Did I Say You Could Go Read online

  She drums her fingers on the bar. “Does that work for you?”

  Armand laughs. “Sometimes.”

  * * *

  Screw the salad. Ruth goes for the buttermilk chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It’s delicious. So is Armand. He flirts with her throughout dinner. On her way to the bathroom she stops by the hostess desk.

  “The food is incredible,” she gushes to Madison. “When I get home, I’m giving you a five-star Yelp review!”

  Madison looks at her coolly. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I more than enjoyed it. I loved it. Congrats to you. This is a fabulous restaurant. Great concept. Great execution. Good for you guys. Good for you.” Ruth leans in and whispers, “Here’s to—happily ever after.”

  Madison’s scrunches up her brow and Ruth’s stomach drops. What has she done? The whole point of the pod was anonymity. She never should have mentioned it. They said this was a trial period. They’re vetting her. Has she just blown it? She waits for Madison to give her some sort of a sign. She’ll be waiting a long time.

  “How about you and I get together for a glass of wine? I owe you after tonight. My treat,” Ruth says.

  Madison’s eyes flit over Ruth’s head. She gives somebody a nod, a wave. “I’m sorry, I’m being summoned.”

  * * *

  When Ruth returns to the bar, Armand hands her the bill. “Take your time with that.”

  Has he forgotten Madison asked him to comp her meal? Ruth’s hands shake as she gets out her platinum card. She doesn’t know what to think, how to parse the evening. She overtips Armand, giving him nearly 30 percent.

  The restaurant is packed. Couples chatting away, filling the room with their happy voices, sharing fries, desserts, bottles of wine.

  When Ruth gets home she texts Madison. How about next Saturday? Let’s whine/wine it up!

  Madison reads the text immediately but she doesn’t text back and Ruth curls up into a little ball on the couch, feeling utterly abandoned, like Sandra Bullock in that space movie.

  Ruth’s grandmother’s voice echoes through her head. She can entertain herself, can’t she?

  * * *

  As he pulled their Chevette into her grandparents’ driveway, Ruth’s father said, “I think we should cancel.”

  “It’s too late,” said her mother. “She’s expecting us now.”

  Her mother swiveled around in her seat and said brightly, “Ruth, darling, you’re going to have a wonderful time!”

  Ruth blinked back tears. She was going to have a wonderful time until Lindy got sick and Lindy’s mother called and said Ruth couldn’t spend the weekend with them anymore. It was her parents’ tenth anniversary. They’d booked a hotel at Sea Ranch. They’d scrimped and saved for this trip for months.

  Last night Ruth’s mother had called Ruth’s grandmother and asked if Ruth could stay with them for the weekend. Ruth listened in on the bedroom telephone. She frequently did this. She’d become quite adept at hanging up without a sound.

  “Please, Lou,” she begged. “She’ll be no trouble.” Ruth’s mother called her parents by their first names, Lou (short for Louise) and Charlie. “You’ll barely even know she’s there.”

  Ruth saw her grandparents twice a year, at Christmas and Easter. Lou and Charlie traveled abroad frequently and had a full and active social life.

  “She can entertain herself, can’t she?” her grandmother asked. “The Pratts are coming to dinner tonight.”

  “She’s very self-sufficient,” said her mother. “She makes a mean gin and tonic, too. You could put her to work. She could serve your guests.” Her mother fake-laughed.

  Every night, Ruth made her parents a drink. It made her feel important.

  “You’ll be fine, won’t you, Ruthie?” Her mother smiled at her. “You’re a big girl now, six years old! It’s only two nights, and we’ll be back before you know it.”

  * * *

  Her father called the house her mother had grown up in The Manse. An eight-thousand-square-foot monstrosity in Portola Valley with a stable of four prize-winning thoroughbreds. One of Ruth’s earliest memories was of her grandmother in her riding clothes. The fawn-colored breeches that clung to her long, shapely legs. The crisp white shirt with the starched collar.

  Lou came from money. Old money. The kind of money that did not get passed down to the next generation until the previous generation had died.

