These Girls

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “Trey, why didn’t it go anywhere? Between the two of you, I mean. She’s so great.”

  Her brother didn’t answer at first. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. . . . I guess she wanted a boyfriend.”

  “And you didn’t want that?”

  Trey lifted a shoulder. “Not really.”

  Abby reached out and trapped the last potato chip under her index finger, pressing down and breaking it into a dozen tiny shards.

  “Do you think we both have trouble in relationships because our parents are so cold?” she asked. “When I was studying early childhood development, I learned about patterns in families. Boys who have fathers that abuse their mothers are more likely to grow up to be abusers. And girls who grow up in that environment are more likely to be abused. . . . I keep thinking about it. How we’re compelled to create the very thing we despise just because it seems normal. This guy Pete that I was dating . . . I never really felt close to him, even though we went out for two years.”

  “Could be part of it.” Trey spun his lemonade bottle between his hands. “Our parents aren’t the best role models. But I don’t think they get the final say in who we become.”

  He finished off his drink before speaking again. “Have you talked to them lately? Because you know they’ve called here for you a couple times, right?”

  Abby nodded. “Yeah, you told me. I haven’t been up to calling them back yet.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Did they . . . say anything to you when they called?” she asked after a pause.

  Trey shook his head. “Not really. You know Mom and Dad. God forbid they talk about anything other than home repairs or the weather.”

  Abby gave a little laugh that died in her throat as she looked down at her plate and noticed a green smudge around the rim. Avocado. She closed her eyes and saw the funny, shocked look on Bella’s face the first time Abby spooned a bit of it into her mouth.

  “I wanted a family,” she whispered. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. “It wasn’t only about Bob. I wanted to have a child and a home. I wanted to be happy.”

  Trey reached over and rested a hand on her back. “You’ll have that someday. I promise you.”

  “I’m sure Annabelle has a new nanny now. She won’t remember me, you know. She’s too young. But I’ll never forget her.”

  “Part of her will remember you, Abby. Maybe not your name or your face, but you were the one talking about how powerful early childhood experiences are. She won’t lose that.”

  Abby ducked her head, then made herself look at him. “There’s something I have to ask you.” Her voice faltered as anxiety swelled inside her. “It’s about Stevie. You know I don’t have any memories of him. You were the only one who ever talked to me about him.”

  Trey turned on his stool to face her. “Are you having memories now, Abby? Is that what’s going on?”

  Abby nodded. “Dreams, mostly. Annabelle was getting to be around his age, and she has blond hair, too, so I think she brought him back for me.”

  “You can ask me anything,” Trey said. “Go ahead.”

  “I know how he died,” Abby whispered. “I’d been having panic attacks when I put Annabelle in the car. Then I went to visit Mom and Dad.”

  Trey squeezed his eyes shut but kept his hand steady on her back. “Abby . . .”

  “They told me, Trey.” Her throat closed around the words, but she forced them out. “This is what I need to ask you: Do you know what happened to Stevie?”

  “Yes.” Trey opened his eyes and looked at Abby. She felt dizzy with relief when she saw they didn’t contain any anger or blame. His blue eyes held only compassion.

  “I was at home when it happened,” he said. “I don’t know why Mom and Dad always lied and told everyone he was sick. I thought about telling you before, but I didn’t know if it was the right thing . . . I didn’t know how. But it wasn’t your fault, Abby. You were just a little kid, too.”

  She leaned over and put her head on his shoulder, and then her big brother hugged her while she cried.

  Twenty-five

  SHE’D FINALLY DONE IT.

  She’d lost twenty pounds, three hundred and twenty stubborn, hateful ounces of fat. The scale had announced the glorious number this morning, and Renee had half expected a brass band to march through the bathroom. At the very least, confetti should have streamed from the ceiling.

