by Lisa Tucker
I didn’t find out until I got to school that Holly was still unconscious. I overheard some girls talking about it while I was in the bathroom. One of them was Wendy Spritz, a rich kid, whose dad was a doctor. Of course Mike wasn’t in school, but I still felt like defending him from all this gossip. When Wendy whispered to another girl that Mike’s mom had to be nuts to do this, I burst out of the bathroom stall and told her she didn’t know what she was talking about.
Wendy was a friend of mine, sort of. Mike was right in a way when he said I was popular, because almost everybody was casual friends with me. But deep down, I always knew why: because I rarely caused any trouble, rarely told anybody they were wrong.
Wendy rolled her eyes and asked what my problem was. I said, “I just think it’s stupid to assume Holly Kramer was, I mean, is, nuts. You don’t know what her life was like.”
“What’s stupid is what she did.” Wendy turned back to the mirror and started combing her long blond hair. “Life is always worth living. You can’t just throw it away.”
“Always worth living?” I said, as I washed my hands. “What if you were in terrible pain, like had cancer?”
“But she didn’t have cancer.” Wendy put her hands on her hips. “You have to get your facts straight.”
“Maybe her mind was in pain, did you ever think of that?”
“Whatever,” she said, and turned to Megan, her best friend, and smirked. “Leeann is getting all deep on us.”
“I am not getting all deep.” The paper towel bin was empty and I had to wipe my hands dry on my jeans. “I’m just thinking.” When they were still smirking, I couldn’t resist adding, “Maybe you should try it sometime.”
“Well, up yours, grump,” Wendy said.
“Same to you,” I muttered, as I watched them walk out. Then I stood in the bathroom until the bell rang for class: part of me wishing I’d kept my mouth shut, the other part wishing I’d kept going, tried harder, convinced them.
The rest of the day was no better. Everybody was blabbing about Mike’s mom, how weird she had to be to do this. Some people threw in rumors about him, to prove he was just as weird. The only good thing: they didn’t seem to know about my sister’s part. When the final bell rang, I ran out of school and hopped on my bike, relieved to be away from all this gossip. Mary Beth arrived home on schedule at four-thirty, with Tommy. The evening was ordinary enough: Tommy watched some TV, Mary Beth made dinner, and I had lots of homework. Everything was all right until seven-thirty, when the first call came. Mary Beth was putting away some of Tommy’s toys so I answered.
It was Dotty Summerton, and right away, I knew something was wrong. She asked for Mary Beth, but her words were clipped and angry. Within a minute of picking up, Mary Beth went pale and slumped against the wall. Her responses were mostly weak yeses and nos; once she said, “That is not true” more firmly, but then she said, “Fine.” As soon as she hung up, I asked her what that was about.
She was still leaning against the wall; her face was unreadable. “Dotty doesn’t want me to tell anybody I did her chart.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” Mary Beth said softly. “I only know what she said.”
“Which was?”
“She was a God-fearing woman and she didn’t want to be associated with something like this.”
I frowned. “What does God have to do with it?”
“Don’t ask me to explain,” Mary Beth said, standing up straighter. “I can’t talk about it right now.” Then she went into Tommy’s room and continued cleaning, but now she was throwing toys in the box. When Tommy told her to be careful, she stormed out of the room and told him to do it himself.
I went in to make sure he was all right.
“Mama’s tired,” he said. He didn’t seem upset, but he wasn’t cleaning. He was playing with his Legos, perhaps more intently than usual, but I figured he might as well distract himself.
The next few calls Mary Beth answered, so I didn’t catch their names. But each one upset her; that was obvious from the way she acted when she hung up: nervously pacing back and forth in the kitchen, then stopping to stare at nothing for several minutes, then more pacing. By ten o’clock, when Juanita and another friend from the diner, Sherry, came by, she was lying flat on her bed, looking at the ceiling. I’d asked her over and over if she wanted to watch TV or talk; the first few times, she’d mumbled no and finally she’d whispered, “Please, Leeann, just leave me alone.”
