by Juliette Fay
MY MOM SEZ ONLY 1 KID. They bemoaned their mothers’ lack of understanding for a few rounds, and then Morgan suggested Devynne come over on Tuesday morning. The three of them would still have the whole day together. SO JUST U AND ME FOR MONDAY NITE, she concluded.
OK BUT ITS FUNNER WITH MORE KIDS.
Why had Morgan declined to invite Devynne over, too? Dana had hosted plenty of three- and four-girl sleepovers. And why had Morgan doggedly asserted her right to host, despite Kimmi’s obvious preference for her own house? A pinprick feeling went down Dana’s spine.
Slow down, she told herself. How bad could it be? They’re twelve, for Pete’s sake!
Morgan had lived a fairly sheltered life (until recently anyway, when Kenneth left and the roof blew off their shelter), and this Devynne sounded a bit more worldly; possibly Morgan was intimidated by that. Or maybe it was Nora’s occasional brusqueness—she had come down pretty hard on Kimmi about baking treats and was obviously concerned about Kimmi’s weight (though the girl was ballerina thin). The implications about Morgan’s own more rounded tummy were certainly enough to make her worry.
It’s just a jumpy time for her, Dana assured herself, turning off the lights and going to bed.
The next day her concerns about the texts ebbed to nothing as her mind took up the task of obsessing over every emergency that could possibly arise from leaving the kids home while she went to work on Tuesday. Veterans Day being one of the lesser holidays, Cotters Rock Dental was very much open for business. Alder would be home, but Dana still felt vaguely anxious.
“Come a little late, leave a little early,” Tony suggested. “I’ll even give up the pleasure of your company if you want to go home for lunch. Don’t worry about me—I’ll just hum to myself and try not to whimper,” he teased.
“You don’t think I’m a negligent parent, letting them stay home alone?”
“No, I think you adore your kids and you’re a little bit of a worrywart, which is a recipe for an excellent parent, in my humble opinion.”
I just love this guy, she thought, allowing herself to believe him for the moment.
The boy who had tackled Grady at school drop-off the previous week came over that afternoon. His name was Javier, “But everyone calls me Jav, like javelin, ’cause I’m like a spear flying through the air,” he told Dana matter-of-factly.
“They call you that because you tell them to,” corrected Grady.
“So?” said Jav.
They skittered from one activity to the next, leaving a trail of sweaty socks, elastic bands, Yu-Gi-Oh! cards, dirt-encrusted stones, and Monopoly money. At five o’clock Jav’s mother called about picking him up. “Lemme talk to her, can I talk to her, when you’re done I have to talk to her,” chanted Jav as both boys wiggled impatiently. A sleepover at Jav’s house was quickly arranged. Dana felt funny letting Grady go to a stranger’s house overnight, but the lure of adult supervision while she worked the next day clouded out fears that Jav’s family might be members of a sacrificial cult.
Alder and Jet worked on a poster for the Wilderness Club. Actually, Alder worked, her head bobbing close to the paper to add detail to the elaborate landscape. Jet ate peanut butter out of the jar and made comments like, “Not gonna lie, that squirrel looks really freakin’ vicious.” After dinner they went to the club treasurer’s house for a fund-raising meeting. “We have to, like, meet and talk about raising, like, funds?” Jet explained carefully to Dana.
Alder rolled her eyes. “I’m sleeping over at Jet’s,” she said. “I’ll be home before you leave for work.”
Morgan and Kimmi emerged occasionally from Morgan’s room to get a snack, go on the computer, and once to take a walk around the block. “I disgust myself if I don’t exercise,” Dana heard Kimmi tell Morgan as they pulled on their boots. After dinner they made brownies and ate them with scoops of ice cream while watching Dirty Jobs, shrieking and hiding against each other, as sewer sludge spattered the host’s face.
