“Hey, there,” she says in that husky smoker’s voice of hers, “what time are you getting
over here on Friday?”
“Over here?” I ask.
“To Bainbridge Island. Johnny and the twins are home, so of course we’re having Christmas
here. We can’t have the girlfriend hour without you.”
And there it is. The thing I have been waiting for without even knowing it.
* * *
It is a new beginning, that Christmas on Bainbridge Island; at least it seems like
one. We are all together again for the first time in so long—Bud and Margie have come
up from Arizona, Johnny and the twins have moved back into the home in which they
belong. Even Marah comes home for a week. We all pretend not to notice how thin and
sullen she is.
When we separate, we promise to stay in closer touch, to get together more often.
Johnny hugs me tightly, and in the embrace I remember who we used to be to each other.
Friends.
For the next few months, I am almost my old self, at least a paler, quieter version
of her. I write almost every day; I make progress, not quickly, perhaps, but some
progress is better than none and it helps anchor me, gives me a future. I call Marah
every Monday night; it’s true that she often doesn’t pick up my call, and when she
does deign to talk to me she exerts a strong rule: if I nag at her at all, she hangs
up. And yet I find a way to be okay with that. It is something. We are talking. I
believe that our fake, useless conversations will grow real over time. She will find
her place at the UW, make friends, and mature. Soon I’m sure she will see Paxton for
who he really is. But when her freshman year nears its end and he is still by her
side, I begin to worry a little bit more.
In May of that year—2009—Lucas calls and invites me to the last baseball game of the
season. I meet Johnny at the ballpark and sit with him in the stands. At first it
is awkward being side by side; we are both uncertain of how to treat each other, but
by the end of the third inning, we have found a way. As long as we don’t mention Kate,
we can laugh together again. For the rest of the summer and into that autumn, I visit
often.
By the winter of 2009, I feel almost like my old self. I have even come up with a
plan to bring Marah home from school early to decorate for the holidays.
“Are you ready?” Johnny says when I open the door to my condo. I can see that he is
impatient, excited. We are all worried about Marah, and the idea of bringing her home
from school early is a good one.
“I was born ready. You know that.” I wrap the cashmere scarf around my throat and
follow him down to his car.
On this cold, black, mid-December evening, heavy gray clouds collect above the buildings.
Before we even reach the freeway, a few snowflakes begin to fall, so small that by
the time they hit the windshield, all that is left is a starburst of water, plopping
here and there, wiped away quickly, but still it lends a festive air. We talk about
Marah on the way, her falling grades, and our hope that she will do better in this
sophomore year than she did in her freshman.
The University of Washington’s sprawling, gothic campus seems smaller in this weather;
elegant buttressed buildings shimmer ghostlike beneath the stone gray sky. The snow
is beginning to stick; a white sheen dusts the grassy lawns and concrete benches.
Students move briskly between buildings, their hoods and backpacks slowly turning
white. There is a hushed feeling here, a loneliness that is rarely felt on this giant
campus. It is the last few days of Finals Week. On Monday, the school will close until
January. Most of the students are already gone. In golden windows, professors rush
to grade the last of their tests before the holiday begins.
McMahon Hall is particularly quiet. At Marah’s room, we pause and look at each other.
“Should we yell surprise?” I ask.
“I think it’ll be obvious when she opens the door.”
Johnny knocks on the door.
We hear footsteps and the door opens. Paxton is standing there, wearing boxer shorts
and combat boots, holding a bong. He is paler than usual and the look in his eyes
is glassy and blank. “Whoa…” he says.
Johnny pushes Paxton so hard the kid stumbles and falls. The place reeks of marijuana
and something else. On the nightstand is a small crinkled piece of blackened foil
with a dirty pipe beside it.
What the hell?
Johnny kicks aside pizza boxes and empty Coke cans.
Marah is in bed, wearing only a bra and panties. At our entrance, she scrambles back,
pulling the blanket up to her chest. “Wha’ the hell are you doin’ here?” she says.
Her words come out mangled; her gaze is glassy. She is obviously high. Paxton moves
toward her.
Johnny grabs Paxton as if he is a Frisbee and throws him sideways, then pins him to
the wall. “You raped her,” Johnny says. The tone in his voice is terrifying .