Sherry and Juanita were both in their waitress uniforms; they were due at work at eleven. But they’d been by the hospital and they had news. Not about Holly, who was still in a coma (the doctors had given up predicting when she would regain consciousness—if ever), but about George and Betty.
The way Sherry talked, Holly’s parents had been holding a press conference. Of course they hadn’t; we only had one newspaper here, a weekly called the Tainer Shopping News, which only covered decidedly unracy things like Cub Scout car washes and library fund drives. But they were “spreading the word,” according to Sherry, that Holly’s depression and suicide attempt were all my sister’s doing. And they were accusing Mary Beth of pretending to be a shrink when all she really was was a waitress.
While Sherry was relating this to me, Juanita was in the bedroom talking to Mary Beth. I had one eye on the bedroom; so far, Mary Beth hadn’t moved.
“There were like twenty people there,” Sherry said. “You know, who’d come by to see how Holly was. He was standing in the middle of the hall, holding his hand against his chest.” Then Sherry put her own hand on her chest and lowered her voice to imitate George. “Mary Norris pretended she could help my daughter and she brought her to this. She calls what she does ‘song reading.’ She convinces people she knows things about them their families don’t. Then she uses these things she sees in her little crystal ball to show they should turn on their own flesh and blood.”
Sherry was breathing fast, like she was upset, but also excited. I didn’t blame her. She was the youngest waitress at the diner, only a few years older than me, and although she was the bearer of bad news, she was also the bearer of big news.
“He even called it black magic,” Sherry continued. “Said maybe the church should investigate this blankedy blankedy song reading.” She smirked. “Here he is cursing right in front of her kids and talking about the church in the same sentence.”
I was concentrating so hard it hurt, trying to understand what was going on here. It was all happening so fast. Just two days ago, at the party, my sister had been surrounded by grateful customers, people who loved her, people who credited her with saving their lives. Now, the whole town was being told she was a quack, and obviously, some of those same customers were buying it. Dotty Summerton, at least. And probably those other callers, too.
Mary Beth. Mary Beth. I kept saying her name in my mind as I looked into the bedroom, hoping I would see her get up, move around, smile at Juanita, tell her it would be all right. And tell me it would be all right, that was the main thing. Tell me to go on to bed, don’t worry.
But no one said go to bed and no one said don’t worry. Actually, Sherry was expecting some kind of response from me. She’d stopped talking and was peering into my face, as though I had an answer for all this.
“Holly’s dad is horrible,” I said.
“Yeah.” Sherry leaned closer and whispered, “Did he do something to her? Is that what this is about? I overheard Betty bragging that George was always a good father, loving to all three of his kids. Incapable of doing anything like what Mary Beth said.” Sherry paused. “Is it something awful? Like, you know…”
I told her I didn’t know. I felt like I still had to keep Holly’s business private, even though it didn’t seem likely to stay that way. “But whatever it was,” I threw in, “Mary Beth didn’t make it up. Holly said what happened and my sister just listened.”
I sounded confident even though I was wracking my brains to remember how it went. Of cour
se I remembered the Gordon Lightfoot song. I also remembered Mary Beth saying Holly was the “missing piece” of her theory about music and memory, but she never told me what that meant.
“Oh no,” I said, when Juanita came out of the bedroom without Mary Beth. “She won’t talk to you, either?”
Juanita was frowning. “She ain’t up to it, that’s what she says.”
“But we have to do something.” I sounded like I was pleading with them and I was. They both had to work soon; I didn’t want to be left here alone with my sister like this.
Juanita exhaled. “There’s nothing we can do. Wait it out. And stand behind Mary Beth.”
Before they left, Sherry put her hand on my arm. “Tell her we’re all thinking about her. Tell her we know George is full of shit.”
“Yeah, I will,” I said, as I looked into her bedroom. She heard it already, I was sure. And it didn’t make any difference; she still didn’t move.
But she kept trying. The next day, she went to work. All that week, she went to work. And it wasn’t all bad. For every phone call we got like Dotty Summerton’s, we got another one from a customer who said they’d heard the gossip and thought it was crap. Mary Beth wouldn’t come to the phone anymore, but I relayed all the good messages to her, with some editing. I told her the part about them believing in her, but I left out any criticism of George, knowing it would take her right back to square one: she should have known he was a jerk, and prepared Holly for how hard it would be to confront him.
