CHAPTER
SEVEN
Wednesday, November 21
Moral questions lurk everywhere.
As I buy a banana and water for the bus ride home, the weary-looking cashier in the terminal kiosk gives me change for a ten instead of a five. A woman with pockmarked skin and crooked teeth holds a flimsy piece of cardboard that reads: Need $$$ for ticket home to see sick mother. God Bless. The bus is crowded, as it always is right before the holidays, but the thin, longhaired man sitting across from me puts his backpack down on the empty seat beside him, claiming the territory.
I pick a seat and immediately regret my choice. The lady next to me spreads out her elbows as she reads on her Kindle, edging into my space. I pretend to stretch, then bump her arm and say, “Excuse me.”
As the bus driver turns on the engine and pulls out of the terminal, I think about my Sunday session with Dr. Shields again. The question I dreaded never resurfaced, but I still dug into some pretty serious stuff.
I wrote about how a lot of my friends call their dads when they need to borrow money, or to get advice on how to handle a difficult boss. They dial their moms when they come down with the flu, or for comfort during a breakup. If things had been different, that’s the kind of relationship I might’ve had with my parents.
But my parents have enough stress; they don’t need to worry about me. So I carry the burden of needing to construct a great life not just for one daughter, but for two.
Now I rest my head against the seat back and think about Dr. Shields’s response: That’s a lot of pressure to endure.
Knowing that someone else gets it makes me feel a little less alone.
I wonder if Dr. Shields is still conducting his study, or if I was one of his last subjects. I was addressed as Subject 52, but I have no idea how many other anonymous girls sat in the same uncomfortable metal chair, pecking away at the same keyboard, on other days. Maybe he’s talking to another one right now.
My seatmate shifts, crossing the invisible boundary into my space again. It’s not worth battling. I edge closer to the aisle, then reach for my phone. I scroll through some old texts looking for one from a high school classmate who was organizing an informal reunion at a local bar the night after Thanksgiving. But I scroll down too far, and instead pull up the text that came in from Katrina over the summer, the one I never responded to: Hey Jess. Can we meet for a cup of coffee or something? I was hoping we could talk.
I’m pretty sure I know what she wants to talk about.
I slide my finger over the screen so I don’t have to see her message any longer. Then I reach for my earbuds and pull up Game of Thrones.
My dad is waiting at the bus station in his beloved Eagles jacket, a green knit cap pulled down over his ears. I can see his exhalations make white puffs, like cotton balls, in the cold air.
It has been only four months since I last visited, but when I glimpse him through my window, my first thought is that he appears older. The hair peeking out from beneath his cap is more salt than pepper, and his posture sags a little, like he’s weary.
He looks up and catches me watching him. His hand flicks away the cigarette he is sneaking. He officially quit twelve years ago, which means he no longer smokes in the house.
A smile breaks across his face as I step off the bus.
“Jessie,” he says as he hugs me. He is the only one who calls me that. My father is big and solid, and his embrace is almost too firm. He lets go and bends down to peer in the carrier I’m holding. “Hey, little guy,” he says to Leo.
The driver is pulling suitcases out from the belly of the bus. I reach for mine, but my father’s hand gets there first.
“You hungry?” he asks, like he always does.
“Starving,” I say, like I always do. My mom would be disappointed if I came home with a full stomach.
“The Eagles are playing the Bears tomorrow,” my dad says as we walk to the parking lot.
“That game last week was really something.” I hope my remark is flexible enough to cover a win or a loss. I forgot to check the score on the bus ride down.
When we reach his old Chevy Impala, he lifts my bag into the trunk. I see him wince; his knee bothers him more on cold days.
“Should I drive?” I offer.
He looks almost offended, so I quickly add: “I never get to do it in the city and I worry I’m getting rusty.”
“Oh, sure,” he says. He flips me the keys, and I snatch them out of the air with my right hand.
I know my parents’ routines almost as well as I know my own. And within an hour of being at home, I realize something is wrong.