At ten o’clock Dana herded them up to bed. They were tucked into sleeping bags on the floor, heads sharing the same pillow in the cozy darkness, when Dana returned to the office to pay bills. Short of a massive and immediate turnaround in Kenneth’s prospects, Dana wouldn’t be an at-home mom again anytime soon. In fact, it was now clear the cushion had been getting slowly unstuffed ever since Kenneth had left. Two homes were a strain on even a healthy paycheck, and belts that should’ve been tightened hadn’t been. And yet there was no way she could have told her kids, “Not only is Dad moving out, but you won’t be able to do all the things you used to do and have all the things you used to have. The cloud has no lining, silver or otherwise.”
Dana stared at the wall of drawings that Morgan and Grady had made for Kenneth. Daddy still lives here with us, the pictures seemed to say. You don’t have to worry about anything. She rose and carefully, lovingly, slid her finger under the taped corners of each picture and laid them on the end of the desk. No more lies, she thought.
Then she went to the kitchen to console herself with the brownies and ice cream she had so carefully avoided the entire evening. But there were none. She checked every cupboard and found nothing. She did, however, find that the pan in which they were baked had been washed and shoved to the back of the pots cabinet. The ice cream was also gone, the box buried in the garbage bin, shrouded with newspapers and an empty cereal box.
The pins and needles along her spine rose up again. Her brain scrambled for plausible explanations, and she knew that if she wanted to, she could make herself believe any one of them. Or she could simply stop thinking about it and go to bed, which was almost as tempting as those brownies had been.
No, she would have to do something. She would start by asking Morgan about it tomorrow, after Kimmi had gone home. When she got to the top of the stairs, however, it was clear the girls were not asleep. They were in the bathroom. The light streamed out into the darkened hallway from the not-quite-closed door, and Dana could hear Kimmi’s voice.
“See?” she was saying. “I don’t even have to use my finger anymore. My stomach just knows what to do.”
CHAPTER 30
THERE WAS A MOMENT, AS SHE STOOD THERE IN the dark quiet of the hallway, when Dana’s mind went completely blank, as if the plug had been pulled in her cortex. When her brain reluctantly powered back up seconds later, she questioned whether she had really heard what she’d heard.
But she had. And as the sounds of muted gagging from behind the bathroom door crackled in the air around her, she knew she had a decision to make. Do I respond now or come up with a plan and respond later?
Dana was completely dumbstruck by the situation before her. She wondered how she could possibly handle it without making a scene. If Morgan had been alone, that would’ve been one thing; with Kimmi involved it was so much more complicated. But there was a notion poking at her, prodding her to act. It said, Morgan needs to know that I know. And if I don’t do something now, I might chicken out.
She pushed open the door. Kimmi was rising from her knees by the toilet. Morgan was lowering herself into a crouch, index finger jammed to the knuckle into her mouth. Startled mid-motion, the two girls turned to stare at her. Then Kimmi blurted out, “Mrs. Stellgarten, we’re not feeling well, and we think maybe that chicken you made for dinner wasn’t cooked all the way through and we might have blotchy-ism.”
Botulism, Dana thought. If you’re going to lie to me, at least get the word right.
“It’s time to go to bed,” she said quietly.
“Mom . . .” whispered Morgan.
“Bedtime,” said Dana firmly.
The girls scurried back to Morgan’s room. Dana stood for a moment in the hallway, listening to them settle into their sleeping bags, wondering if she’d handled it properly. She padded to her bedroom, realizing ruefully that she would have the whole night to obsess about it.
Not the whole night after all. Sometime before dawn Morgan floated wraithlike into the room and silently slid unde
r the covers. She did not touch Dana, as she usually did when she crawled into the bed, didn’t tug gently at Dana’s hair or at the skin on her elbow. She simply lay there, meekly waiting to be thrown a scrap of her mother’s attention.
“Did you sleep at all?” Dana murmured.
“No.”
“Are you upset?”
A tiny gasp from the opposite pillow and a shuddering against the mattress let Dana know she was crying. “Morgan,” whispered Dana, her hand smoothing along the skin of her daughter’s clenched forearm. “Morgan, honey.” Bit by bit, Morgan let her hand slide forward, so that Dana’s caresses could reach all the way up to her shoulder. Then suddenly she surged forward, pressing herself into the curve of her mother’s body. Dana wrapped her arms around her and breathed the still-childlike smell of Morgan’s prepubescent skin. She felt terribly sad for Morgan—for the pain of the divorce, and the pressure to be perfect, and the worry that kept her awake night after night.
