God, I can’t believe it now. Those were my parents. I remember the awe of watching them, a little kid at a grown-up party. Looking back, my mom was probably drunk and my dad was just trying to keep her from falling off the picnic table, but I didn’t know that then. I only thought, Those rock stars are my parents.
If my mom had a burner control knob, I would set her for that night.
I’d keep her right there, on 7, for as long as I could.
CHAPTER
7
AFTER DINNER, Regina calls again.
“Good news,” she tells me. “Your mom is being released on Friday.”
“She is?”
“She is. I’ll be picking her up in the morning, and she’ll stay with me until she’s ready to get back to a regular routine. The doctors think—”
“Wait,” I say. “She’s not coming home?”
“Not yet, no. I’ve taken some time off work. She’ll be staying with me until—”
“Why?”
“Your mom is extremely vulnerable right now, honey. She needs rest. She needs good food and moral support and TLC.”
“She’s got me!”
“Anna,” Regina says in the exaggeratedly slow voice of a kindergarten teacher. Which she is not. She is a nurse. “Your mother is not ready to go home yet. I know this is hard for you to hear, but you’re going to have to trust me. She needs a support system that is bigger than you.”
I don’t say anything.
“Okay, honey?”
Again, I say nothing. I feel sick.
“I’ll call you on Friday,” Regina says. “Let you know how she’s settling in, okay?”
“Okay.”
I am such a bad daughter. The relief is just pouring out of me.
* * *
All week I am waiting for Friday. Waiting for Friday and dreading Friday. Waiting for Friday and dreading Friday. One minute I’m excited, the next I’m nauseated. I wonder how my mother will sound on the phone. Will she use her monotone voice? Will she try to fake it? I can always tell when she fakes it.
In English, it’s freewriting again and, as usual, nothing comes out of my pen. From the look on Mr. Pfaff’s face when I hand in my blank paper, I can tell that he is not impressed. The writing prompt was, “What is something you’re optimistic about?” But all I could think was, My mom is coming home on Friday. Well, not “home.” She is going to Regina’s and I have no control over that. I have no control over anything. Part of me wants to scream and another part wants to just lie down in my bed, pull up the covers, and stay there all day. My real bed, in my real house, where I have slept since I was two. Only I don’t know if I will ever sleep in that bed again. I guess I’m scared to feel “optimistic” about anything, Mr. Pfaff, is the problem.
I look at him. Ask me what I’m thinking. Ask me and I’ll tell you.
But Mr. Pfaff doesn’t ask. He just takes my paper.
* * *
In study hall, I feel Shawna Wendall watching me. She always sits at the same desk, in the far left corner of the room, and I always sit in the far right. Usually we ignore each other, but today I feel her staring. When I look up, she arches her penciled-on eyebrows at me. A what’s-up-with-you? look.
I shrug.
Shawna scowls.
Wow. I am disappointing people left and right.
I look down and try to read my science book. After a minute, a wad of paper hits me in the head. When I look up again, Shawna waves me over. I make my way to the other side of the room and pull up a chair, quick, so Mrs. Sasso won’t yell at me. We’re allowed to talk in study hall but we’re not supposed to change seats.
“What’s wrong with you?” Shawna demands.
“Nothing.” Everything, I want to say.
When she unzips her purse, I notice that her fingernails are painted black with tiny white skulls. They match her crossbone earrings.
“Are you going to this stupid thing on Saturday?” she asks, pulling out Sarabeth’s invitation and flinging it down on the desk.
“I don’t know,” I say.
My dad said I could go. I told Sarabeth I was coming. But now I picture my mom, calling from Regina’s. Honey, she says, I feel fine. I don’t want to stay here. Pack your bags. I’m coming to get you. And then she picks me up and we drive home and everything is—poof!—back to normal.
“I’m not going if you’re not going,” Shawna says.
I look at her.
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I don’t care if you don’t go. I’ll have more fun without you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says. “You’re a real ray of sunshine.”
“You’re a real picnic yourself,” I say.
She smirks, which is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to Shawna Wendall smiling. Out of nowhere she says, “Let me see your fingernails.”
“Why?”
“You bite them, don’t you?”
“No.”
“You do. I can tell. You’re a nail-biter.”
“I am not.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
I fold my hands across my chest.
“Oral fixation,” Shawna says. “Patient is unconsciously obsessed with her mouth and always needs to be sucking or chewing something. Jolly Ranchers, pencils, fingernails.”
I make a scoffing sound, even though I do love Jolly Ranchers and all my pencils have tooth marks on them. “Are you a psychologist?”
“Amateur.”
“Fine,” I say. “I bite my nails. So what?”
“So I’ll paint them.”
“I’m not into skulls and crossbones.”
“What are you into? Rainbows and lollipops?”
Shawna Wendall is by far the weirdest, most sarcastic girl I have ever met. Everything she says is caustic.
“What’s wrong with rainbows and lollipops?”
“Nothing. If you’re a bubble-gum princess.”
“You don’t know me at all,” I say.
Shawna makes a face. “Who says I want to?”
I stare at her in disbelief.