  Ruth’s mother rang the bell. A few minutes later Lou opened the door.

  “I brought you flowers,” said her mother, holding out a grocery store bouquet of stargazer lilies.

  Lou accepted them with a slight frown. The cheap cellophane. The gold Safeway sticker.

  “You’re lucky we’re even here this weekend,” Lou said. To Ruth she said, “We are very busy today. Don’t expect me to sit on the floor and do puzzles with you.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t like puzzles,” said Ruth.

  Ruth’s mother nudged Ruth’s suitcase with her toe. “She’s a big reader. She brought three books with her. Little House on the Prairie.”

  “Well, good for you,” said Lou.

  Ruth puffed up a little.

  * * *

  After her parents left, Lou brought her to the den. They had an enormous TV, twice the size of Ruth’s TV at home.

  “Watch whatever you want,” said Lou.

  “But it’s the daytime,” said Ruth. “I only watch at night.”

  Her grandmother looked at her like she was a science experiment. “You’re quite a rule follower, aren’t you?”

  Ruth nodded proudly. “I’ve been student of the week twice this year. Mr. Riggs, our principal, said—”

  Lou walked across the room, turned on the TV, and left, shutting the door behind her. Ruth watched TV for so long she dozed off. She woke to the smell of melted cheese. While she had been sleeping, somebody had delivered a pepperoni pizza, as well as a glass of soda. Sprite? Mountain Dew?

  She took a sip. It was tonic water—yuck. She wanted milk. She opened the door a crack and heard the faint sound of music, people laughing, cutlery clinking. The festive sounds made her sad. A party going on without her. She’d missed her chance to perform her parlor act. A precocious little girl delivering adult drinks.

  She ate her pizza. She watched The Jeffersons, Charlie’s Angels, and Dynasty. She fell asleep again.

  Her grandmother woke her the next morning. Lou sat down on the couch next to her, her face scrubbed clean of makeup; she was barely recognizable.

  “I have some bad news,” she said.

  * * *

  Ruth presses her face into the couch cushion and chokes back a sob. Where the hell is Marley? If Marley were here, she’d snuggle her up. Marley who will never desert her, never make her feel like she’s a speck of dust. A blow-up bed, my ass. She’s got a Saatva queen-size mattress with Cultiver linen sheets. That girl needs to come home.

  Ruth drives to Gemma’s in a near rage. The kitchen door is unlocked as usual. Gemma is from Derry, New Hampshire. Nobody locks their doors in Derry, Gemma’s always said, tempting fate. She’s just been lucky she hasn’t been robbed yet, or worse.

  How could Gemma have chosen Madison over her? How can Gemma still be friends with that harpie!

  The house is perfectly still, the girls and Gemma asleep upstairs. Ruth sits at the kitchen table for a while, until her heart rate has gone back to normal and she’s thinking clearly.

  Then she plugs up the sink’s drain, turns on the faucet, and leaves.

  MARLEY

  Marley’s been working with her text therapist, Soleil, for a few months now, and her mother has no idea. She’s been using her own money. Every birthday, her mother writes her a $1,000 check to deposit in a you never know what will happen savings account. Although Marley appreciates the cash, it comes with a price—a low, simmering dread. Her you never know what will happen account feels more like a threat than security.

  Marley’s frugal, she’s never spent a p
enny of her funds. But at the end of eighth grade, friendless, feeling more alone than ever, she knew she needed to talk to somebody on the down low. Somebody who took their orders from her, not her mother. Marley loves both the flexibility of text therapy (you can reach out to your therapist whenever you want) and the anonymity of it.

  Bee snores lightly in her bed. Marley is wide awake, revved up from the SLUTZ’s first rehearsal, so she takes a chance and reaches out to Soleil. She’d already filled Soleil in on her decision to join the dance crew a few days ago.

  September 5, 11:01 p.m.

  Soleil are you up?

  About five minutes later, Soleil answers.

  Hi Marley. What’s going on?

  Is it ok to text you this late?

  It’s fine. I’m a bit of a night owl.

  Guess what? The dance crew has a name!

