Marianne

by Elizabeth Hammer

Okay, it wasn’t her only worry. She was always nervous, but she hadn’t realized that until Sally had brought it up. Marianne tried not to actively think about all the emotions that plagued her all day long, but that didn’t mean that they didn’t. If she really got honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she was a wreck. Just one little tight ball of dread. It wasn’t right. She was a good girl, mostly. She did her best, but was that enough to keep Patrick around? That question was unknowable, just like the next one.

  What the hell was she going to do to herself when he was finally gone? Marianne only worked on that answer at night, when she was falling asleep. The despair of that situation only felt real to her in that dreamy, anything-can-happen state of mind. It wasn’t a fun train of thought, but it was rather fascinating. And almost addicting...

  Patrick interrupted her whacked-out contemplations when he came and stood at the door of the bedroom. He didn’t say anything, just watched her work.

  Marianne finished with the second bottle and screwed the old-lady-proof cap back on. “Did you know that you can’t even handle these if you’re pregnant? That’s scary.” Marianne looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back at her but didn’t say anything. She grabbed another bottle and opened it. One for Monday. One for Tuesday. One for Wednesday—

  “I love you, Marianne.”

  Marianne’s hands froze. She turned her head and stared at him. Patrick leaned his head against the door frame, and just watched her. She swallowed and looked back at the pills. One... for... Thursday... She spilled the bottle of tiny pink tablets all over the dresser. Should she take one? No. What? Marianne had absolutely no clue what she should do right now.

  Um, um, um... was all she could think. She started gathering up the little pills. She had to stop halfway through, though, because her hands were shaking so badly. Marianne stared at the dresser. Her voice was pathetically squeaky when she spoke. “Um... can you please leave?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Marianne saw Patrick straighten up and walk away. What had she just done? She looked up at the empty doorway, but couldn’t make herself call him back. She liked that doorway empty. It was okay. She’d make up for her rudeness later, but she needed to collect herself first. She just needed a minute.

  Patrick loved her.

  She took a deep breath. The room smelled like vitamins and lavender and thirty-year-old carpet. It made her want to vomit. His words were too foreign for her to comprehend just yet. Marianne leaned over the dresser and tried to breathe. She was unsuccessful. Her tongue felt all cramped.

  Weren’t people supposed to feel all euphoric and complete at moments like this? She didn’t. She felt hollow or two-dimensional. Not at all like an emotional human being, but like an analytical robot trying to compute something far beyond its programming. Who was she? Who was she really, that Patrick could say something like that to her? Marianne couldn’t get her eyes to stay still. She blinked and blinked and took in the sight of all the prescriptions and trinkets on the dresser. She loved Patrick, and he loved her.

  Happy was there... somewhere. But she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything, not anything that she cared to name. Self-loathing and paralyzing doubt were too dumb to name. Marianne looked up at the mirror and quickly shut her eyes. She sank down on the floor with the bottle still in her hand.

  If she was the person she thought she was, then Patrick could not possibly love her. But he did. She knew he did. Patrick said it, and she believed him. She believed him because she felt it from him all the time. His actions were in perfect harmony with his words. He was just that amazing. Ah, there it was—she could feel a bit of the appropriate fullness in her chest now. Marianne wrapped her arms around her legs and breathed into her knees.

  The musty smell of the room wasn’t nauseating anymore. It felt homey. She heard Patrick walking down the hallway toward her a minute later. Marianne didn’t look up; she just lifted the bottle she was holding. “Can you finish this for me?”

  “Of course,” he said. Patrick took the bottle from her hand, and she heard him start shuffling pills.

  She could hear herself, too—her own shaky breathing—and for some reason, she didn’t mind that he could hear it, too. He already knew what she was feeling, he always did. It felt right for Patrick to watch her reaction.

  “I finished that one,” he said. “But I don’t know what to do next.”

  That was her cue to pull it together. “Okay.” Marianne sniffed and stood up. She yanked three tissues out of the box on the dresser and wiped her face. “Here, you do these.” She handed him one bottle and grabbed the last one for herself.