“I’m just doing this out of the goodness of my heart.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a bottle of silvery black nail polish. “Gobsmacked. Best color ever.”
I have no idea why she chose me, or why I’m letting her, but somehow, in the middle of fifth-period study hall, I find myself getting a manicure from Shawna Wendall.
* * *
After school I go straight to my father’s computer and Google “oral fixation.” There are over two million entries. It’s hard to know where to begin, so I just click on the first link. In psychology, the “oral stage” is a term used by Sigmund Freud to describe the child’s development during the first year and a half of life, in which an infant’s pleasure centers are in the mouth.
“Doing something for school?” I hear Marnie ask.
I quickly put my hands over the monitor. “It’s private.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
I can tell from her voice that she is hurt, and I feel bad for snapping at her, but why does she have to be looking over my shoulder every two seconds, and opening doors, and making snacks?
“I just came to see if you wanted a snack,” Marnie says.
“I don’t.”
“I’ll leave you alone, then.”
Good, I think. She’s leaving. Then, because I feel like a jerk, I say, “I’m looking up oral fixation.”
“Oral fixation?” Marnie turns back around.
“Yeah,” I say. “Why? Have you heard of it?”
Her face lights up. “Oh my God, totally! I was a psych major at Clemson!”
Great. I have unleashed the Tiger.
“The infant who is neglected,” Marnie reads over my shoulder, “or overfed in the course of being nursed might become an orally fixated person.” She laughs. “Wow. I actually remember that! I used to highlight my psych textbooks with, like, a million different colors. I had this who
le system…”
While Marnie is taking a trip down Tiger lane, all I can think about is those words. The infant who is neglected or overfed in the course of being nursed might become an orally fixated person.
“She never nursed me.”
“Pardon?” Marnie says.
“My mother. She never nursed me when I was a baby. She says it didn’t work for her, but I don’t think that’s true. She just didn’t want to.”
“Oh, Anna. I wasn’t—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not your fault I bite my nails.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Jane will probably be orally fixated, too. She’s always on the boob!”
This makes me feel worse, actually, but Marnie keeps going.
“Just wait. When she wakes up from her nap she’ll be all over me … Anyway, lots of children are bottle-fed, and they turn out fine. It doesn’t mean their mothers love them less just because they don’t breast-feed.”
What about mothers who try to kill themselves? Do they love their children less? This is the question I need answered—the thought I can’t stop thinking. If she loved me, how could she have done what she did?
But I can’t ask Marnie. She has stopped talking and is just standing there on the rug. Awkward, like she doesn’t know what to do without a baby in her arms. She loves Jane so much. She can’t wait for her to wake up from her nap. A mother like that couldn’t possibly understand.
* * *
My father gets home late. It’s the third night this week he’s missed dinner. I can hear him and Marnie arguing in their bedroom—not the words, but the tone. He and my mom fought a lot before he moved out, but this is the first time I’ve heard him fight with Marnie.
Afterward, he knocks on my door.
“How are you?” he says.
“Fine.”
“How’s school?”
“Okay.”
He nods, clears his throat. He looks uncomfortable standing in the doorway. He is still wearing his suit.
“You talk to Regina?” he says gruffly.
“Yeah.”
“She’s picking your mother up on Friday?”
“Yeah.”
“She’ll be better soon.” He says this with confidence, like he’s talking to someone from work. My mom getting better is a guaranteed outcome.
I nod.
“You know Regina,” my father says. “She’ll have your mother kneading bread dough as soon as she walks into the kitchen.”
He is joking, I think. Or harshing on Regina. It’s hard to tell.
“What were you and Marnie fighting about?” I say.
“We weren’t fighting.”
“Is it because you came home late?”
“No.”
“Is it because she made kale again?”
“No.” My father smiles a little.
Marnie has been cooking a lot of kale lately. Also Swiss chard. She is into “superfoods.” Most of what she cooks tastes really weird, but at least she’s trying. My mother never cooked me anything but scrambled eggs, and I don’t think that counts. Her idea of dinner is Mr. Wong’s takeout or cornflakes. You never know what’s coming. One night she’s too tired to feed you and the next night she bursts through the door with a French baguette under each arm, an eighty-dollar bottle of wine for her, Orangina for you, and fifteen types of gourmet cheese. When I remind my father of the Parisian picnic smackdown—the night last spring when he came home and found us eating Gruyère on the floor, and he screamed at my mom for her inability to serve a proper meal—he practically bites my head off.
“This is nothing like me and your mother. Nothing.” Then, more gently, “Marnie and I weren’t fighting, Anna. We were discussing.”
“Oh,” I say. I wait for him to tell me what, exactly, they were discussing. But he doesn’t.
“Do you understand the difference?”
“Yes.” The difference is he hates my mom but he loves Marnie.
“It’s important to communicate,” my father says. “Communication is the cornerstone of any good relationship.”
Right, I want to say. Which is why we have such an awesome father-daughter bond. We communicate so well.
* * *
When I get off the bus on Friday I go straight to the kitchen. I don’t even bother taking off my backpack. “Hi, Anna,” Marnie says, holding up a plate. “Rice chips and salsa?”