  Instead, Renee just stood there for a long moment, staring at herself in the mirror, noticing her newly excavated triceps and whittled-down waist. This had been her goal for so long, but the euphoria she’d expected to feel was missing from her body, as if it had been siphoned away along with the weight. So she’d gotten dressed in the skinny clothes that had lived in the back of her closet for so long, then headed to work early, feeling too jittery to stay in the quiet apartment.

  Now she was in her cubicle, responding to followers on her Facebook page and blog. She’d posted a new photo, a full-length one, and comments were flooding in: You look amazing! . . . OMG, did you lose weight? . . . What’s your secret?

  If only she didn’t feel so damn sick. It was becoming harder to keep her thoughts on track. They were veering in and out of focus, as if she was sitting in an optometrist’s chair and he was flipping different lenses in front of her eyes to determine the right prescription.

  Sleep, she thought, wondering why waves of exhaustion were hitting her now, when she’d felt so alert at 5:00 A.M. Her body’s rhythms were completely off. When this was all over, she’d stay in bed for an entire weekend, then get back on track. Her eyes were gritty and she’d been grinding her teeth, too, and her jaw ached; it seemed to have popped a bit out of alignment, and sometimes when she chewed it made a strange clicking sound. She probably needed to see a chiropractor, but who could afford it?

  She yawned, feeling the power of the pills winding down, and she reached into her purse, fumbling around for a new bottle. She couldn’t lose any ground. This was the precise time that she needed to find hidden reserves of energy. Nigel would be picking the new beauty editor very soon. If she could gain a few dozen more Facebook followers, and quickly write a couple of blog posts . . .

  Her hand closed around the bottle, and she shook out four more pills and swallowed them dry, feeling one lodge painfully in her throat. She found an inch of cold coffee in her mug, left over from this morning, and gulped it, grimacing at the bitter taste. As she glanced up, she saw Diane coming out of Nigel’s office. Nigel walked her to the door, and Diane was laughing, with Nigel’s hand on her shoulder.

  Renee’s heart plummeted: Had she gotten the job?

  No; it was impossible. Nigel wasn’t going to make a decision for another week or so. But . . . Diane looked so happy.

  Renee forced herself to turn back at her computer screen and type a response to her blog comments. She’d written about makeup products infused with scents of the winter season—lip gloss spiked with vanilla and cranberry, shampoo that smelled of cinnamon, hand lotion scented like sugar cookies. Someone had written a question about where to buy the hand lotion. Had she forgotten to list the name of the store? She blinked a few times and scanned her post. She didn’t see it.

  She reached for her keyboard and began to type, then her fingers stilled. She couldn’t remember the name of the store; it was as if it had been erased from her memory. She stared at her screen for a long moment, a wave of panic exploding through her exhaustion. Why couldn’t she remember?

  She glanced over the partition and saw David the photographer coming toward her.

  “David? What’s the name of that store? The big one?”

  “Drinking on the job again?” He laughed. “We’re in New York, girl. You need to be more specific.”

  “Can you just name some of the big ones?”

  “Bloomie’s, Saks, Macy’s. . . .”

  Renee forced a smile. “Macy’s. That’s it.”

  David moved on and Renee finished typing, then leaned back in her chair.
She couldn’t stop seeing Nigel’s hand on Diane’s shoulder, and hearing her laugh. Associate editors didn’t meet with the editor in chief for just any reason. Had Diane asked for the meeting, or had Nigel?

  For the first time, Renee allowed herself to think about what would happen if she didn’t get the promotion. She’d been in New York for years and she was still working at a relatively low-level job, not dating anyone special, and living in an apartment that was the size of some people’s closets. She’d thought working at Gloss would give her the kind of lifestyle contained within the magazine’s pages—the red carpet events and handsome boyfriends in hammocks and invitations to art shows—but it hadn’t happened. Instead, she was broke. She was half in love with a guy who thought of her as a friend—not to mention, a clumsy friend who couldn’t hold her alcohol. And she couldn’t help wondering if Cate might move into a new, nicer place. She hadn’t mentioned it, but Renee knew it could happen soon. Then what?

