That night they all stayed in and watched a movie together, though it was Saturday and the phone rang with offers. In a succession of calls from the still-unnamed friend, Alder reiterated her intention to “hang home.” Dana was relieved not to have to worry about her whereabouts or state of consciousness. She didn’t think to ground Alder until Alder essentially grounded herself.
Darby called, inviting Morgan for a sleepover, but Morgan declined with vague excuses. “No,” she said to Darby, “she’s not . . . I would tell you . . . Of course I would invite you, too, but we’re not getting together . . . I swear I haven’t talked to Kimmi since yesterday . . .”
Timmy Koljian invited Grady to go to Kreamy Kones. “No thanks,” said Grady, and hung up.
“Why did you say no?” Dana admonished him. “You love Kreamy Kones.”
“Timmy’s annoying,” said Grady. “Do we have any heavy popcorn?”
“Heavy?”
“Yeah, not that light stuff. The kind that has all the butter so it weighs a ton.”
They watched an action-adventure movie about an archaeologist racing to find a treasure hidden by a Civil War hero. Grady twitched in his seat as if he were trying to beat the bad guys to the loot, too. Morgan didn’t appear to be watching all that much. Alder laughed a lot, mostly at Grady.
They all went willingly to bed after the credits rolled. It was ten o’clock, and Dana knew Kenneth would be up, probably reading the latest bestseller about the 114 habits of highly successful salesmen or the like. Though she dreaded it, she knew she had to tell him about Morgan. She kissed the kids good night, closed her bedroom door, and dialed.
“Yuh?” said a woman’s voice, breathy, as if she’d been exercising.
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” said Dana, at first thinking she had misdialed. In the next moment, it dawned on her:
Tina.
“I’m trying to reach Kenneth Stellgarten,” she said coldly.
“Kenny,” muttered the woman, “it’s for you.”
Dana heard fabric rustling, then whispers: “What? No!” and “Just
take
it.”
Kenneth cleared his throat, a juicy hawking sound indicating he hadn’t been taking his allergy medicine. “Can I help you?” he said irritably.
“It’s Dana.” The archness of her tone surprised even her. “Call me when you have a minute to talk about our daughter.” She hit the “off” button.
“Uhhh!”
She shuddered in disgust. An image came to her, unbidden, of how Kenneth used to wrap himself around her after sex, his breath blowing on her neck like a bellows until it made her chilly. But it wasn’t Dana in the image. It was this Tina.
She flinched again, her shoulders clenching up around her neck. In a second she was out of bed and heading downstairs. She flipped on the kitchen light and poured herself a glass of sugar-free lemonade.
Why did she pick up the phone? You don’t answer when you’re still panting from . . . And “Kenny”! He made me call him Kenneth for years, and she gets to call him KENNY!
Dana picked at the remnants of the “heavy” popcorn she had virtuously avoided all evening. The salty richness of it settled her. Kenneth was sleeping with another woman—this was not news, she told herself. (Though why he had chosen someone who would be so coarse as to answer a phone practically mid-coitus was beyond her.) What bothered her more, she had to admit, was the fact that he had someone and she didn’t.
Not yet anyway. Her date with Coach Ro was coming up next weekend, and who knew if that might be the start of something? And if they liked each other, how soon would it be before they might spend the night together? Never with the kids around, of course, but possibly on weekends when they were with their father. What would it be like to be with someone new? She hadn’t slept with anyone but Kenneth in almost twenty years. There had been several before that, but when she thought about it now, it seemed as if she were remembering a story about some other woman. Not her. Not this present-day, problem-laden single mother.
Billy the pothead came to mind. He had been very nice to her, surprisingly sweet and considerate, at least on the nights he wasn’t giggly and stupid from having partied too much.
Too bad about him,
she found herself thinking.
He was a pretty good boyfriend about fifty percent of the time.
Maybe Jack would be like the good half of Billy. He seemed to find her appealing, and he had a way of standing close, touching her without crossing the line to intrusiveness.
How would it be for that line to disappear completely? For him to be granted full access, with nothing between her body and those hands? A pleasing ache began to throb as she imagined the scene, his closeness, his wanting her . . .