“Did my mom call?” I say.
She shakes her head. For a moment I see pity in her eyes and I hate her for it.
“I can make you something else if you want,” she says. “Apple and peanut butter?… Yogurt?”
“You can’t make yogurt.”
I sound like one of those snotty teenagers on Nickelodeon. I hate myself. Also, you can make yogurt. I saw it on the Food Network.
Marnie should call me on it: my tone and my yogurt facts. Maybe if she got mad at me for once, I would respect her more.
But she doesn’t.
Later, my father takes us out to dinner. I wonder what Marnie told him. Your daughter is a little snot. Or, Why don’t you distract her with chimichangas so she forgets that her own mother can’t be bothered to call her?
When I was little, I used to play this game with myself at restaurants. After I ordered, I would go to the bathroom. I would take my sweet time. While I was washing my hands, I would picture my food waiting for me on the table. Then, when I came out, poof! There my burger and fries would be, like magic.
Tonight I do a new version of this. When I get back to my dad’s, a message will be waiting for me. When I get back to my dad’s, a message will be waiting for me. I think this all through dinner.
And when we get back, a message is waiting for me. But it’s not from my mother. It’s from Regina.
My mom is fine, the voice mail says. She’s exhausted. She’ll call me tomorrow.
Fine. Exhausted. Tomorrow. I lie in bed repeating these words to myself until they stick in my brain. It’s stupid, I know, but it’s like a mantra. The more you say it, the more you convince yourself it’s true.
CHAPTER
8
ALL DAY I WAIT for my mother to call. Nine o’clock, nothing. One o’clock, nothing. Four o’clock, Jane is on her third nap and my dad is out mowing the lawn. I am watching Cupcake Wars and pretending not to listen for the phone.
It’s the final elimination round. The flavors are Chai Spice, Apple Fritter, Mocha Lava, and Peach Bellini. It’s a repeat, and I already know who wins. Apple Fritter. I am just trying to distract myself.
“Hey,” Marnie says, suddenly plopping down next to me with Jane in her lap. “Look who’s up from her nap!”
“Hey,” I say.
“Say hey, Janie. Can you say hey to Anna?”
I can’t deal with them right now. If Marnie strips off her shirt and starts nursing, I will seriously leave this couch.
“We love Cupcake Wars,” Marnie says, kissing the top of Jane’s head. “Don’t we, baby?”
It’s all I can do not to snort. “I thought you didn’t eat sugar.”
“I try not to eat refined sugar, but there are lots of ways to bake without it. Applesauce, coconut cream, even roasted vegetables … they can all be used as sweeteners.”
“Oh, God,” I mutter. “Kale cupcakes.” I grab the remote and turn up the volume, hoping Marnie will take the hint.
She does, at least until the commercial. Then she says, “Hey. Don’t you have a party to get ready for?”
I shrug.
“No?”
“I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have anything to wear.” This is BS, of course. Regina has been back to the house twice to pack up clothes for me. Twice, she has dropped duffel bags on my father’s porch so I would have everything I need. Marnie knows this, but she doesn’t call me on it.
“Come with me,” she says, standing up and propping Jane on her hip.
“Where?”
“Just
come.”
I follow her upstairs and into the master bedroom. Marnie has an outfit for every occasion, it seems. Her side of the closet is packed, and she keeps pulling out random things. A feather boa. Leather chaps. An old-fashioned nurse’s cap. A nun’s habit.
“Okay,” Marnie says. “Do you want to be Mae West? Annie Oakley? Florence Nightingale, or … Mother Teresa?”
I stare at her.
“Women’s studies minor,” she says, by way of explanation. She holds up a tennis dress. “Billie Jean King?”
I stare at the pile in her arms.
“Frat parties,” she says. “We dressed up for everything.”
I point to the cone-shaped bra in her hand. “What was that for?”
“Madonna party. Want to try it on?”
“God, no.”
She laughs.
Marnie is very good at clothes. I’ll bet she had a million Barbies growing up and each one had her own closet.
“Oh my God!” Marnie suddenly exclaims. “Yes!” She pulls out a small, brimless hat with a chinstrap. She pulls out a garment bag. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”
“What?” I say.
“Jackie O!” She turns to Jane, who has been sitting in her bouncy seat this whole time, gumming her fist. “Right, Janie? Is Jackie O not perfection?”
“Jackie O,” I repeat.
“Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis,” Marnie says reverently. “She wasn’t just a Kennedy, she was a fashion icon.”
“And she wore that silly hat?”
“This silly hat,” Marnie says, “is a pillbox. It is one of the lasting images of the 1960s.” She perches the thing on her head and checks herself out in the mirror. “I had a great time in this hat.”
“At what?” I say. “A 1960s party?”
“A mile-high party.”
“What’s a mile-high party?”
“Never mind that,” Marnie says. “Let’s just say that the Theta Chis dressed as pilots and the Tri Delts dressed as sixties flight attendants.”
“Oh.”
Marnie turns to Jane again. “Service with a smile, mile after mile, right, sweetie pie?”