  She should be euphoric now that she’d finally lost the weight, but she felt only fear. Once she weaned herself off the pills, the pounds would probably come rushing back. She’d starved herself for the past few weeks, but she couldn’t sustain it forever. She knew she was abusing her body, pushing it to its limits.

  Then there were her parents. Renee dropped her chin to her chest and reached back to massage her neck while she thought about what to do. At least there was a glimmer of hope. Last night, her mother had told her that her father had dropped a package at the hotel’s front desk: a jewelry box holding a silver bracelet. At first Renee had worried that it might make things even worse—that her mother would feel it had unforgivable echoes of that other gift of jewelry. But her mother had said it was a charm bracelet, with little trinkets in the shape of a young girl, a house, a tiny dog, and two linked wedding bands. It represented everything her parents had been through together, the accumulated triumphs of their joined life.

  “I called him,” her mother had said. “He asked me to come home.”

  “Are you going to?” Renee had held her breath.

  “I think so,” her mother had said. “But he’s going to stay in the guest room for a while.”

  Now Renee conceded defeat as she raised her head to stare at her computer screen; her concentration was shot. She stood up and wandered down the hall. There was an office party tomorrow night to celebrate the National Magazine Award that Gloss had won, and she wanted to look good, especially since she was hoping to get some face time with Nigel. She paused at the door to the closet, then opened it and stared at the racks of clothes. She walked past the size 10s—there was a much bigger selection than the 12s but it was still pretty sparse—then moved to the 8s, which took up two full racks. She picked up a silver dress that weighed about as much as a paper airplane and moved to the back of the room to try it on.

  She slipped off her pants and blouse, then pulled the dress over her head. It settled around her like a cloud. As Renee looked in the mirror, twisting from side to side, she realized the dress was loose. She was heading toward a size 6, and if she kept taking the pills for another week or two, she might actually make it.

  She’d borrow this dress for the party, along with its matching strappy silver sandals. She’d find a way to talk to Nigel, to make him really see her. Then everything would be worth it.

  She changed into her own clothes and headed back to her desk, but the ground seemed to lurch beneath her feet and she tipped against a wall, barely catching herself before she sprawled on the floor. Maybe she needed something to eat, or at least a drink.

  She headed for the elevators and pressed the Down button. She could sit in the cafeteria, nibble a few crackers and sip herbal tea until her light-headedness passed.

  But as the doors opened and she turned the corner toward the cafeteria, she stopped short. She’d forgotten it was lunch-time. It was raining outside, so most of the round tables were full of magazine staffers who didn’t feel like getting wet. Renee spotted Nigel at a central table—the editors always got the best tables, just like the hierarchy in high school cafeterias—and he was surrounded by Gloss staffers. At the next table was Trey, sitting by Cate, who was jotting down notes on a little spiral pad while he talked. Actually, there were two Treys—now that was a delicious thought. Renee squinted, and, tragically, the Trey twins merged back into one.

  “Renee?” Cate was waving from across the room. “Join us!”

  Renee nodded and began to walk across the expanse of white linoleum. The overhead lights seemed especially bright, and she suddenly felt as if everyone was looking at her. Just another few steps. She was about to pass Nigel’s table, and then she could grab the back of a chair before sitting down.

  If only her head would stop pounding; it was so hard to focus.

  “Renee?” It was Cate’s voice again.

  She shut her eyes for just a moment, and dizziness crashed over her. The room tilted sideways, and then her legs gave way and she fell to the floor as darkness closed in.

  If Joanna hadn’t shown up at the dance recital, it might never have happened. But no, that probably wasn’t true. Joanna’s move had simply speeded up the inevitable. Abby was on a collision course with memory, and all of the warning signs—the panic attacks and irrational fears for Annabelle’s safety—were just symptoms. The real issue lay just beneath that jittery surface.

