by Juliette Fay
Dana took it and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but I can’t talk to you now. Please call back later.” She waved to Laura as her mother wheeled her out.
While Dana was driving home, her cell phone rang. “Hey there,” said a deep voice. “It’s Jack. I called the house, and your daughter said you were out. But I didn’t leave a message with her, just in case.”
“In case?”
“In case you hadn’t told the kids about us.”
Us, thought Dana. The word hummed like a warm breath in her ear. “Good thinking.”
“So I pulled Grady’s emergency contact form from my football folder to get your cell number.” He laughed and added, “Course, it’s a misuse of official information. But what the heck, right? Live dangerously!”
Dana chuckled appreciatively. “Well, now you have it,” she said, a hint of coyness creeping into her voice, “so you don’t have to go stealing it next time.”
“That’s right,” he teased back. “It’s all mine, now.”
This is flirting, she thought. I am actually flirting!
Jack presented his plan for their date: he’d gotten two tickets to Saturday’s UConn football game. “Because I know how much you love football.” The certainty in his voice made her wonder momentarily if he might be right. “I’ll be by to grab you around three,” he was saying.
“Sounds great!” she said. “I went to UConn, you know.”
“No kidding!” Then he gave a little sigh. “I know I’m supposed to act cool, but I gotta tell you, I am really excited about this. It’s been a long time since I met someone who gave me that feeling of... you know . . .”
Connection?
“Of just being really pumped. You are one special lady, and it’s going to be great.”
Dana wasn’t asleep when Morgan came into the soft blackness of her bedroom, but just at the edge of consciousness, when sensible thoughts take unexpected turns. The lawn mower needs servicing. I’ll get Alder to help me put it in the back of the minivan, and then I’ll raise the sail and let the wind take me out across the pond . . .
Sheets rustling, bed creaking, a pillow being pushed up next to hers. “Mom?”
“Nuh?” snorted Dana, her head twitching in the direction of Morgan’s voice.
“Mom, I feel bad.”
“Okay,” Dana muttered numbly.
“I shouldn’t have lied to you.”
“Lied?” said Dana. She was awake now.
“About the barfing.” A hand slid onto Dana’s forearm and pulled at the loose skin around her elbow. “I should have told you.”
Dana shifted onto her side to face Morgan. A pale sliver of light sifted in around the door and cast itself across the girl’s face. “Tell me now,” she murmured.
“It’s just . . . I just feel so fat sometimes.”
But you’re not! Dana wanted to say. You’re beautiful! Yet she knew there was no traction in that approach. When had a mother’s good opinion of her daughter’s looks ever counted? Facts, Dana told herself. Start with those. “When did it start?” she asked.
“April vacation, when it got so hot and we had to go out and buy all new shorts because last year’s didn’t fit me. Remember that?”
Dana had only a vague image of it. The divorce had just been finalized, and she’d been in an almost constant state of distraction by the terrifying realization of her aloneness. The only thing she remembered was a similar look of terror on Morgan’s face in the dressing room as she realized she was two sizes bigger. “Yes, but, sweetie, you’re not done growing yet. Of course you need bigger clothes than you wore a year ago.”
“Mom, stop, okay? Don’t always give, like, answers.”
Dana sighed. Shut up, she’s telling me. Just listen to her saying senseless things and keep my mouth shut.
“So a lot of girls do it, and I tried it,” Morgan said.
“A lot of girls?”
“Well, some. Or some girls just eat a peach or maybe a bag of chips for lunch. The baked kind.”
“Where did you try it?”
“Here. You were at the lawyer’s, signing stuff with Dad, and Grady was . . . I don’t know, somewhere. I came home and ate a whole thing of ice cream. It was butter pecan, and I knew you wouldn’t notice because it was Dad’s favorite, left over from when he lived with us. There was, like, snow all over the top, but I scraped it off and pigged out.” The image of Morgan sitting alone with her father’s freezer-burned ice cream was heartbreaking to Dana.