Marah climbs out of bed, falls to the floor. “Dad, don’t…”
“Ask
her
if I raped your daughter,” Paxton says, nodding at me.
When Johnny turns and looks at me, I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
“What?” Johnny yells at me. “What do you know about this?”
“She knew we were sleeping together,” Paxton says with a small smile. He is tearing
us apart; he knows it and enjoys it.
“Pax … doan…” Marah says, stumbling forward.
Johnny’s gaze turns cold as ice. “What?”
I grab his arm and pull him to me. “Please, Johnny. Listen to me,” I whisper. “She
thinks she loves him.”
“How
dare
you not tell me?”
I am almost too scared to answer. “She made me promise.”
“She’s a kid.”
I shake my head. “I was trying—”
“Kate would not forgive you for this.” He knows exactly how these words strip me bare.
He pulls out of my grasp and spins to face his daughter.
She is on her feet, holding on to Paxton as if she would fall without his support.
I see now that her eyebrow is pierced and her hair is streaked with purple. She pulls
on a pair of jeans and grabs a dirty coat from the floor. “I’m sick of pretending
to be who you want me to be,” Marah says. Tears fill her eyes and she wipes them away
impatiently. “I’m quitting school and getting the hell out of here. I need my own
life.” She is shaking as she puts on her shoes. I can see it from here.
Paxton nods encouragingly.
“This would break your mom’s heart,” Johnny says, looking as angry as I’ve ever seen
him.
Marah stares at him. “She’s dead.”
“Come on, Marah,” Paxton says. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Don’t go,” I whisper. “Please. He’ll ruin you.”
Marah turns. She is so unsteady on her feet, she careens into the wall. “You said
every girl needed a poet once in her life. I thought
you’d
understand. With all your my-job-is-to-love-you bullshit.”
“She said
what
?” Johnny shouts. “Every girl needs a
poet
? Oh, for Chri—”
“He’ll ruin you,” I say again. “That’s what I should have told you.”
“Yeah,” Marah says, her face tightening. “Tell me all about love, Tully. Cuz you know
so much about it.”
“She doesn’t, but I do,” Johnny says to Marah. “And so do you. Your mom wouldn’t want
you anywhere near this kid.”
Marah’s eyes go flat and blank. “Don’t bring her into this.”
“You come home with me
now,
” Johnny says. “Or—”
“Or what? Don’t come home at all?” Marah snaps back.
Johnny looks like he is falling. But he is angry, too. “Marah—”
She turns to Paxton, says, “Get me out of here.”
“Fine, go,” Johnny snaps.
I stand there, unable to draw a breath. How has everything gone wrong so fast? When
I hear the door bang shut, I turn to Johnny. “Johnny, please—”
“Don’t. You knew she was sleeping with … that kid…” His voice cracks. “I don’t know
how the hell Kate stayed with you all those years, but I know this: it’s over now.
This is YOUR fault. You stay the hell away from my family.”
For the first time ever—
ever
—Johnny turns his back on me and walks away.
Seventeen
Oh, Tully
.
Over the faint whir of the ventilator and the beep of the heart monitor, I hear the
disappointment in Katie’s voice. I forget where my body is—or try to—and live in the
memory of where we are supposed to be. The Quad at the UW. Good times.
I lie back in the grass. I can almost feel it beneath me; tiny tips poking into my
skin. I can hear the murmur of voices distinct and indistinct; they sound like waves
washing up on a pebbled shore. That pure, beautiful light envelopes everything and
gives me a sense of peace that is totally at odds with the memory I just shared with
Kate.
You let them both walk away?
I roll onto my side and stare at this beautiful, incandescent vision of my best friend.
In the pale glow of her, I see us as we once were—a pair of fourteen-year-old girls
wearing too much makeup, with overplucked eyebrows, sitting on my bed, with an array
of
Tiger Beat
magazines open between us. Or in the eighties, wearing shoulder pads the size of
dinner plates and dancing to “We Got the Beat.” “I ruined everything,” I say.
She sighs quietly; I feel her breath like a whisper against my cheek. I get a whiff
of the bubble gum she used to love, and the Baby Soft perfume that she hasn’t worn
in decades.