The crying slowed. “I didn’t lie,” sniffled Morgan.
“About what?”
“I really did stop for a long time,” she insisted. “Like weeks.”
“When did you start again?”
“When we started eating all those cookies and brownies and stuff.”
“With Kimmi.” Morgan didn’t respond, and Dana suspected she didn’t want to implicate her new best friend. “How about if you stop baking and find something else to do when you’re together?”
“I tried that,” Morgan said. “But Kimmi really likes to.”
“I see. It’s that host problem again. Except you did it here, too, where you’re the host.”
“It’s hard, Mom, you don’t even know how hard! Some people are just, like . . . in charge, no matter where they are.”
The truth of it rippled through her. So many people in her own life seemed to fit that description. “You’re right,” she said. “And I do know how hard it is. Some people just seem to get their way no matter what you do, don’t they?”
“Yes! Like Devynne! It’s like a superpower or something.”
Dana restrained herself from demanding to be told what bad behavior Devynne had instigated. “I don’t know her,” she said, hoping to sound only mildly curious. “What’s she like?”
“She’s so popular—you know, like Kimmi?—but she’s not afraid of anything. She tries stuff. She has two big brothers, and they’re in high school, so she knows all about it.”
Dana worked to keep her breathing steady and tried to sound casual, “So . . . like pot or drinking? Stuff like that?”
“Yeah!” Morgan was excited now, half horrified and half thrilled to be telling the story. “Her brothers were high on Halloween when we went over there, and they kept laughing at our costumes like they were watching some hilarious show or something! And they said we could try it, and Devynne did, but then she started coughing really bad and they laughed even harder!”
Dana’s heart banged angrily against her chest. Her Morgan, her baby, being offered drugs! She hoped her next question wouldn’t stanch the flow of information. “Did you try it?”
“Mom!” said Morgan, jerking away from her momentarily. “That stuff is stupid!”
“Okay, sorry,” said Dana. “But you see why I had to ask.”
“I guess,” said Morgan. “But I’m not that dumb.”
You’d let Kimmi lead you back to bingeing and purging, but pot smoking is stupid, thought Dana. At least I know where you stand.
“I better get back,” Morgan murmured. “Case she wakes up and thinks I’m telling.”
The door opened and closed, disturbing the air in the room, making the sheers seem suddenly to throw themselves against the window glass before swinging back again. Dana lay awash in this new information. Only a few weeks ago, Kimmi had seemed like the antidote to Morgan’s insecurity—but clearly she had serious problems of her own.
I have to warn Nora about this. The thought made Dana wince. She had no idea of how to broach the subject. I can’t just walk up to her and say, “I caught our daughters making themselves vomit, and Kimmi seems pretty well versed in the procedure, and oh, by the way, she may also have smoked pot.”
More important, what about Morgan? How had she been drawn so quickly back into the self-destruction of bingeing and purging? Of one thing Dana was sure: she was in over her head with Morgan’s food issues.
Unable to sleep, Dana went downstairs to the office to look up child therapists online. The Multiservice Eating Disorders Association had a “Get Help” button with lists of professionals by town. She chose a few with kind-sounding names and cross-referenced them with her health insurance’s “Find a Healthcare Provider” resource. Bethany Sweet showed up on both lists.
With a name like that, she’s either the best person for the job, thought Dana, or the worst.
She was leaving a message on Ms. Sweet’s voice mail when she heard movement in the hallway and wondered who could be up so early. She followed the sound of footsteps out to the mudroom, where Kimmi was waiting by the door, fully dressed, packed bag hanging from her narrow shoulder. Glancing furtively behind her, she caught sight of Dana and flinched. “I . . . I called my mom,” she murmured breathlessly. “I don’t feel good, and she’s coming to get me.” She searched desperately out the little window next to the door. “She’s here!”
“I’ll walk you out,” said Dana.