Oblivious to this, Morgan went on, “I felt so sick I thought I was going to barf, but I didn’t. And I was kind of disappointed, because I wanted all that ice cream out. You know how that feels? When you eat too much and you just want it out?”
Of course she did. All too well. “Yes,” Dana whispered. “I do.”
“So I went in the bathroom and put my finger down my throat. It’s gross, and it kinda hurts. But afterward I felt way better. And . . . I don’t know . . . mature. Because you weren’t home, and neither was Dad, of course. But I handled it. I solved it myself, like Dad always says to.”
Dana was glad Morgan couldn’t see her face. I could honestly kill him, she thought, though she wasn’t sure whom she blamed more—Kenneth or herself.
“But I stopped,” said Morgan. “It was sort of taking over. I’d wake up and think about when to do it and what I’d eat and stuff. It was really distracting, so I stopped about a month ago.”
And there it was—the lie Dana had somehow known was waiting for her. “Morgan,” she said, “did you throw up the night of your party? I’m asking you to be honest with me.”
There was no answer at first. “Yeah,” she said finally.
“Honey, why?”
“I was just really worried the party would bomb and everyone would think I was a freak.”
“But it didn’t bomb. It went really well.”
“I know, but just because something isn’t bombing now, that doesn’t mean it won’t completely bomb a minute from now.”
This was true, of course. Bombs dropped out of thin air all the time. Or just sat there ticking.
Morgan promised she was done with purging. It was behind her. And besides, she insisted, everything was going really well now. She was almost best friends with one of the most popular girls in school. Everyone liked her. Everything was fine.
CHAPTER 18
DR. SAKIMOTO WAS ANSWERING HIS OWN PHONE. When Dana called the next morning, his distinctive baritone, with that oddly casual grumble to it, said, “Cotters Rock Dental, can I help you?”
“Tony?” she said, surprising herself. When had she gotten so comfortable calling him Tony?
“Yes?”
“It’s Dana Stellgarten.”
“Dana,” he said with obvious delight. “Don’t tell me your tooth is acting up. That was some of my best work.”
“No, it’s fine. Great, really.” She dabbed the tip of her tongue at the tooth, realizing she’d hardly given it a second thought. “Actually, I, uh . . . I was calling to ask if you were still interested in my help—temporarily—as a receptionist.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Well, no, I’m not . . . but if you’ve already—”
“This is terrific!” he said. “You are completely making my day.”
“I hope your day won’t get unmade when you find out I can only manage part-time . . .”
“Dana, you’re a single mom with young kids at home. I figured full-time wasn’t in the cards.”
Yes! thought Dana, giving the kitchen table a soundless little slap.
The conversation that ensued was measured by bits of negotiation interspersed with his now-familiar banter. “Be sure to bring your knitting,” he told her. “Or whatever hobby you have.”
“Pottery,” she quipped. “I’ll just clear a space for my wheel in the waiting room.”
The compensation he offered was reasonable, and he felt he could manage with her leaving at three o’clock most days if sh
e was willing to handle any straggling issues the following morning. However, on Wednesdays he worked from noon until eight, and he hoped she could find a way to get the kids covered for that one day each week.
“Oh, I can manage that,” Dana said, though she had no idea how. Despite this hitch, Dana felt a tingle of victory. She had done it. As of Monday morning, she would officially be employed.
“Dad, please!” begged Morgan. She faced him in the dining room that night, dressed in her coolest jeans and skimpiest shirt. “Mom’ll drive me to your house. Kimmi’s waiting for me!”
Kenneth struggled to leash his features into a false composure, but the clenching of his molars made his temples throb with fury. “Mom should have checked with me first about that—”
“Morgan,” Dana warned, “I told you it was only if Dad didn’t mind.”
“—but since she didn’t feel the need,” Kenneth continued, “I have to be the bad guy.”
“Oh, my God, Dad, why? I’ll be with you the whole weekend. And I’ll be extra cooperative—I won’t fight with Grady or ignore Tina, I promise. But you have to let me go to Kimmi’s!”