A moment later Alder came padding into the kitchen. When she saw the flush in Dana’s cheeks, her eyebrows flicked up a fraction of an inch. Dana grabbed the sponge and began wiping the clean countertop. “I hope I didn’t wake you, sweetie,” she said, following her industrious hand as it moved down the Formica.
“No, I wasn’t sleeping.” Alder took out a glass and ran the water, holding a finger under the stream to gauge the temperature. “I was thinking about last night. I kind of freaked you out.”
“Well, I’ve seen people high before,” said Dana, slightly put off by the idea that Alder might think her a complete innocent. “I just didn’t expect it from you.”
“I told Jet—”
Jet,
thought Dana.
That’s the girl’s name.
“I told her I’m not getting high anymore. I have to keep clear about things.” She took another sip of water. “Oh, and also it bugged you. Which is totally understandable and all.”
“Okay, well . . . that’s good,” said Dana, not missing the fact that Alder didn’t seem terribly motivated by her aunt’s concern over the matter. “There are so many nice kids to spend time with, honey. I’m sure you can find some who aren’t into drugs.”
“Jet’s not
into
drugs. We just wanted to . . . I don’t even know. It was there, and we smoked it. But I’m not doing it anymore, and she said she won’t either.” Alder’s gaze became more purposeful as she looked at her aunt. “She’s the only friend I have right now. I’m not ditching her just because we did something stupid one time.”
“It sounds like. . .” Dana hesitated, “. . . maybe you’re interested in being more than friends.”
Alder pinched her lips together, but a little grin popped out all the same. “Actually,” she said, “this is so lame, but we kind of got our signals crossed on that one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jet’s not one of those kids people, like,
notice.
Or if they do, it’s not in a good way. I guess she was surprised I wanted to hang out with her, and she thought . . .” Alder let out a little chuckle. “She thought I was . . . you know . . .
into
her. So she kissed me. And I kissed her back because . . . I don’t know. I guess I thought it was worth a try.”
“But if she’s not gay, why would she . . . ?”
The amusement on Alder’s face faded. “People want to be liked. They do things or go along with stuff because they’re afraid they’ll get shut out if they don’t.” The pale green of her eyes seemed darker, like clouded sea glass. Then she shrugged. “Anyway, thanks for, you know, hanging in there. I’ll keep it together better from now on.” Alder gave her a quick hug and went back to bed.
The wind had kept up all day, and Dana could hear the creaking of tree branches out in the yard. Suddenly there was a crack followed by a resounding thump. She parted the curtain and looked out. At the edge of the yard near the streetlight lay a large amputated bough.
Nature’s pruning,
her mother would have said. At least now Dana didn’t have to pay a landscaping company to come and trim it; the wind had done it for her
. A free service,
she realized.
The only one I’m likely to get.
CHAPTER
14
K
ENNETH WAS UP IN THE STANDS WHEN THEY GOT to Grady’s football game the next morning. He didn’t usually come when it wasn’t his weekend with the kids, so Dana suspected that last night’s phone call had made an impression.
She wasn’t responsible for recording the minimum play requirements; Amy Koljian, Timmy the quarterback’s mother, had been given the duty. But when Dana walked Grady over to the sidelines and adjusted his helmet, Coach Ro came and stood beside her, remarking on how lucky they were that the clouds had cleared and the field had dried out. A perfect day for football. “Hope it’s this nice
next
weekend,” he murmured, nudging her conspiratorially.
Dana smiled and nodded, hoping that Amy Koljian hadn’t picked up on Coach’s secretive tone. Or the fact that he was standing just a little too close. Avoiding his gaze, Dana fussed with Grady’s helmet strap. “Okay, honey, I’ll be right up in the stands.”
Grady spit out his mouth guard. “With Dad?” he asked. Coach Ro stiffened.
“And Morgan. Yes, I’ll be up there with both of them.” She glanced briefly at Coach, “Have a good game!” she chimed and strode quickly away.
“How come Alder gets to stay home and I have to come?” Morgan whined as soon as Dana was seated next to her.
“She’s still catching up on all the work she’s missed, honey, I told you that. And you come to Grady’s games—just like he goes to your concerts—because we’re a family. We support one another.” Dana had given this speech so many times it came out as if it were prerecorded. Besides, she was distracted by Kenneth, sitting on Morgan’s opposite side, clutching with the hems of his jacket sleeves as if he were undergoing a Senate inquiry.
