Jane gurgles.
I’m confused. “Jackie O was a flight attendant?”
“No,” Marnie says, tossing everything on the bed. “But the hat works … Okay.” She claps her hands. “First things first. The coif. Have you ever blown your hair straight?”
I shake my head.
“Ohhh. This is gonna be fun.”
Moments later, I find myself on a swivel chair and Marnie is going to town on me. Squirt bottle, hair dryer, straightening balm. At one point Jane starts to squawk, so Marnie scoops her out of the bouncy seat and sets her in my lap. “Hang there, sweet girl. We’re doing your sister’s hair.”
Your sister’s hair. I don’t know why the words make the breath catch in my throat. I know, technically, that Jane and I are sisters. But hearing Marnie say it feels … I don’t know … real.
“See, Janie?” Marnie says. “We use the round brush. Someday, when you have hair, we’ll use the round brush on you.”
I look down at Jane’s head. Nothing but fuzz there, really. But so soft. I touch it a few times while Marnie works.
“Ta-da!” she says finally, whirling the chair around so I face the dresser mirror.
“Wow,” I say quietly.
“See?” Marnie says. She holds a hand mirror behind my head so I can get the full effect. There is not a frizz to be found. My hair is a clean, smooth sheet, swept to one side and flipped up at the ends.
“Just wait,” Marnie says. “This is only phase one.” She reaches into a dresser drawer and pulls out a shiny black case. “Now we even out your complexion.”
She tells me to close my eyes.
I do.
She dabs a wedge-shaped sponge all over my face. Dab, dab, dab. Dab, dab, dab. Then she fluffs everything with a big feathery brush. “Translucent powder,” she explains, “to set our canvas … Okay, you can open.”
I open.
Marnie takes a step back, squinting at me. “Good. We’re going for the doe-eyed look. Minimalist.”
Jane wiggles in my lap. She reaches out her arms for Marnie.
“Not yet, sweetie pie. Still working here.”
Jane whimpers, but when I lift my hand to stroke her cheek she grabs hold of my finger and starts gumming away on it.
Marnie laughs. “You’re her teething biscuit.”
It is kind of gross, having someone slime all over your hand, but Jane seems happy so I don’t stop her.
“Close again,” Marnie says. “And relax. This part will take awhile.”
I close my eyes, sit back in the chair while Marnie “preps” my eyelids. She explains each step to me. Concealer. Primer. Matte shadow: light for the lid, dark for the crease. She is onto the liquid liner when the phone rings.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Marnie says. “I don’t want anything to smudge.”
I hear her walk across the room, pick up the phone. “Collette residence. Marnie speaking.”
Silence.
Then, “Oh, of course. She’s right here … Anna?… It’s your mom.”
My eyes fly open.
Marnie is touching my shoulder, handing me the phone. “We’ll give you some privacy,” she whispers, lifting Jane off my lap, walking across the room, and closing the door behind her.
“Mom?” I say.
“Anna?”
“I thought you’d never call!”
I am so happy to hear her voice, but as soon as she hears mine she starts to cry, and once she starts she can’t stop. “I’m sorry,” she moans, over and over until I can’t stand it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Mom.” My chest tightens. “Mom, it’s okay. Mom. Stop.”
But she doesn’t stop.
I want to say, I know you’re sad, but please, Mom, don’t try swallowing a bottle of Advil again. Because if you try it again, next time it might work.
“Mom?… Mommy?”
Regina gets on the phone, acting like it’s no big deal. Like my mother sobbing in the background is nothing. “What’s on tap for the weekend, Anna?” she booms. “Got any big plans?”
I start to tell her about Sarabeth’s party, but I can’t. “I thought she was better,” I say, trying not to cry. “Why did they let her leave the hospital if she’s not better?”
Regina doesn’t talk for a moment, which is rare.
“It’s complicated, honey,” she says finally. “The new medicine doesn’t kick in right away. It needs time to work … Think of it like a pair of glasses. Bipolar distorts the way your mom sees things … Does that make sense?”
“No.”
