the cello off after school. Problem solved.

  “You help them too much,” Kenneth often said. But he wasn’t here to see the tears and frustration, just like he wasn’t there when some big-muscled coach started calling his son Stelly. Kenneth could just keep his advice to himself.

  The silence of the house was marred by something, Dana noticed, as she pasted peanut butter and ketchup into a sandwich for Grady. There was a humming sound the house made, a faint chorus of electrified sighing from the refrigerator, the furnace, and several lesser appliances. But there was a strange vibration interjecting itself into the usual household hum. And where was Alder?

  Dana walked down the hall to the TV room. Papers and books were strewn around as if they’d been tossed from a low-flying aircraft. She wondered briefly if someone had broken in. But Morgan’s and Grady’s rooms were often messy. Grady’s sometimes looked vandalized.

  Still, something was wrong. Dana heard the faintest little gasping sound and discovered Alder sitting with her knees to her chest, wedged between the far end of the couch and the wall. She’d obviously been crying and was trying mightily to stop. Dana crouched into the corner with her and reached for the girl. “Alder, sweetie!” she murmured. “What happened?”

  Alder fell against her and allowed herself to be hugged. “It’s stupid . . . It’s nothing . . . I’m just hormonal.”

  Dana stroked Alder’s flat black hair. It was something, of course. Something had detonated this minor madness in her niece. Having curled into the smallest possible surface area herself more than once in the past year, Dana felt like the Queen of Stupid-Nothing-Hormonal. “When did this start?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. An hour ago, maybe.” Alder wiped her nose on the hem of her T-shirt.

  “You must be exhausted, honey. Did someone call? Did your mother—”

  “No, it wasn’t her,” Alder muttered. “I was doing this stupid writing assignment, and I just started thinking too much.”

  “What were you thinking about?” asked Dana.

  “Something I don’t want to think about. Or talk about.” Her face looked so dark. Dana was used to Morgan’s moods, but Alder had always seemed untroubled by the ordinary snares of girlhood. It was as if she’d been born with an internal Geiger counter, strangely perceptive to the difference between life’s mere surface rumblings and the real threat of a plate shift.

  “Okay.” Dana squeezed Alder’s hand and helped her rise out of the tiny space that had contained her. “But if you change your mind, you can come talk to me anytime—day or night, okay? I’m always here if you need me.”

  “I know,” said Alder. “You’re like that.”

  On Friday, Morgan had a dentist appointment. She and Dana sat in the waiting room, each reading a People magazine. Morgan’s had a picture on the cover of a teenage superstar who’d passed out in the back of a limousine with a bottle of Grey Goose in her lap and the window open, to the delight of the paparazzi. The smaller inset picture showed the star and her mother retreating from a court-house. The mother held her hand up, as if her little palm and fingers could fend off the assault of shouting reporters and the rapid fire of Uzi-size cameras. The girl cringed against her mother, looking ashen. And average, Dana realized. This millionaire teenager, undoubtedly recognized in any tar-paper shack in any Third World country, looked like she’d been plucked at random from a high-school field-hockey team somewhere.

  Dana wanted to ask Morgan what she thought of this girl. Was it satisfying to see someone who presumably had everything plummet to the bottom of the social s
oup just like anyone else? Or did Morgan see, as Dana did, that somewhere behind the overpriced clothes and the capped teeth, the girl was a real person, with real pain, and was far too young to be abusing herself like this? But Morgan’s eyes flicked across the pages, soaking in every detail, and Dana knew interrupting her would provoke nothing more than an irritated shrug.

  Dana’s glance fell to the magazine in her own hands. It featured an older actress on the cover, hands on narrow hips, victorious smile exaggerated by high-gloss lipstick. The inset picture was grainy and showed her stepping off a curb clutching a plastic grocery bag. She wore sweatpants and an oversize coat that billowed out to one side, making her seem large and ragged. The caption read, “Back in a Size Two, I’m Me Again!”

  Dana remembered this actress as the cute, bouncy one from a 1980s sitcom. A comeback of sorts. And Dana was happy for her, if a little bit jealous. Size two, she thought. I’d be happy with a size eight. But then it occurred to her: Comeback to what? The woman’s career hadn’t been revived. She was just thinner.