“I missed having you to talk to.”
I’m here now, Tul. Talk to me.
“Maybe you want to talk to
me,
about what it’s like where you are.”
About the kind of missing that wakes you up at night, about forgetting how your son’s
hair smells right out of the bath or wondering if he’s lost a tooth or how he’ll grow
up to be a man without a mother to guide him?
She sighs quietly.
That’s for another time. Tell me what happened after Marah ran away and Johnny said
he didn’t want to see you anymore. Do you remember?
I remember, all right. December of 2009 was the beginning of the end. Last year. It
feels like yesterday to me.
“After that horrible scene, I …
run out of the dorms and find myself alone on campus. It is a cold, snowy mess out
here now; slush is furring the streets. I go to Forty-fifth Street, hail a cab, and
get into the backseat.
At home, I am shaking so hard I slam my thumb in the door. I go straight to the bathroom
and take two Xanax, but the pills don’t stop me from falling apart. Not this time.
I know it’s because I deserve to feel bad. What had I been thinking, to say those
things to Marah, to hide the truth from Johnny? He’s right. This is my fault. How
is it that I keep hurting the people I love?
I climb onto my big king-sized bed and curl into a ball on top of the silver silk
coverlet. It absorbs my tears as if they’d never been.
I remember time passing in weird ways—in the slow charcoal darkening of the sky, in
the lights coming on in high-rises around me, in the number of Xanax I take. In the
middle of the night I eat everything in my fridge and am halfway through the pantry
when I know I’ve overdone it. I stumble into the bathroom and puke it all up, along
with the Xanax, and afterward I feel as weak as a kitten.
When the phone beside me rings, I waken, so groggy and lethargic that I forget where
I am and why I feel like someone rolled over me with a dump truck. And then I remember.
I reach over and answer my phone.
“Hello?” I say, noticing how dry my mouth is.
“Hey.”
“Margie.” I whisper her name, afraid to say it out loud. I wish she didn’t live in
Arizona. I need to see her now.
“Hello, Tully.”
I hear the disappointment in her voice and know why she is calling. “You heard?”
“I heard.”
I am so ashamed I feel sick. “I screwed up.”
“You were supposed to be taking care of her.”
The truly pathetic thing is that I thought I was. “How do I fix it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe when Marah comes home—”
“What if she doesn’t?”
Margie draws in a sharp breath, and I think:
How much heartache can one family handle?
“She’ll come back,” I say, but I don’t believe it, and Margie knows. Instead of making
me feel better, this conversation is making me feel worse. I make a mumbling excuse
and hang up.
An Ambien helps me sleep.
* * *
For the next two weeks, the weather matches my mood. Gray, swollen skies cry with
me.
I know I am depressed. I can
feel
it, but the strange thing is that I find it comforting. All of my life I have run
from my own emotions. Now, alone in my apartment, cut off from everyone, I revel in
my pain, swim in its warm waters. I don’t even pretend to work on my book. The sleeping
pills I take at night leave me feeling fuzzy in the morning and slow-moving, and even
with them in my system, I toss and turn at night; sweats and hot flashes have me alternately
boiling and freezing.
Until Christmas Eve. Thirteen days after the fight at Marah’s dorm room.
On that morning, I wake up with a plan.
I stumble out of bed and make my way to the bathroom, where a mirror reveals a middle-aged
woman with bloodshot eyes and hair that needs to be colored.
I fumble with the Xanax container and take two. I need two because I’m going out,
and just the idea of it sends me into a panic.
I should take a shower, but I am feeling so shaky and weak, I can’t do it.
I gather the presents I bought weeks ago. Before.
I put them in a big gray Nordstrom bag and walk to the door.
I stop, unable suddenly to breathe. Pain spikes in my chest.
This is pathetic.
I
am pathetic. I haven’t left my condo in almost two weeks. That’s no time at all.
When did I become
unable
to open a door?
I ignore my rising panic and reach for the doorknob. It feels ember-hot in my sweaty
hand and I make a little sound—a yelp—and let go. Then I try again, more slowly. I
open the door and step out into the hallway. When the door closes I fight an urge
to turn around.