“The right medication, like the right pair of glasses, can make her see clearly. It just takes time to find the perfect lenses. For your mom, it may take weeks. Even months.”
“Months?” I choke, feeling the tears build up behind my eyeballs. “I have to stay here for months?”
“Honey. The doctors think—”
“But my mom has primary custody. I’m supposed to be with her. That was the agreement!”
“I know it was,” Regina says calmly. “But these are extenuating circumstances. Your mom needs you to be strong right now. She’s not going to get better if she’s worrying about you. Can you do that, Anna? Can you take one for the team?”
I swallow. Say yes. Hang up.
Then I curl myself into a ball on my father’s bed, bury my face in Marnie’s feather boa, and dissolve.
At some point, Marnie knocks on the door. She asks if I’m okay.
“No,” I tell her.
“Do you want me to come in?” she says.
“No.”
“Do you want me to get your dad?”
“Definitely not.”
* * *
By the time I come downstairs, it’s six fifteen. I walk into the kitchen, where Jane is sitting in her high chair and my dad is spooning something into her mouth. As soon as he sees my puffy, miserable face, he stops. He does what I knew he would do: he starts blaming my mother.
He swears. He paces. He threatens to call her up right now and give her a piece of his mind.
“It’s not her fault, Dad,” I finally say, repeating what Regina told me. “She can’t control it.”
“Like hell she can’t,” my father says, reaching for the phone.
“Dad. It’s brain chemistry.” If anyone should understand that, it’s him. Doesn’t he sell pharmaceuticals for a living?
“Really, David,” Marnie says. “What are you going to do? Yell at Frances for being depressed?”
My father looks from me to Marnie and back to me. He slams the phone down and runs his fingers through his hair, hard. I watch as it gets spikier and spikier, and then he growls like some kind of pterodactyl. My dad is growling and Marnie is staring at him like she’s never seen him before in her life.
“David,” she says slowly. “You need to calm down. You’re acting crazy.”
“I’m acting crazy?” he says.
“Yes.”
“I’m acting crazy? Do you know how much crazy I had to put up with, living with that woman? Do you? Fourteen years. Fourteen years of crazy!”
He’s ranting about my mom and I can’t stand it. All I want to do is cover my ears and scream Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! because she is still my mom. He got to trade her in for a new wife, but I can’t trade her in for a new mother. She’s all I have. And she’s sick. And I’m scared. And I feel like, if I’m not careful, the fear could eat me alive.
“Stop,” I whisper, slumping against the wall. “Please stop.”
“David,” Marnie says. Sharply this time. “Take a walk. Cool off. And while you’re at it, pick up some almond milk. We’re running low.”
My dad storms across the kitchen, slams the door behind him.
Marnie takes a deep breath, lets it out. Then she walks over to me. “I’m going to hug you now, okay?”
And I let her. Even though I don’t want her to. Sometimes you just don’t have the energy to argue.
* * *
?
??One must not let oneself be overwhelmed by sadness.” This is what Marnie tells me on the way to Sarabeth’s party. She is quoting Jackie O. Marnie has been president of the Jackie O fan club for the past hour, ever since she sent my father out to buy almond milk and led me back to their bedroom to fix my makeup.
Jackie O is class.
Jackie O is poise.
Jackie O is dignity.
“Harness her spirit,” Marnie says now, as we sit in her VW Bug outside Sarabeth’s house. I am in the back, next to Jane. The sky is dark, but I am wearing Jackie O’s signature sunglasses to cover my bloodshot eyes. “She never let the dreariness of life drag her down,” Marnie proclaims.
I’m not Jackie O! I want to shout. I’m a thirteen-year-old girl with a suicidal mother, you idiot! Don’t diminish my feelings! Marnie is so wrapped up in the pillbox hat she is missing everything.
“Hey,” Marnie says softly, turning around to look at me.
“What?”
“I want you to have fun tonight.”
“I don’t know if I can.” My voice cracks as I say the words. And Marnie hears the crack, and I know she is trying to think of the right thing to say. But there is no right thing.
I get out of the car before she can even try.