  Oh yeah? What?

  Don’t laugh. SLUTZ

  SLUTZ. Interesting.

  Soleil always says interesting when something bothers her.

  You don’t like it?

  Mmm, I think it could be problematic.

  We’re using it in an ironic way. It’s a feminist thing. We’re taking back the word. Making it our own

  I think you have to be careful. Taking back the word and owning it is all well and good but keep in mind not everybody is free to do that. It’s a matter of privilege. If you’ve got it you can take it back. If you don’t, not so much.

  And I’ve got it?

  Yes you do. Beaming face with smiling eyes. Vulcan salute.

  Soleil writes out her emojis. Marley thinks it’s both weird and cool.

  So you’re saying I can demand people let me own the word and they will? And if I was part of an oppressed group I couldn’t?

  Was fat an oppressed group? Marley wishes she was one of those über-confident girls who proudly showed her curves, who walked through the world spreading body positivity. She aspired to that state of mind, but she was far from it.

  Well you could but the word might continue to stick to you, and worse, concretize the stigma. It’s confusing I know. But it’s something to keep in mind.

  We’re just having fun

  Yeah, I get it, thus the Z. It does have a softening effect.

  My mother would kill me if she knew

  Would she? Really? Let’s think this through.

  Marley hears footsteps downstairs in the kitchen. Gemma. Bee told her she has insomnia so she takes an Ambien, then inevitably sleepwalks her way to the fridge. Pops some Eggos in the toaster. Smothers the waffles in raspberry jam and powdered sugar and wakes up with no memory of her thousand-calorie meal. At least Marley remembers exactly what she eats in the middle of the night. At least she cleans up after herself.

  Do we have to?

  We probably should.

  I really don’t want to process this rn. It’s simple. I love dancing. And I’m good at it

  I wish I could see you in action! You sound so excited. Do you think you could explain the name to your mom? I assume that’s what you think she’ll be most upset about.

  It’s not just that. It’s the kind of dancing we’re doing

  What kind of dancing?

  The way kids dance now

  I don’t see anything wrong with that.

  You might. We twerk

  What? You twerk! Only kidding. Of course you twerk. You’re 14. But why not warn your mom so she’s not taken by surprise. She’s so supportive of you.

  It’s true. Her mother has spent so much money and time trying to fix her, better her. Acupuncture, cupping, homeopathy, Reiki, massages, ear candling. Her mother doesn’t work—her job is Marley. Marley rarely leaves her mother’s side, except during the summers and every other holiday when she goes to Sacramento to stay with her father, stepmother, and stepbrother. She adores it there but can never admit that to her mother. When Marley goes to Sacramento, Ruth shuts down.

  Marley has a vivid memory of driving there the summer before second grade.

  * * *

  “Guess what I’m going to do when you’re gone?”

  Seven-year-old Marley sat in the backseat of the car, overwhelmed by the overly bright sound of her mother asking questions, digging for something from her. Something she didn’t have.

  She took a stab at answering. “Get your hair done?”

  Wrong, wrong, wrong. She should have come up with something more exciting. But now came the familiar sentences, the kind of sentences Marley knew exactly how to react to. They were seesaw sentences. Both on the ground and in the air at the same time.

  “I’m going to see a fun musical with Gemma. The Book of Mormon. But not with Bee. She’ll have to stay home all alone. Well, not all alone, with a babysitter. If you were home, you’d have a sleepover, the two of you. You two besties. But you won’t be, will you?”

  Marley bit her lip and lowered her eyes. Like Harry Potter had an invisibility cloak, this was Marley’s guilt cloak. It never failed to bring her mother back.

  Her mother gulped and swallowed, satisfied with Marley’s contrition. Then a split second later, she glared at her angrily in the rearview mirror. Little beads of sweat popped up on Marley’s temples.

  “Well, I was going to stop at In-N-Out Burger but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll deliver you to your father famished. You know you crash if you don’t eat regularly. Let him deal with your bonking.”

  The reality was that even “bonked” Marley couldn’t be happier to be spending the summer with her father, his wife, Luciana, and her half-brother, Oscar, whom her mother referred to as the “second coming.”