Kenneth shot Dana a murderous look. “Morgan.” His voice strained for patience. “It’s Tina’s birthday today. She’s turning thirty, and she really wants it to be special. Special means all four of us together to celebrate her birthday. It is not optional.”
Morgan turned to Dana and wailed, “Mom!”
“Sweetie, I had no idea Dad had plans. We should’ve checked with him before—”
“I HATE YOU BOTH!” screamed Morgan, and she stomped out of the room.
Kenneth pulled himself to his full height. “Do you have any idea of how badly you’ve undermined me? She’s going to mope all night now and ruin Tina’s birthday. I have half a mind to let her go to her damned friend’s house, just to keep her from hurting Tina’s feelings!”
Dana felt bad, but not about the potential ruin of Kenneth’s evening. There was a tiny alarm going off in the back of her mind: Tina is turning thirty, and she’s insisting on spending her birthday with Kenneth AND his children? “All four of us,” he’d said. That’s what special means. That’s what special used to mean, thought Dana. Except I was one of the four.
“It was an accident,” she told him dryly. “That’s all I can say.” Then she went out to the backyard, where Morgan held her arms wrapped around herself, weeping with fury and self-pity.
“And I can’t believe you told Mr. Kresgee!” Morgan wailed.
So she’d finally talked with the guidance counselor. “Honey, I was worried about you,” said Dana. “I needed to make sure you were okay.”
“Mom, he came to get me in the lunchroom. At lunchtime,” she hissed. “I almost died.”
Dana could only imagine how embarrassing it must have been to be singled out so publicly. How could a school counselor be that clueless? “Did it help, at least?” she asked, knowing the answer before she’d finished asking the question.
Morgan shuddered at the memory. “He wears corduroys and he smells like mustard. I am never talking to him again.”
Finally Morgan calmed down, and Kenneth herded both kids out to his car. And as much as Dana missed them on their weekends away, the quiet that settled over the house was a welcome relief. She trudged upstairs to get ready for Nora Kinnear’s cocktail party, but nothing in her closet seemed right. She tried on every pair of pants she owned, finally deciding on the black jeans. Jeans, casual, she told herself. Black, not too casual. Finding the right shirt was hopeless, so that took much less time. The smell of beef stew met her at the bottom of the stairs—dinner for the McPhersons! In all the fuss with Kenneth and Morgan, she had nearly forgotten. Thankfully, the crusty bread, buttered peas, and apple crumb cake were already packaged up.
Alder and Jet were sprawled on the couch in the TV room, heads resting on opposite ends, feet fighting playfully for position in the middle. Dana interrupted a snickering disagreement over which horror film was the stupidest when she popped her head in to say she was leaving. “The number for the Kinnears is on the pad in the kitchen, and you know my cell number.”
“Have fun,” said Alder, reaching over to yank the clicker out of Jet’s hand.
“Yeah,” Jet giggled and heaved a pillow at Alder. “Have a boat-load of it.”
The McPhersons lived in the opposite direction from the Kinnears, in a little neighborhood where the houses were smaller and seemed to elbow one another for every inch of yard space. As much as she’d enjoyed seeing Mrs. McPherson and her daughter in the grocery store, Dana hoped no one would answer the door so she could make a quick drop.
The beef stew had leaked out of the pan and smeared her fingers when she picked it up. She hung the bag of side dishes from her wrist and carried the stew with her fingertips, rang the doorbell with her elbow, and silently counted to ten. She would leave the meal in the Comfort Food cooler on the front step if she finished before anyone answered. One . . . two . . .
The knob began to twist back and forth, and then there was a thumping sound. The person on the other side was knocking, as if he or she were the one trying to get in. “Mama!” called a thin little voice. “Ma-maaaa! Da door’s locked!” The door began to shudder as the knob was rhythmically yanked from the other side.
Someone called from farther away, the words getting clearer as they approached. “. . . a minute! I can only do sixteen things at once.” The door opened, and Mrs. McPherson was behind it, swinging a chubby toddler onto her hip.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” said Dana.