CHAPTER
9
MRS. MUELLER OPENS THE DOOR. She has long straight hair like Sarabeth’s, but it is reddish and her skin is not nearly as pale.
“Who do we have here?” she says.
I clutch Marnie’s vintage purse to my chest. All I want to do is leave.
“Jackie O?”
I nod. Never have I been less in the mood for a party.
Mrs. Mueller whoops. “Sarabeth, you’ve got to see this! Jacqueline Kennedy is here!”
I glance over my shoulder, but Marnie is already backing out of the driveway. There is nowhere to go but in.
“Well?” Mrs. Mueller says, striking a pose in the foyer. She flips her hair over one shoulder. “Who am I?”
Tinted aviators, black turtleneck, flared jeans. I have no idea.
“Come on,” she insists. “American feminist? Political activist? Founder of Ms. magazine?”
I shake my head.
“Take Your Daughter to Work Day?… Surely you’ve participated.”
“God, Mother,” Sarabeth says, stepping into the hallway. “Don’t accost her. No one under the age of forty knows who Gloria Steinem is.” Sarabeth grabs my arm. “I’m sorry. She gets carried away.”
I nod.
“You look great, Anna. Wait until everyone sees you. They’re all in the basement.” Sarabeth leads me through the hall and down the stairs. “I’m Amelia Earhart, by the way. I found this bomber jacket on eBay, and the goggles—would you believe a garage sale? Three bucks.”
Sarabeth is in hostess mode, chatting away, but I haven’t said a word. Not one. My throat has that tight, clogged feeling, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I open my mouth.
“Hey, guys,” Sarabeth says, leaping from the last step onto the carpet, “look who I found! Jackie Kennedy!”
It’s quiet down here. Everyone is sitting on the two plaid couches against the wall.
“Hey, Medusa,” Sarabeth says, “how would you like to turn Jackie Kennedy to stone?”
Shawna snorts, which is her signature greeting. Otherwise I would not have known who she was. Her whole face is covered in green and gray paint. She has black circles under her eyes and bloodred lipstick. A dozen rubber snakes have been woven into her hair. She’s wearing a bedsheet toga. Rope belt. Gaudy gold bracelets and gold flip-flops. Even her feet have been painted green. For someone who didn’t want to come to this party, she sure has gone to a lot of trouble.
“And this is the Moon Goddess of Wicca…” Sarabeth says, gesturing to Chloe, who is wearing a flowy white nightgown. “And the Moon Goddess of Wicca…” She gestures to Nicole, who is also wearing a flowy white nightgown.
Of course. Of course they’re both moon goddesses. I’d love to snort like Shawna, but I don’t have the energy.
“And Emily Dickinson,” Sarabeth says, pointing to Reese, who is wearing a plain black dress with a frilly collar. “Doesn’t she look authentic?”
I nod, vaguely remembering a picture from our seventh-grade poetry book.
Reese jerks her chin at me. “Did you know Emily Dickinson wore nothing but white after her father’s death?”
I shake my head.
I have mastered the art of silence. This happens sometimes, after I’ve gotten emotional. I go into mental hibernation. Not deliberately. My brain just powers down for a while, until it can recharge. Because dealing with my mother takes all the voltage I’ve got.
Here in Sarabeth’s basement, I don’t care what anyone thinks, so I don’t even try to snap out of it.
“Are you going to wear those sunglasses all night?” Shawna is sneering at me with bloodred lips.
I shrug. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll wear these sunglasses for the rest of the year. For the rest of my life.
“Okay,” Sarabeth says, clapping her hands together. “I’m hungry. Are you guys hungry?”
Everyone shrugs.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says. “Back in a jiff!” Sarabeth races up the basement stairs.
With our hostess gone, everyone is quiet again, until the two moon goddesses start going at it.
“I thought you were coming as the Crone Goddess,” Nicole says.
And Chloe says, “Why’d you think that?”
“Um, because you told me? Quote, ‘I am going to Sarabeth’s party as the Crone Goddess,’ unquote?”
Chloe shrugs. “I couldn’t get the look right.”
“Seriously?”
“What?”
“Spray your hair white? Draw on some wrinkles? Carry a cane? You couldn’t pull that off?”
