“She’s eighteen,” he says, sitting down beside her.
So that’s how he wants to play it.
“And I love her,” he says quietly.
Marah gives him a look and I realize how deep this trouble runs.
Love
. I sit slowly, looking at them.
Love.
What in the hell am I supposed to say to that? One thing I know for sure. “I have
to tell your dad.”
Marah gasps. Tears flood her eyes. “He’ll make me move back to L.A.”
“Tell him,” Paxton says, taking Marah’s hand. “He can’t do a thing. She’s an adult.”
“An adult with no money and no job,” I point out.
She pulls away from Paxton and comes toward me, kneeling in front of me. “You said
my mom fell in love with Dad the first time she saw him.”
“Yes, but—”
“And you had an affair with your professor. When you were my age, and everyone thought
it was wrong, but you loved him and it was real.”
I should not have told her so much. If I hadn’t been caught up in my book and seduced
by
you’re my best friend,
I’m sure I wouldn’t have. “Yes, but—”
“I love him, Tully. You’re my best friend. You have to understand.”
I want to tell her she’s wrong, that she can’t love a boy who wears guyliner and tells
her what she feels, but what do I know about love? All I can do is try to undo the
damage, to protect her. But how?
“Don’t tell my dad. Please. It’s not a lie,” she adds. “Just don’t say anything unless
he asks.”
It is a terrible and dangerous bargain I make. I know what will happen if Johnny finds
out about this secret, and it will not bode well for me. But if I tell him, I will
lose her; it’s that simple. Johnny will blame me and take her away and she will never
forgive either one of us.
“Fine,” I say, and I know what I will do: I’ll keep Marah so busy for the next three
weeks she won’t have time to see Paxton. Then she will start college and forget all
about him. “But only if you promise not to lie to me anymore.”
Marah smiles in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable, and I know why. She has been
lying to me all this time.
What good is her promise?
* * *
In September, I am Marah’s shadow. I barely work on my book. I am determined to keep
her away from Paxton. Making plans—and executing them—takes all my time. The only
time we are apart is when we’re sleeping, and I check on her at least once every night
and I make sure she knows it. Johnny and the boys move back into the house on Bainbridge
Island. He calls three nights a week and asks how she is doing—every time I tell him
she is doing well. He pretends not to be hurt that his daughter doesn’t visit and
I pretend not to hear the hurt in his voice.
As my warden grip tightens, Marah pulls away from me. Our relationship begins to fray.
I can see her chafing at the bit, straining to be free. She has decided I am not cool
anymore, that I can’t be trusted, and she withholds conversation as a punishment.
I try to rise above all of it and show her that still I love her. In this cold war
atmosphere, my anxiety begins to grow again. I go see a new doctor and get prescriptions.
I lie and say I’ve never been on Xanax before. By September twenty-first, I am beside
myself with guilt and worry, but I am holding on. I am trying my best to keep my promise
to Kate.
When Johnny shows up, ready to take Marah off to college, there is a moment of stunned
silence as we stare at each other. I feel sick at the trust he has placed in me and
my failure.
“I’m ready,” Marah says at last, breaking the quiet, as she steps toward her dad.
She is wearing artfully ripped black jeans, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and about
twenty silver bangles. Too much eyeliner and mascara accentuate her pallor and make
her look tired. And scared. I am pretty sure she has powdered her face to look even
more pale and gothlike.
I can see that Johnny is about to say the wrong thing—anything about her appearance
is the wrong thing lately. Boy, do I know that.
I raise my voice to cover his. “Do you have everything you need?”
“I guess so,” she says. Her shoulders slump, and in a second she turns into a kid
again, hesitant and uncertain. My heart goes out to her. Before Katie’s death, Marah
was a bold, in-your-face-girl, and now she is someone else completely, vulnerable.
Fragile.
“I should have picked a smaller school,” she says, glancing out the window at the
sunlit day, chewing on her black fingernail.
“You’re ready,” Johnny says from across the room. “Your mom said you were born ready.”
Marah looks up sharply.
The moment feels charged. I feel Kate’s presence in the air we’re breathing, in the
sunlight streaming through the window.