  Patrick stood by her, large as life, and dumped a few of the pills into his hand. He tossed them into the containers and then started laughing silently. “I’m really sorry. I should have waited for a better time.”

  Marianne wiped her nose. “I definitely could have used a little more warning,” she said. “But I still would have kicked you out, I think.”

  “I was going to break it to you gently,” he said. “But then you had to come over here and show off your sweet nature.” Patrick finished his job and put his hands in his pockets. “All my control goes out the window when I watch you being your wonderful self. I can’t help myself.”

  Marianne bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from crying again. If he admitted to seeing none of her flaws, he at least saw her few good parts, too. He noticed her. Marianne fastened the last cap and put all the bottles away in the drawer. “All done here,” she said. She’d wanted to say, “I love you, too,” but didn’t.

  Patrick took Marianne to Laguna Beach. He bought her dinner at a pizza slash brewery, which she nibbled at because she’d eaten a big lunch, of course. Not really, but he didn’t ask her any questions, thankfully. She would have had to make up a menu on the spot and it would have looked suspicious. He also didn’t bring up the love thing, which was nice. She didn’t have a plan for that one yet, either. Of course, she knew how she felt, but what to say was a different matter.

  After dinner, they walked around the tide pools together in the glacial wind. Marianne was cold even in her coat and jeans, but she didn’t care. Except for her ears; those were starting to ache. Patrick caught a little brown and green crab and tried to give it to Marianne to hold.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I don’t really touch animals.”

  “Okay,” he said, putting his finger up for the crab to pinch. “I think it’s illegal to pick them up, anyway.” He stooped down over the rocks and released the crab into the big pool right by them. She couldn’t imagine how he could stand sticking his hands in the chilly water. It made her ears hurt more just to watch him.

  “You know, Patrick...” Marianne sat down on the flattest rock she could find. “Fish pee in that water.”

  Patrick stood up and dried his hands on the bottom of his jacket. “Brilliant observation.”

  “Yeah. It’s my dad’s, though. He likes to torture kids with it when he takes them to the beach.”

  Patrick came and sat down by her. “Your dad is great,” he said. “And I think he likes me. I think.”

  Marianne squinted out at the grayish-green waves. “My dad doesn’t even like me. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “That’s a stupid thing to say,” said Patrick.

  Marianne looked up at him in shock. “I’m sorry,” she said. Patrick had never said anything like that to her before and she didn’t know what to do with it, other than apologize.

  “No,” Patrick shook his head. “I didn’t mean stupid; I meant inaccurate. Your dad is nuts about you.”

  Wrong. Dad was nuts because of her. The poor man was constantly worried about his only daughter; Marianne could see it in his face every day. She swallowed. “I know he is.”

  Patrick took her hand in his. “I mean it. I talked to him for, like, two hours today.”

  “When?”

  “This morning. We did some yard work together.”

  Marianne searc
hed Patrick’s face for proof that he was lying. “My dad doesn’t do yard work.”

  Patrick snickered at her. “Yeah, he told me that he makes you mow the lawn.”

  “Yes. Yes, he does,” she nodded. “That’s how nuts he is about me. He doesn’t even care that I’m going to lose a toe one of these days.”

  Patrick raised his eyebrows at her. “According to him, you’d be perfectly safe if you didn’t insist on wearing flip-flops.”

  “It’s hot!” she whined.

  Patrick bent down and kissed Marianne on her pouty lips. “Well, you don’t have to worry, anymore. I’ve taken over your job.”

  Oh, guilt. Yucky, yucky guilt. “You’re going to mow the lawn for me?”

  He nodded and winked. “James and I settled it all today.”

  Marianne was too shocked even to thank him. “Well, at least someone cares about my feet.”

  Patrick put his arm around her and pulled her closer to him. “You were all he could talk about. He’s worried about you.”

  She knew it. “Why?” Marianne wrinkled her nose. “What did he say?”