  The waiting-room door opened, and Marie the hygienist said, “Morgan, we’re ready for you now.” With effort, Morgan gave Marie a polite half smile, an attempt to cloak her anxiety. Dana wanted to give her some indication of motherly encouragement, but she knew the rules. Parental affection prohibited, except under cover of utter privacy and, if possible, darkness.

  Dana was soon bored by the shimmering starlets and hunky boy-men whose names she didn’t recognize. She closed her eyes, rested her head against the back of the chair, and ran through a mental checklist. Get paper goods for Morgan’s party . . . Have car cleaned—floor has more crumbs than a cracker factory . . . Grady’s game on Sunday . . . Football. Coach Ro. That perked-up look he gave when she said she was divorced. The squareness of him, the warm, frying-pan-size hand on her back . . . Taller than Kenneth and broader, though not quite as handsome . . . but nice enough . . . and warm enough . . .

  “Mrs. Stellgarten?” said a deep voice.

  Dana’s eyes fluttered, and she sat straight up. “Mmm?” she muttered, “Yes?”

  Dr. Sakimoto’s face wavered before her. “I hate to wake you,” he said. “You look so serene.”

  “Oh!” She passed a hand across her lips to make sure she hadn’t drooled. “I was just—”

  “It’s Friday,” he said, smiling. “Who doesn’t need a nap? Sometimes I go into my office and close my eyes—I’m out like a light. Marie has to throw something at me.”

  Dana sighed. Dr. Sakimoto had such a talent for putting people at ease. “Is her appointment over already?” she asked.

  “No, not quite.” His face settled into a strangely pensive state. “Would you come to my office for a quick chat?”

  Dana rose and followed him. Something was wrong. Dr. Sakimoto never called her into the office. The insurance, she thought. Kenneth was always trying to “get the best bang for the buck.” It was so like him to change their coverage and not tell her.

  “Please, have a seat. This one’s more comfortable,” he said pointing to an upholstered chair with a pale green paisley pattern. It’s the bad-news chair! Dana realized. Meant to cushion the blow of unpaid bills or the necessity of a root canal. He seated himself in the other chair, a battered Windsor with the stain worn down on the arms. “Mrs. Stellgarten,” he began.

  “Please call me Dana,” she said, realizing she’d never bothered to give him the right to this familiarity in all the years she’d known him. It was only now, with some obvious unpleasantness in the offing, that she was taking him into her circle of friendship, in the unlikely event it would provide some small protection from . . . whatever this was.

  The smooth skin around his brown eyes crinkled warmly. “Dana it is, then.” He took a breath. “So. I’m seeing a change in Morgan’s enamel that worries me a little.” He seemed to be waiting for her consent to go on, or perhaps giving her a moment to prepare herself.

  “Okay . . .” she said.

  “Tooth enamel, it’s kind of like glass—very smooth, especially at Morgan’s age. All those adult teeth are fairly new, so they should be in pretty good shape. What I’m seeing with Morgan is the beginning of some erosion, especially on the backs of her front teeth and the insides of her molars.” He paused again. “Dana, this pattern of erosion—it’s consistent with purging.”

  For the briefest moment, Dana’s brain blocked his meaning. Purging, her brain mollified her, getting rid of stuff you didn’t need was a good thing, right? But then it came to her in small pieces. Apparently Morgan was getting rid of something she needed.

  “Could there be some other reason for this . . . pattern?” Dana asked tightly, trying to stanch the steady flow of panic that was seeping into her chest.

  “A very reasonable question.” He nodded. “For instance, constantly sucking on something acidic, like lemons, or chewing sticky candy causes enamel to deteriorate.”

  Morgan didn’t like lemons and preferred chocolate to chewy candy. But in that moment, the fact that something else—anything else—might explain this came as a relief.

  “Dana,” he said gently. “Candy degrades enamel in very specific places, mostly the crowns. And lemon tends to erode the fronts of the teeth, not the insides. It wasn’t either of those things.”

  “I would know,” Dana insisted, pressing the words from her lips in an even flow, trying desperately not to reveal the panic that was now filling her head like rushing water. “I would certainly know if she were . . . doing . . . that.”