The problem was, none of these messages seemed to make a bit of difference. She’d listen, but she wouldn’t respond, not even with her eyes; it was like she had gone somewhere where none of this mattered. The only thing she wanted to hear was that Holly was all right. She called the hospital every evening, sometimes two or three times, to see if there was any change. I watched her face during these calls; I could tell from how lifeless it was the answer was no.
When she called on Saturday, they told her Holly had been moved to a rehab hospital about ten miles outside of town. We found out the details from Nancy Lyle, whose husband had heard that Holly was moved because there was nothing else they could do for her in the ICU. She was breathing without a ventilator, her body was basically fine. But she was still unconscious, and they feared she’d suffered major brain damage.
Nancy made a special trip to our place to tell us, and to bring us a loaf of her potato bread. She was on Mary Beth’s side, not because she didn’t like George, but because she thought Holly was a grown woman and responsible for her own decisions. “You didn’t hold a gun to her head,” she said to my sister. “You didn’t hand her them pills. Nobody did.”
When it became clear Mary Beth wasn’t going to chat, Nancy made some excuse to leave. I was sorry to see her go. I was glad somebody was finally saying what I’d been thinking for a while. Sure, I felt very sorry for Holly, but I also felt mad at her for showing up at my sister’s birthday party with all her sadness and problems. Holly was almost ten years older than Mary Beth; she should have known what to do—or not do—with her own family, no matter what my sister said.
It was eleven-thirty in the morning when Nancy left. Tommy was watching the Incredible Hulk cartoon; I was sitting on the couch with him. Mary Beth went into her bedroom. It wasn’t until the show was over that I realized she’d gone back to bed.
But still, it couldn’t get much worse. That’s what I kept telling myself. Sure, it was weird to walk by her door and see her lying there, wide-awake, staring at the ceiling, but motionless, almost like she was in a coma, too. And sure, it was even weirder when she told Tommy I’d have to make his lunch and take him to his friend Peter’s house for their afternoon play date. “Leeann’s in charge, honey,” she whispered. “Just do what she says.”
I’d followed him into her room. “How are we going to get to Peter’s?”
It was on the other side of Tainer, way too far to walk, even if it wasn’t so cold you could see your breath. It was only a few days until November. The tree outside my sister’s window was already stark and leafless.
She pointed to her dresser, and the car keys.
“You want me to drive?” My voice showed how surprised I was. I had my learner’s permit, but I wasn’t supposed to drive without an adult. If I got stopped, I might get arrested.
When she didn’t answer, I picked up the keys. I prided myself on my good driving. Obviously the only solution was to avoid getting stopped.
“Is Mama sick?” Tommy said, when we were in the hall. Maybe it was my imagination his little chin was quivering. Maybe he wasn’t as worried as I was.
“Yeah,” I said. “But she’ll be all right.”
I went into the kitchen to start hot dogs for lunch. He followed me. “Does her ear hurt?”
He’d just had the operation to put the tubes back in his ears a few weeks ago. I leaned down and gave him a quick hug; then I said that was probably it before distracting him with what toys he wanted to take to Peter’s house.
When we got there, Peter’s mom Vicki stopped me before I could get out the door. Vicki was a high school friend of Mary Beth’s and a former customer; she was also one of the nosiest people I’d ever met. She wanted to know how Mary Beth was “coping.” I said fine. She wanted to know if George was upsetting my sister with all his talk. I said no. And then she hinted there was going to be trouble because she’d heard a rumor George had talked to a lawyer.
Tommy had already run off with Peter into Peter’s room. I looked at Vicki. “A lawyer? For what?”
Vicki took a step closer. “Who knows? Maybe slander, since Mary Beth accused him of—”
“She didn’t accuse him. Holly accused him.”
“Well, he’s saying it’s the other way around. And he says it’s already hurt his business and his family.”
I was furious, but I forced a laugh. “Hey, maybe we’ll sue him, too. For saying all this crap about Mary Beth. For ruining her business.”