  After she’d left the recital, Abby had used the unexpected free time to study for a few hours, then called her parents to see if she could stop by. Her father had answered the phone and invited her to dinner. “That would be great,” Abby had said. It had been more than a month since she’d seen them, even though they lived only a few miles away.

  She’d taken the long way there, driving past her old elementary school with the sprawling playground where she’d spent so many weekday recesses. New equipment filled the playground now—hard-looking metal structures replacing the old wooden ones. Abby had read in the newspaper that the wood had been treated with arsenic, of all things, as a preservative, and when the story broke, the community had been outraged. Everyone had thought their kids were breathing fresh air and getting a break from arithmetic and spelling lessons, never realizing that poison lay just beneath their fingertips.

  When Abby finally arrived at her parents’ house, she turned off her Honda’s engine and sat in the driveway, staring up at the redbrick house, remembering what had happened at her counselor’s office the previous week.

  Abby had been talking about her mother again, and the counselor had hypothesized that her lack of warmth could be tied to depression.

  “What did your brother Stevie die from?” the counselor had asked, her big eyes focused on Abby.

  “He was sick. It happened suddenly,” Abby had said.

  “A bad flu?” the counselor had guessed, a crease forming between her eyebrows.

  Abby had shrugged, feeling ashamed to admit it, even here in this safe space. Her palms had begun to sweat, and she’d turned to look out the window. “Maybe. I don’t know exactly—I was really young. Could we . . . talk about something else now?”

  The counselor hadn’t pressed her, but she’d made a note on her yellow pad before they’d moved along to talk about Abby’s relationship with Bob.

  But the question reverberated inside Abby’s mind, catching her off-guard as she stared in the mirror, brushing her teeth at night, and again when she awoke in the morning. How could she not know how her little brother had died? It had taken an outsider to make her realize how warped her parents’ unspoken rule was: No one talked about Stevie. And Abby and Trey had played along, for all these years.

  Maybe her parents thought that, if they hid the loss, things would be less painful, but Abby knew it was impossible to bury such feelings forever. It was like a game she’d played as a kid, stacking cups one on top of the other, watching the tower wobble as it got higher, and knowing that eventually the whole structure would come down in a spectacular crash.

  Today Abby had a lot to
talk to her parents about. She tucked her car keys into her purse and rapped the brass door knocker twice. Her father opened it. He looked the same as always—tall and thin, with graying brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses, his predinner Scotch on ice in one hand.

  “Come in,” he said, giving her shoulder a little pat with his free hand as she walked into the hallway. “Your mother’s in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks,” Abby said, already wondering if this was a mistake. Being in this house made her feel like a girl again. If she was going to break old patterns, a fresh environment would be better. She should have invited her parents out to dinner instead of coming here. But it was too late; she could smell roast beef, and, as she looked into the dining room, she saw the rectangular wooden table was set for three.

  “Can I take your coat?” her father offered.

  Things were always so formal between them. Abby smiled to cover her unease as she shrugged out of her jacket; then she walked into the kitchen. Her parents had remodeled it a few years ago, and now granite countertops gleamed under the recessed lights. Her mother was pulling open the oven door and bending down to look inside.

  “Another half hour,” she announced.

  “Smells great,” Abby said. She paused, then walked over and kissed her mom on the cheek.

  “It’s good to see you, Mom,” she said.

  “You, too,” her mother said.

  Abby couldn’t help wishing things could be different—that her father would open the door with a joke and a hug, and her mom would come rushing out of the kitchen, playfully pushing him aside so she could greet Abby. But maybe it wasn’t too late. In high school, one of Abby’s friends had fought bitterly with her parents—even running away from home one drama-filled night—but then, when her friend hit her early twenties, the relationship began to stabilize. Now, Abby’s friend chatted with her mother nearly every day on the phone.

  Abby was planning to make her parents talk about Stevie tonight. It would be painful, but wasn’t it already? She wanted to be able to say his name, to look at pictures of him. To hear about his life.