“I couldn’t care
less
if he comes to my concerts,” insisted Morgan. “In fact, I’d prefer if he
didn’t.
You always sit up front, and I can see him chewing on his shirt collar or picking his nose, and it makes me mess up. I swear, I would actually play
better
if you left him at home!”
“Morgan, please. Enough.”
“Dad, do you think this is fair? Grady doesn’t even know I’m here. He can barely see through the bars in the stupid helmet. He probably can’t tell if
you’re
here either.”
“He knows we’re here, Morgan,” said Kenneth. “And don’t fight with your mother about it.”
Morgan let out a frustrated groan. “Can I at least get a hot chocolate?”
Kenneth pulled some bills from his wallet and said, “Get some for Mom and me, too.”
“I don’t care for any, thanks,” said Dana. When was the last time he’d bought her a fattening beverage like hot chocolate? He always assumed she wanted diet soda or bottled water.
“Something else, then?” he asked.
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
Morgan glanced at her mother. Then she made her way down the sparsely populated stands, hopping from one seat to the next.
“I’m sorry about last night,” Kenneth said quickly. “That was not . . . There was no intention to . . .”
Dana stared straight ahead. “I’m very concerned about Morgan,” she murmured. There was no one sitting near them, but she kept her voice low anyway. Kenneth leaned toward her, sliding a few inches closer on the bench.
“Why?” he said. Worry swelled in his voice, but Dana knew there was relief, too, for the change in subject matter. She gave a brief synopsis: the eroded enamel, the bingeing on cake, the evidence of vomit in the bathroom, and, most important, Morgan’s lack of denial.
“How are you going to handle it?” Kenneth asked.
“How are
we
going to handle it,” she corrected him. “I’m not the only parent here, Kenneth.”
“I know that,” he grumbled. “I just meant that you always seem to have a plan. You’re good at figuring these things out.”
He thinks I’m good at this?
Dana let that sink in a moment. “I’m going to call the school counselor tomorrow. And Dr. Sakimoto gave me a list of resources. But we have to work
together
on this. Don’t go getting distracted by the rest of your life.”
“Of course not!” he retorted. Morgan was starting to make her way up the stands toward them. “You just need to keep me up to speed. That’s all I’m asking. I’m her father,” he added.
“Yes, I
know,
” muttered Dana.
Morgan stepped up to their bench holding two Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate and handed her father one. “Can you shove over a little?” she said, taking her former spot between her parents. She held out the other cup to Dana. “We can share,” she said. “You have the first sip.”
The next morning, after the kids left, Dana called the middle school and asked to speak to the guidance counselor, Mr. Kresgee. “I’m Morgan Stellgarten’s mom? She’s in sixth grade?”
“Oh, yes, Morgan, yes.” His voice had a nasal twang to it. “I haven’t clicked with that crop of kiddos yet—they’ve only been here a month. But I will. I have a knack for it.”
Dana wasn’t sure what to make of his self-proclaimed knack, but she soldiered on, telling him her concerns. It hurt just to say the words, but Mr. Kresgee responded with avuncular kindness. “There’s quite a number of kiddos with this problem,” he said. “I’ll invite her for a little heart-to-heart, and we’ll see where she’s at.”
When Dana hung up the phone, she felt a sense of dread. She’d just told a stranger that her daughter had an eating disorder.
He’s a professional,
she reminded herself.
He knows what to do a lot better than I do.
Reluctantly she pulled out the sheet Dr. Sakimoto had given her, titled simply “Resources.” Subheadings included “Orthodontia,” “Dental Anxiety,” and “Other Important Concerns.” She poured a glass of sugar-free lemonade, went into Kenneth’s office—
her
office, she reminded herself—and started with the National Eating Disorders Association Web site, clicking around, following links to new sites as well.
“Bulimia is a cyclical pattern of behaviors, rather than just one action,” declared one Web site. “In a typical scenario, the bulimic’s shame about her body causes her to restrict food intake. But eventually her hunger grows so strong that she overeats, sometimes several thousand calories at a time. The shame at having lost control and the anxiety about gaining weight make her desperate to undo her actions, so she purges. In the short term, it makes her feel better, but eventually the purging also causes shame and anxiety, creating a tension that drives her to overeat again.”