“Good idea,” Vicki said, and then she started to tell me about her cousin who knew a good lawyer, but I cut her off before she could give me the name.
When I got in the Ford, I turned the music up and reminded myself all this was just gossip. I had other, real problems, to think about. My sister was lying in bed in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. And she wasn’t sick; she wasn’t even sad, at least not in any way I could recognize.
But it couldn’t last much longer. I told Darlene that when I dropped by her place to explain she couldn’t come to dinner tonight. I was planning to pick up Tommy from Peter’s at five and take him to Burger King. I wanted to give Mary Beth some time alone.
“She’s just freaked out right now,” I told Darlene, who seemed almost as stricken about my sister’s situation as I was. “She’ll get her act together.”
“If I was her, I’d blow this whole stupid town.” Darlene was painting her toenails. She held up the little brush to make her point. “Why should you guys stay in this dinky shit hole anyway? It’s not like you have family forcing you to.”
I shrugged. “It isn’t that easy. You can’t just pick up and move without a job.”
Even as I said this, I caught myself wishing for the hundredth time that Mary Beth and Ben had never broken up. Then we’d be in Philadelphia right now, a thousand miles away from the whole mess. Mary Beth would have Ben, who had money and a great job. And more important, I would have Ben to help me fix my sister.
But of course she wouldn’t need to be fixed if we’d gone with Ben to Philadelphia. None of this would have happened.
After I picked up Tommy and took him to Burger King, I decided to take the long way home. Give Mary Beth a little more time. We were over on Fifth Street, across from the library, when I saw Mike.
He hadn’t been in school all week. His empty chair in English class had been a constant reminder of everything that had gone wrong since last Saturday.
Part of me knew our date was out of the question now, part of me even knew h
e might be mad at my sister, just like his grandparents. But still, when his truck pulled up to the traffic light right next to our Ford, I was so relieved to see him, I couldn’t help it. I smiled a little and waved.
He looked at me but only for a second. Then he turned around and stared straight at the traffic light. Immediately I turned around, too, but I glanced over at him several times, unable to believe he wasn’t even going to mouth hi. The instant the light turned green, he was gone. I sat there, unable to move, until the woman behind me started honking her horn.
Tommy was kicking the dashboard.
“Don’t,” I snapped.
“I wish Mama picked me up. She doesn’t get me a cheese-burger.”
“That’s what you wanted.”
“I wanted chicken nuggets.”
He repeated that three times; he also said again he wanted his mom with him, not me. Then I couldn’t take it anymore. I started crying, but it was dark enough that Tommy didn’t notice. I listened to him gripe; then he changed the subject to Peter’s cool Hot Wheels, and still, the tears streamed down my face. I told myself this had to be PMS. Why should I care how Mike felt about me? I hardly knew him.
As I followed Tommy up the stairs to our apartment, my plan was to go to my room, put a tape in my Walkman, and lie on the bed. Take it easy. Try not to worry about anything. This time, if Mary Beth wouldn’t get up, I’d shake her. Tell her Tommy needed her. Tell her I was going to crack up if I didn’t get a break.
It took me several minutes to accept that she wasn’t home. Even though she didn’t come to the door when Tommy banged on it, even though the apartment was quiet and her bed was empty, I kept wandering around the kitchen, the bathroom, back to the living room, expecting to see her. She was hardly in the mood to go anywhere; plus, I had the car, where would she have been able to go?
For the first few hours, I couldn’t obsess on how odd this was, I was too busy dealing with Tommy. He’d burst into angry tears as soon as he realized Mary Beth wasn’t there and it took all my energy to cheer him up, getting him playing again, and later, talk him down, get him in his pajamas, keep him in bed with his eyes closed long enough to fall asleep. Of course I kept hoping Mary Beth would walk in the door any minute, explaining that she’d taken a walk or gone to the QuikTrip for a magazine or dropped by to see Mrs. Haverly down the block, who’d been laid up for several weeks since she broke her hip. It was nine-thirty by the time I began making phone calls. Juanita first, then Sherry, then everyone else I could think of. Nobody had seen or heard from my sister. Most of them sounded concerned, which only made it worse.