“No! Please, it’s fine. It’s so nice of you to come at all.” Mrs. McPherson gave a shy smile and opened the screen door. She looked calmer than the other times Dana had seen her. Her eyes crinkled pleasantly; she seemed almost hopeful. “We always love Mrs. Stellgarten’s meals, don’t we, Monkey Man?” she said to the toddler, giving him a squeeze that made him giggle.
“Please—call me Dana.”
“Well, Dana, I have to admit you’re our favorite,” she said over her shoulder as she led the way into the kitchen. “Not that we don’t appreciate every meal people bring, of course.” She plopped the little boy onto the tan Formica counter, mottled with faint stains. “But yours get the most points around this house, that’s for sure.”
Dana set down the stew on the kitchen table between the Magic Markers and scattered pieces of construction paper. “That’s a lot more than I get from my own family,” she said with a sigh.
“Naturally.” Mrs. McPherson gave a sardonic grin, hip against the counter, her body a barricade to keep the little boy from falling.
Dana smiled back. “I don’t know your first name,” she said.
“Mary Ellen.”
Dana held out her upturned hands, sticky with stew, and said, “Could I . . . ?” Mary Ellen turned on the water in the sink, adjusting it to warm. “How is he?” Dana murmured, rinsing her hands, wondering where in the house Mr. McPherson was.
The little boy squirmed against his mother, she swung him down off the counter, and he ran out of the kitchen. “Better,” she said, handing Dana a dish towel. “They said he wouldn’t be, but I didn’t believe it. I told him he had to keep fighting, and it’s finally paying off.”
Dana wondered at this—the volunteer coordinator at Comfort Food had said Mr. McPherson was terminal. Was Mary Ellen right? Or was she in denial? Dana shuddered at the thought of how hard it would hit if the latter were true. “Is there anything else you need? Food shopping? Errands?”
Mary Ellen smiled gratefully. “That’s so generous, but we just need to get through this so things can get back to normal. Please just keep bringing those yummy dinners. We always love it when it’s Mrs. Stellgarten’s night.”
The Kinnears lived down one of those meandering side roads where even the smaller houses sat on enormous lots. As it turned out, it hadn’t been necessary to squint at the numbers on the mailboxes to gauge how much farther to go. The Kinnear house was at the end, i
ts driveway veering sharply off the cul-de-sac as if to snub its nose at the houses tethered closer to the street.
Dana parked behind a red Hummer and had half a thought to go home and change into nicer clothes. But she took a breath and walked up the driveway, clutching her little purse and a rather expensive bottle of cabernet, the label adorned with a print of the French countryside.
The house was smaller than she expected, given the length of the driveway. But it was well lit, carefully landscaped, and seemed to radiate a strange, almost visible heat through the large bay window. The silvery hum of jazz music beckoned her into the house.
Standing on the front porch, Dana wondered whether to ring the doorbell. The dark-paneled door was not quite closed. Was this a tacit invitation to push it open, or had someone neglected to shut it all the way? Dana rang the bell. She waited several minutes before someone came.
“It’s open!” a man called as he yanked open the door. “Everyone knows to just come the hell in . . .” He was tall, well over six feet, and had short black hair that glittered silver here and there. His pink oxford shirt was rolled at the cuffs and open at the neck, though it bore the telltale wrinkles of having been recently constrained by a tie. The shirt was tucked into faded, unbelted, perfectly fitting jeans. “Friend of Nora’s?” he speculated, hanging a hand over the top of the door. “Or are you lost in the woods, little girl?”
The cocky smile, the languid stance, his weight balanced on one leg while the other rested loosely—it was completely familiar to Dana. It was what some men did, particularly good-looking men, when they wanted to flirt a little, to establish themselves as the lead dog whose pack you might be invited to join. Dana handled the situation as she knew she was required to, by flirting mildly but by no means indicating a rejection of such an offer, if it were to be made. “Just on my way to grandmother’s house.” She smiled, holding up the bottle of wine. “Grandma likes a nice glass of red in the evening.”