  Patrick was silent for a moment and then spoke in a lower voice than before. “He said that you’ve been quieter, lately. He misses you. He said that you don’t eat dinner with them any—”

  “I still don’t like this,” interrupted Marianne. “You shouldn’t have to mow our lawn. My dad should just pay someone to do it if he’s worried for me.”

  “He’s worried about more than you and the lawnmower. And so am I.” Patrick shifted on the uncomfortable pock-marked rock so he was angled toward her. “You get a little morose sometimes.”

  “I do?” Marianne really hoped that he was exaggerating. She always tried to be more cheerful when she was in public. She didn’t want to be one of those people. “Like when?”

  “Like...” Patrick stared into the tide pool for a second before answering. “Like at dinner tonight. You seemed distracted, agitated. Just picking at your tomatoes.”

  “Oh.” Marianne tried her best to scoff at that humiliating revelation of herself. “That was just me fighting to stick to my diet.”

  Patrick looked at her, confused. “You’re on a diet? What for?”

  Men. “For my big, fat butt. That’s what for,” she laughed.

  Patrick did not laugh. “But you’re perfect.”

  “How sweet of you.” Marianne gave him a half-smile and tried to lay her head against his shoulder.

  Patrick caught her chin and held her face where he could see it. He looked into her eyes, one at a time, back and forth. “You shouldn’t be dieting. If anything, you’re underweight. I don’t think that’s safe—”

  Marianne pulled her chin out of his hand and laughed. “It’s not really a diet diet. Just trying to eat healthy, you know.”

  Patrick looked at her hard. “So, you’re being safe?”

  “Yes.” She was totally in control of the situation, in any case.

  Patrick looked out at the ocean and then back at her. “You promise?”

  Marianne smiled softly. “Cross my heart, hope to die.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered. Patrick unzipped his jacket and pulled Marianne against him, wrapping it around her. “I love you.”

  It took Marianne at least five seconds to respond, but she did. “Thank you,” she said. They sat there together watching the waves until the sun went down.

  17

  Martyr

  Marianne jammed on her boots with excessive force, tweaking her little toe in the process. “Jackass!” she shouted. She wasn’t talking to herself, she was talking to the imaginary Patrick. She’d been cursing at him aloud the whole time she changed out of her school clothes.

  She’d called his phone five times when he didn’t show up at school with Nana as planned. In a half hour’s time, she’d worked herself up to practical hysteria that he’d found Nana dead in her bed, and that’s why he wasn’t there. Or maybe that one of Danielle’s kids had finally gotten smushed by a car. She was so convinced that she’d left school early.

  Nope. Patrick was just an inconsiderate jackass.

  Marianne had called Danielle’s house—again—as she sped down the freeway, only to find out that nothing at all was wrong. Big-mouthed Beth answered the phone and told her that Patrick was sleeping. In the middle of the day. Sleeping.

  If this had happened a few days ago, Marianne would have gone into some freaky guilt-ridden, he-doesn’t-owe-me-anything spiral. Today she was pissed. You don’t tell a girl you’re in love with her and then stand her up the next day. Jackass.

  Marianne put on her peach sweater and stormed next door through the wind. Even if she didn’t have the courage to lay into Patrick, she’d at least be able to get some sympathy from Danielle. Marianne went into the house without knocking and found Danielle in the kitchen packing a big grocery bag with snacks.

  Danielle looked up at her and pursed her lips, nodding. “Big-mouth told me what happened. You’ve got some catch there, babe.” She turned back to packing her bag. “That’s just a taste of marriage.”

  “So, I’m right,” said Marianne, spreading out her hands. “He’s a jackass, right?”

  Michael, Danielle’s husband, looked up from the motorcycle magazine he was reading at the table. “All men are jackasses, Marianne.”

  Danielle turned and blew him a kiss. She turned to Marianne. “You’re still house-sitting for us this week, right?” They were driving out to Arizona tomorrow to visit Michael’s lovely mother, and Patrick was going back to Monterey to work.