“No,” Chloe says. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Nicole says.
“I couldn’t find a cane.”
“How could you not find a cane? You live in the woods. Grab a stick.”
These two could keep going forever. They argue as if they care about the subject, but really I think they just like arguing.
“Who gives a shit?” Shawna finally says. Nicole and Chloe both stop and stare at her.
“Well, that’s rude,” Nicole says.
“Yeah, and it’s superpolite to have inane arguments in front of people at a party.”
“Vittles!” Mrs. Mueller calls from the top of the stairs, saving us. She and Sarabeth are on their way down with food. “Get your vittles here!”
“Mom,” Sarabeth says. “Vittles?”
“What’s wrong with vittles? Vittles are snack foods.”
“You’re dorking out.”
“Oh no!” Mrs. Mueller rolls her eyes as she lowers a tray onto the coffee table. “A dorky mother!”
“Ignore her,” Sarabeth says, putting down a bottle of Coke and a bowl of chips. “She’s trying to be cool.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Mueller deadpans. “I’m trying to be cool. And hip. And hep. A hepcat.”
“Mom,” Sarabeth moans. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“What’s that?” Mrs. Mueller grabs Sarabeth and tickles her under the arms. “You want me to stay? You want me to hang out in the basement all night? So we can talk about boys and bras and feelings?”
At first Sarabeth shrieks and tries to pull away, but after a minute she’s laughing and tickling her mom back. They’re having one of those mother-daughter moments. Or what I imagine a mother-daughter moment might be. I personally have never had a tickle fight with my mother. Watching Sarabeth and her mom, you can tell that they bug each other and love each other at the same time. They tease, but there’s humor behind it.
Watching them makes my stomach hurt.
I have to go to the bathroom.
* * *
When I come back there’s music playing—a mix Sarabeth has made for tonight. “I Am Woman” and “Girl on Fi
re.” “Beautiful” and “Stronger” and “Roar.” All this female empowerment has shut everyone up. Or it’s the Cool Ranch Doritos and M&M’s they’re shoving into their mouths.
I am relieved about the music. Now I don’t have to talk. I can just sit on the couch and stuff my face.
At some point, “Crazy Dreams” comes on. And suddenly, out of nowhere, Shawna starts to sing. And her voice is clear and sweet. It is the total opposite of her personality and snake hair. For a moment, I am so surprised I don’t know what to do with the food in my mouth, so I spit it into my hand.
I glance over at Sarabeth and she’s smiling. Now she’s standing up on the coffee table and starting to Irish step, which is weird because this song is not remotely Irish, but somehow it works.
Chloe and Nicole stand up and start floating around the basement in their flowy nightgowns. And now Reese joins in, but she’s not singing or dancing; she’s beatboxing. Tongue clicks and throat taps, bass and drums.
I watch in silence this group that has materialized. A Greek monster, an aviator, a poet, and two Wiccans. And I want to cry. Because I love this cheesy song, and they do, too. And I want to be a part of it.
I used to sing all the time. When we had the chorus elective in fifth and sixth grades, I had solos in all the concerts, not because I had such a great voice, but because I had what Mr. Potter called “chutzpah.” I didn’t worry about what anyone thought. I just loved how the music felt coming out of my mouth.
I want to feel that way again. I want to sing into my hairbrush, drum on my dashboard, shake the walls of Sarabeth’s basement with my fearless dance moves.
But I can’t. If I open my mouth, the floodgates will open. And nobody likes a crybaby.
CHAPTER
10
I CALL REGINA on Sunday night to see how my mom is doing. She starts by deflecting the question. How am I? she wants to know, all booming and cheerful. What did I do this weekend? What is my father feeding me?
But I keep pushing, and when the truth comes out, Regina’s voice gets really soft, and the softness scares me more than the words. “I won’t lie to you, honey. She’s battling.”
Battling. I picture my mother in a camouflage jacket and combat boots, driving a tank.
“I’m afraid she might try to hurt herself again,” Regina says. “But I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to stay with her, twenty-four/seven, until she’s out of the woods.”