  “You are a very concerned, conscientious parent. Anyone can see that. And teenage girls can be incredibly secretive. Believe me, I had my own to deal with.”

  Dr. Sakimoto was a father? Dana clung to this distraction like a life jacket. “How old are they?”

  “I have two daughters—a college sophomore and one in medical school.”

  “That’s wonderful! What kind of medicine is she pursuing?”

  “Undecided,” he said. “Dana, we need to think about getting Morgan to stop purging. I can give you a list of resources. . . .”

  Purging. That word would never be the same to her again. “No,” she said, unable to take in any more information. “Not right now.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Marie’s voice, raised slightly, said, “Morgan’s all set.” Dana ejected herself from the bad-news chair and fairly lunged for the exit.

  On the car ride home, Morgan flipped open the vanity mirror and ran her tongue across her teeth. “I just love when they’re all smooth and clean,” she said. “It’s like you get to start over with a whole new set of teeth.”

  But you don’t, Dana wanted to say. The body you’re born in is the one you die in. Driving home with her possibly bulimic daughter, Dana realized she could no longer indulge in that fantasy about waking up with upgraded parts. There were no do-overs. Ruined teeth would never be new, a middle-aged body would never be young again, a collapsed marriage would never go back to the point before you knew it was over.

  As she pulled in to the safety of her own driveway, Dana could hear her mother’s raspy voice saying, You play the hand you’re dealt. Then Ma would glance at her husband sitting in the far corner of the couch staring blankly in the direction of the television, and take another drag of courage from her Marlboro Light.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE ISSUE OF WHAT TO DO NEXT.

  Should she talk to Morgan now? And say what, exactly? “Please stop making yourself vomit, honey. It’s ruining your teeth”? Or maybe, “WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE THINKING?” Or should she be honest and say, “I’m so sorry that I’ve obviously failed you in some massive, bottomless, irretrievable way”?

  No, probably not.

  Dana had spent the last twelve years feeding her children. Within moments of their births, she had nursed them. Since then she’d spent hours of every day planning, buying, preparing, and offering meals to them. She’d imitated a wide variety of vehicles as she drove spoonfuls to their lips, and alway
s asked the direction in which their sandwiches should be cut, because they would refuse to eat squares when they wanted triangles. She’d had countless conversations with other mothers about what and when to feed them and what to do when they refused to eat anything but buttered saltines. She’d learned to have a certain amount of high-calorie, non-nutritious snacks on hand, because other kids were less likely to come over if there wasn’t anything “good” to eat.

  Vomiting all that effort back up was inconceivable to her, a conversation she didn’t know how to begin. She should tell Kenneth, she knew. Yet food had been her job. And it was hard to imagine calling her ex-husband, who had chosen some other, somehow better woman instead of her, and say, “You were right about me, I’m inferior. A factory second as a wife and a mother.”

  Dana didn’t call Kenneth. Locked in her room, she called Polly, possibly her best friend, the only one she trusted not to make her feel even worse. “Hey, do you have a minute?” Then she started to cry in soft, gulping gasps, and Polly said, “Take all the time you need, I’m right here.”

  In pieces, Dana got it out. Polly was skeptical. “Morgan’s too sensible for that. She’s a good, smart girl. How does this guy know for sure?” Dana explained how Dr. Sakimoto had ruled out other causes. Polly didn’t buy it. “How many bulimics do you think they have in China, huh? Not that many, I’m guessing. So how much experience could he have?”

  “China?”

  “Sure, isn’t he Chinese?”

  “Um, I’m pretty sure Sakimoto is a Japanese name. And his first name is Anthony, so maybe he’s part something else, too.”

  “Does he have an accent?”

  “Somewhere between Boston and New York. Sort of Rhode Islandish.”

  “Oh,” said Polly. “Well, still. I don’t believe it. I’ve known that kid since she was in diapers. She’s eaten over here hundreds of times. She’s not a puker.”

  Dana sighed. Polly was so reassuring. Not inasmuch as she was right. The more Dana thought about it, the more she saw that it might be true. Morgan often raced to the bathroom after dinner and sucked on breath mints in the evening. She’d gained weight and was disgusted with herself.