  They drove right past the exit for In-N-Out Burger. Marley was so hungry. She clutched her abdomen and shut her eyes. Soon she’d arrive. They’d have pizza for supper. At dusk, she and Oscar would swim in the pool. Then she’d get into her pajamas, still smelling of chlorine. She’d lie in bed listening to the sound of her father and Luciana laughing while watching The Big Bang Theory. She’d fall asleep to the comforting clink of the ice cubes in their gin and tonics.

  When they pulled into the driveway, Marley was so excited. She couldn’t help herself, she opened the car door.

  “Did I say you could go?” her mother barked.

  Marley shut the car door. She was standing on the threshold of another world. Everything was sharp and in full color. Teletubbies-bright. How she loved that show. She was too old for it now. That show was for babies. She put the window down. She heard birdsong. Smelled laundry detergent billowing from a vent on the side of the house. Her father used Tide. Her mother used Gain.

  “To be separated from you for eight weeks! It’s positively medieval! Let’s say goodbye here.”

  Marley didn’t even have to try; the tears just came. Tears of anticipation. Of freedom.

  Her mother got out of the car and opened the rear door. “Unbuckle,” she said.

  Marley unbuckled herself from her booster seat.

  “Give it to me.”

  Marley gave her mother the booster seat and she tossed it on the driveway. Then she slid into the backseat next to Marley. “Oh, honey,” she crooned. She gathered Marley up in her arms. “This is the closest you can ever be to a person, crying together. I hate that you have to go, too, Marley bear.”

  Her mother sobbed for what felt like an hour, her nose running, her tears soaking Marley’s shirt. Eww. Marley pulled back ever so slightly.

  Her mother flinched. “You can’t wait to get away from me, can you?”

  “No, Mama! I just have to go to the bathroom.”

  She turned away from Marley and stared out the window. Then came the terrifying silence, which was worse than her mother’s anger, because she didn’t know what it meant. Was it temporary, the seconds before the bomb would go off? Or was it a silence that would eventually fizz out, leaving both she and her mother in an exhausted heap?

  Her mother whispered, “Just wait until you get home.”

  * * *

  You’re right. I’ll tell her<
br />
  Marley has no intention of telling her mother. Maybe she can confide in Gemma. Convince her not to tell her mother either. She can go to the talent show with the Howards. Her mother will never have to know.

  Good. I think that’s the right thing to do.

  A rush of guilt. She’s great you know

  Your Mom?

  Ya. She’s so supportive

  Then give her a chance to support you. Give her a chance to come through for you.

  The problems me. My self esteem

  You don’t think you deserve this? Your turn at center stage?

  Marley are you still there? Did I lose you?

  Marley’s legs and arms feel like anchors, pulling her down.

  Exhausted. Gotta sleep

  KK, talk to you soon, Marley. Hatching chick. Rainbow.

  A few seconds later, Marley’s phone emits a satisfying draining sound. When she started with Soleil, she adjusted the settings on the text therapy app to automatically wipe each session from her phone. Soleil, however, kept an archive of all their sessions.

  Marley tries to get comfortable on the air mattress; it’s a cheap blow-up from Costco. She longs for her own bed. Is it too late to call for an Uber? Downstairs she hears the kitchen door open and close. Bee said she’d found Gemma in the backyard some mornings, lying on a lounge chair, snoring away.

  Marley does a series of relaxation breaths. Three-count inhale. Hold for four. Five-count exhale. Her thoughts keep intruding, circling her like disobedient dogs, but eventually they tire, curl up, and close their eyes, and Marley does the same.

  GEMMA

  “Mom!” Bee yells from downstairs.

  Gemma groans and puts the pillow over her face. She feels muzzy and light-headed. She took 20 mg of Ambien last night, twice her normal dose. She’s got to wean herself off the drug. Every night, she has the best of intentions to sleep clean and every night, she succumbs to the little orange pill, desperate at the thought of lying awake for hours, perseverating over the long list of all the ways she’s screwed things up.