  Marianne shrugged. “Yeah, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” she said sarcastically. “You could try to be a little more grateful.”

  “Aren’t I the one doing you the favor?”

  “Not unless you’re going in my place.”

  “Hey!” said Michael, from the table. “I thought you were excited about this trip.”

  “Oh, I am,” said Danielle, smiling at him. “I’m just not excited about the drive with the brats.” She turned around and mouthed “whoops” to Marianne. Danielle liked Michael’s mother about as much as she liked her own. At least she had the grace not to show it. Danielle really could be sweet sometimes.

  “But why do you want me to stay, anyway?” asked Marianne. “I won’t forget to feed the dog if I sleep at home.”

  “What if someone steals all my stuff?”

  “No one’s going to steal all your stuff.”

  Danielle was fully out of patience and snapped at Marianne, “Are you going to house-sit, or should I find someone else?”

  “Yes, I’ll house-sit.” Marianne didn’t mind doing it, despite thinking it was unnecessary. It might be fun to be alone. She wouldn’t have to deal with any bothersome distractions from her loneliness and depression. Marianne crossed her arms. “Where are you going right now?” she said. “You should stay here and yell at Patrick for me.”

  “I can’t do everything around here. We have to go to a stupid soccer game.” Danielle picked up the bag and practically threw it down on Michael’s lap. “Just go be your charming bitchy self, Marianne. You’ll do great.”

  “Fine,” mumbled Marianne. She turned and walked all the way down the hall to the last door, Patrick’s room. She imagined herself shoving the door open with a loud bang, but when she got there she didn’t feel like it anymore. He was sleeping, after all.

  Marianne knocked quietly, but there was no answer. She carefully twisted the handle and cracked the door a few inches. “Patrick?” she whispered.

  No answer. She opened the door and crossed over to his bed. He was fast asleep, facing away from her. She gently shook his shoulder. “Hello? Patrick?”

  Patrick jerked awake and squinted at her. “Hey you,” he croaked.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered. “You were going to come meet me at school.”

  Patrick blinked a few times as if the light hurt his eyes. If he had a hangover, she was going to kill him. He blinked again. �
�You need me to drive you?” he rasped out.

  Uh-oh. Marianne felt his face; he had a fever.

  Patrick closed his eyes and said, “I think I’m sick.”

  “You’re very sick,” said Marianne. Who was the jackass, now? “Did you take anything?”

  He nodded.

  “When?”

  He nodded again.

  “What did you take?”

  “What?”

  Marianne almost laughed at him, but she patted his arm instead. “I’ll be right back.” She left his room in search of Advil and Danielle’s jugular. She found both in the kitchen by the fridge. Marianne grabbed the bottle and the thermometer and slammed the cupboard closed. “He’s sick, you moron.”

  “Really?” Danielle grimaced. “Oops.”

  Marianne grabbed a water bottle out of the pantry. “Has he been throwing up?”

  Danielle shouldered her purse and pushed a few kids out of the room. “If I saw him throwing up, I would have known he was sick.”

  “But would you have cared?” Marianne opened the bread bag and put two pieces in the toaster. “Does he like butter?”

  “Of course I’d care. He and Wolverine are the only two in this house that never fake it.” Danielle walked out of the room and then came back. “Peanut butter.”

  “Thanks.” Marianne grabbed it and unscrewed the lid.

  “Bye.”

  “See ya.” Marianne finished fixing the toast and grabbed his meds. She went back to Patrick’s room, and he was sitting up on the edge of the bed. He looked like he might fall over, though. “Lay down,” she said, putting the stuff on the nightstand.

  “I should... get up.” Patrick looked around the room like he didn’t know where he would go if he did.

  Marianne propped up his pillow and pushed him back onto it. She stood by the edge of the bed and handed him his pills and water. “Lay down,” she ordered.

  “My throat hurts.”

  “Okay.” Marianne nodded. “Do you want tea or coffee?”

  “I’m cold.”

  “You have a fever.” Marianne pushed his legs back up onto the bed and pulled up his blanket. “Here you go.”