“No!” said Kimmi. “You don’t have to.” She twisted the door handle, and when she opened it, Nora was standing on the front step, about to knock. Her sleek mahogany hair was dull and disheveled. She wore a green velour hoodie that barely covered what looked to be a pajama top. “You said you’d be waiting outside,” she growled. Then she saw Dana. “Get in the car,” she ordered Kimmi. The girl didn’t wait to be told twice.
“It would probably be a good idea for us to talk,” Dana suggested. “Maybe later on today.”
Nora ran a hand through her hair. “No,” she said. “Let’s just get this out now.”
“Oh, well . . . if you want—”
Nora cut her off. “I know about Morgan’s eating disorder. I’ve known about it for weeks, but I decided to let the friendship run its course. We aren’t the kind of people to steer our daughter away from a child who could benefit from her friendship. But now that Kimmi’s told me what they’ve been up to, as a responsible parent I have to put a stop to it. I can’t let her get dragged down by another girl’s misfortune.”
Dana’s face went wide with shock. Kimmi dragged down? KIMMI?
“Nora, you certainly have every right to do what’s best for your daughter, but I think you should know what I saw and heard last night.”
Nora huffed an impatient sigh. “I know what you saw and heard. Kimmi told me all about it. Morgan made those awful brownies and pressured Kimmi into eating them with her, then showed her how to throw them up.”
“I’m sorry, but that is not what happened, Nora. I heard them. Kimmi was saying . . . Well, to be quite honest she was bragging about how good she is at making herself vomit. It sounded to me like Kimmi’s been doing it for some time now, and I—”
Nora’s eyes narrowed into beads of fury. “Don’t you dare blame this on my daughter! Kimmi was perfectly fine until she befriended Morgan. Polly told me about Morgan’s problem, and I felt sorry for her—to be ‘quite honest,’ as you say”—Nora’s fingers sliced quote marks into the air—“I felt sorry for you, too! And this is the thanks I get. I should have known—”
“Hold on,” Dana said, finally picking out the strangest detail from this barrage. “Polly told you?”
Nora backhanded the air, swatting away the admission. “My poor daughter is waiting in the car, probably traumatized, and I’m standing here dealing with you. All I can say is, I hope you’ve learned something and you’ll finally take responsibility!”
She swung around, yanked the door open, and whipped herself through it as if propelled by a slingshot. It was clear her intention was to s
lam it, but she’d inadvertently kicked one of Grady’s cleats toward the doorsill on her way, and the door bounced open again. For the briefest instant she stopped, as if uncertain whether she should go back for a second try, but then she continued down the steps. Through the open doorway, Dana could hear her bark something at Kimmi as she got into the car. Then she gunned the motor, threw the car into reverse, and sped backward down the driveway, narrowly missing the mailbox post.
It was another moment or two before Dana’s skin, flushed to a near boil, registered the wintry air infiltrating the house through the open door. She pushed her stunned limbs forward to dislodge the cleat and secure the entryway. When she turned around, Morgan was standing at the other end of the mudroom, her eyes wide with horror.
CHAPTER 31
BY LUNCHTIME DANA KNEW SHE HAD MADE mistakes—from forgetting to input appointments to using incorrect billing codes on claim forms. Weeks and months from now, Tony would face double-booked slots, fussy claim reps, and irate patients from the many errors she’d made just in this one four-hour period.
But all she could think about was Morgan . . . who’d overheard the entire bizarre conversation with Nora and rightly concluded that her ex-best-friend-forever had been using her for cover . . . who’d realized that the lies Kimmi had told her mother would soon spread like pinkeye through the whole sixth grade . . . and who had wept in childish fright and ancient shame.
Dana had spent several hours attempting to console her inconsolable daughter, managing only to see her through to a sniffly, hiccupping exhaustion. When Alder got home from Jet’s, she had quietly included herself in Dana’s efforts and had eventually guided poor Morgan to the TV room to watch a movie with her. They’d been lying under the pink fleece blanket with the opening credits of Little Women rolling as Dana reluctantly left the house, promising to be home for lunch at the latest. Alder called around nine to say that Morgan had fallen asleep watching Susan Sarandon give the speech about wanting her daughters to value themselves for more than just their “decorativeness.”