I know I am not alone in this feeling, either. In silence, we leave my condo and get
into the car and drive north. I can almost hear Kate’s off-key humming along with
the radio.
“Your mom and I had so much fun here,” I say as the gothic pink spires of the university
come into view. I remember our toga parties and fraternity mixers and girls passing
a candle at dinner to announce their engagements to boys who wore polo shirts and
khaki pants and boat shoes without socks. Kate had thrown herself into sorority and
collegiate life—she’d dated frat boys and planned social functions and pulled all-night
study sessions.
Me, I’d had blinders on. I hadn’t cared about anything except my future career.
“Tul?” Johnny says, leaning over. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, managing a smile. “It brings back a lot of memories.”
I get out of the car and help Marah with her luggage. The three of us walk through
the campus toward the dorms. McMahon Hall rises up into the cloudless sky, a collection
of jutting gray buildings with decks that stick out like broken teeth.
“It’s not too late to sign you up for Rush,” I say.
Marah rolls her eyes. “A sorority? Gross.”
“You used to want to be in your mom’s and my sorority.”
“And gummy bears used to be my favorite food.”
“Are you saying that you’re too mature to join a sorority?”
Marah smiles for the first time all day. “No. Just too cool.”
“You wish, goth girl. If you had seen us in our parachute pants and shoulder pads,
you’d be screamin’ jealous.”
Even Johnny laughs at that.
We haul Marah’s luggage into the elevator and ride up to her floor, where we enter
a dank, dingy hallway that is crammed with kids and parents and suitcases.
Marah’s “suite” is one of a collection of prison-cell-sized rooms fanned out around
a small bathroom. In her bedroom, two twin beds take up most of the space; there are
also two wooden desks.
“Well,” I say, “this is homey.”
Not
.
Marah sits down on the mattress nearest her. She looks so young and scared it breaks
my heart.
Johnny sits down beside her. They look so much alike. He says, “We are proud of you.”
“I wish I knew what she’d say to me now,” Marah says.
I hear the way her voice breaks, and I sit down on her other side. “She would say
that life is full of unexpected joy and to throw yourself into your college years.”
The door behind us opens. We all turn, expecting to see one of Marah’s new roommates.
Paxton stands there, dressed in black, holding a bouquet of dark purple roses. The
streaks in his hair are scarlet now, and he is wearing enough chains to contain Houdini.
He sees Johnny and stops.
“Who the hell are you?” Johnny says, getting to his feet.
“He’s my friend,” Marah says.
I see it all in a kind of slow motion. Johnny’s anger—a thin layer over concern—and
Marah’s desperation and Paxton’s not-so-subtle arrogance and disdain. Marah throws
herself at her dad, clinging to his arm, trying to slow him down.
I step between Johnny and Paxton.
“Johnny,” I say sternly. “This is Marah’s day. She will remember it forever.”
He pauses, frowns. I can see him working to reel in his anger. It takes longer than
I would have expected. Slowly, he turns his back on Paxton. It is a comment, to be
sure, one Paxton appreciates but Marah does not. I can see how much it costs Johnny
to pretend that he doesn’t mind Paxton being here.
Marah goes to stand by Paxton. Next to him, she looks even more dark-side, goth. They
are both so tall and thin, like a pair of onyx candlesticks.
“Well,” I say brightly to diffuse the tension in the room, “let’s go out for lunch.
You, too, Pax. I want to take Marah down memory lane. I’ll show her where her mom
and I used to study in Suzzallo Library, and our favorite place in the Quad, and the
Department of Communication—”
“No,” Marah says.
I frown. “No, what?”
“I don’t want to go on your Firefly Lane memory tour.”
This is a defiance I never saw coming. “I … I don’t understand. We talked about this
all summer.”
Marah looks at Paxton, who nods encouragingly, and I feel my stomach tighten. This
is
his
opinion. “My mom’s dead,” Marah says, and the flatness in her voice is devastating.
“It doesn’t help to keep talking about her all the time.”
I am dumbstruck.
Johnny moves toward her. “Marah—”
“I appreciate you guys bringing me here, but I’m stressed out enough. Can we just
call it a day?”
I wonder if this hurts Johnny as much as it does me. Or maybe parenthood builds calluses
on your heart and I am simply unprepared for it.
“Sure,” Johnny says gruffly. He ignores Paxton completely and muscles his way to his
daughter, taking her in his arms. Paxton has no choice but to step back. Anger flares
in his bourbon-colored eyes, but he banks it quickly. I’m pretty sure he knows I’m
watching him.
This is my fault. I took her to Dr. Bloom’s, where she met this obviously troubled
young man, and when she told me about him, I acted as a kind of permission board.
I should have reminded her that she was fragile and damaged, a girl who cuts herself
on purpose. I should have protected her. And when I found out they were having sex,
I should have told Johnny. I certainly would have told Kate.
When it is my turn to say goodbye, I want to say all the things I should have said
before. It makes me angry at my useless mom all over again—if I’d had a mother, maybe
I would have known
something
about acting like one.
In Marah’s eyes, I see a carefully banked irritation. She wants us gone so that she
can be alone with Paxton. How do we do this? How do we just leave her on this huge
campus, an eighteen-year-old girl who cuts herself, with a boy who wears makeup and
skull jewelry?
“Maybe you should live with me this quarter,” I say.
I hear Paxton make a sound of contempt, and I want to smack him.
Marah barely smiles. “I’m ready to be on my own.”
I pull her into a hug that lasts half as long as I would like.
“Keep in touch,” Johnny says gruffly. Then he takes my arm and pulls me away. I stumble
along beside him, blinded by tears. Regret and fear and worry braid together and become
my spine, the things that hold me up.
The next thing I know, Johnny and I are at a bar on the Ave, surrounded by kids doing
Jell-O shots in the middle of the day.
“That was brutal,” he says when we sit down.
“Worse than brutal.”
I order a tequila shot.
“When the hell did she make friends with that loser?”
I feel sick to my stomach. “Group therapy.”
“Great. Money well spent.”
I down my tequila and look away.
Johnny sighs. “God, I wish Katie were here. She’d know how to handle this.”
“If Kate were here there’d be nothing to handle.”
Johnny nods and orders us both another drink. “Let’s talk about something less depressing.
Tell me how your big-ass book deal is going…”
* * *
When I get home, I pour myself a large glass of wine, which I carry from room to room.
It takes me a while to realize that I am looking for her.
I am anxious, edgy, and a second glass of wine doesn’t help. I need to do something.
Say
something.
My book.
I jump at the idea. I know exactly what to write. I get my laptop and open it up and
find my document.
I have never known how to say goodbye. It is a failing that has been with me all of
my life. It’s especially problematic, given how often partings have come up. I suppose
it all goes back to my childhood—doesn’t everything? I was always waiting for my mother’s
return. How many times have I said that in this memoir? I’ll have to go back and edit
some of them out. But deleting the sentences won’t delete the truth. When I care about
someone, I hang on with a desperation that borders on mental illness. That’s why I
didn’t tell Johnny about Paxton and Marah. I was afraid of disappointing him—losing
him—but let’s face it, he is already lost to me, isn’t he? He was lost to me the moment
Katie died. I know what he sees when he looks at me: the lesser half of a friendship.
Still, I should have told him the truth. If I had, maybe the goodbye to Marah wouldn’t
have felt so terribly, dangerously final …
* * *
Christmas of 2008 surprises me.
It has been three months since Marah moved into her dorm, and in that short space
of time, life has changed for all of us. I have been writing regularly—not managing
to rack up a lot of pages, but I am steadily finding the words that tell my story.
It energizes me, this new pursuit, gives me something to do in the long and empty
hours of the day and night. I have become a hermit of sorts, one of those middle-aged
women who live their lives at arm’s length. I rarely leave my condo; there’s no need.
Everything can be delivered, and really, I don’t know what to do with myself in the
world these days. So I write.
Until Margie calls me one rainy day in late December. Have I been waiting for her
call? I don’t know. I just know that when it comes in, when I see her name on my caller
ID, I almost start to cry.