As soon as we pull up in front of the house, my father lifts Leo out ot his carrier and offers to walk him around the block. I’m eager to get inside and see my mom and Becky, so I agree. When my dad returns, he has trouble unfastening Leo’s leash. I go to help him. The smell of tobacco is so powerful I know he has snuck another cigarette.
Even when he was an official smoker, he never went through two cigarettes in such a short time.
Then, while Becky and I sit at stools in the kitchen, tearing up lettuce for a salad, my mother pours herself a glass of wine and offers me one.
“Sure,” I say.
At first I don’t think twice about this. It’s the night before Thanksgiving, so it feels like a weekend.
But then she pours herself a second glass while the pasta is still cooking.
I watch as she stirs the tomato sauce. She’s only fifty-one, not much older than the bat mitzvah mothers, the ones who want to look young enough to get carded. She colors her hair a chestnut brown and wears a Fitbit to monitor her ten thousand daily steps, yet she appears a little deflated, like a day-old balloon that has lost some helium.
As we sit at the round oak table, my mother peppers me with questions about work while my father sprinkles the grated Kraft Parmesan over the pasta.
For once, I don’t lie to her. I say I’m taking a little break from theater to do freelance makeup.
“What happened to the show you told me about last week, honey?” my mother asks. Her second glass of wine is almost drained by now.
I can barely remember what I said. I take a bite of rigatoni before answering. “It closed. But this is better. I can control my own hours. Plus, I get to meet a ton of interesting people.”
“Oh, that’s good.” The creases in her forehead soften.
Mom turns to Becky. “Maybe someday you’ll move to New York and live in an apartment and get to meet interesting people!”
Now I’m the one who frowns. The traumatic brain injury Becky suffered as a child didn’t just affect her physically. Both her short- and long-term memory are so damaged that she can never live alone.
My mother has always held on to false hope, and she has encouraged Becky to do the same.
It bothered me a little bit in the past. But today it seems kind of . . . unethical.
I imagine how Dr. Shields would pose the question: Is offering someone unrealistic dreams unfair, or is it a kindness?
I think about how I’d explain my thoughts on the situation to him. It’s not exactly wrong, I’d type. And maybe this is less for Becky more for my mother.
I take a sip of wine, then deliberately change the subject.
“Are you guys getting excited for Florida?”
They go every year, the three of them, driving down two days after Christmas and returning on January 2. They stay in the same inexpensive motel a block away from the water. The ocean is Becky’s favorite place, even though she doesn’t swim well enough to go in past her waist.
My parents give each other a look.
“What?” I ask.
“The ocean’s too cold this year,” Becky says.
I catch my father’s eye and he shakes his head. “We’ll talk about it l ater.”
My mom stands up abruptly and clears the plates.
“Let me,” I say.
She waves her hand. “Why don’t you and your father take Leo out for his walk? I’ll help Becky get ready for bed.”
The metal bar in the middle of the pull-out couch digs into my lower back. I flip over on the thin mattress again, trying to find a position that will coax sleep.
It’s nearly one A.M., and the house is quiet. But my mind is whirling like a washing machine, spinning around images and snatches of conversation.
As soon as we’d stepped outside, my father had pulled a box of Winstons and a matchbook out of his coat pocket. He struck a match against the strip, shielding the spark from the wind with his cupped hand. It took him three tries to get a flame.
It took me almost that long to process the news he’d just told me.
“A buyout?” I’d finally echoed.
He’d exhaled. “We were strongly encouraged to take them. Those were the words on the memo.”
It was dark, and although we’d only walked to the corner, my hands were already tingling from the cold. I couldn’t see my father’s expression.
“Are you going to look for another job?” I’d asked.
“I’ve been looking, Jessie.”
“You’ll find something soon.”
The words had escaped before I’d realized I was doing exactly what my mother does to Becky.
I flip over on the mattress again and tuck my arm over Leo.
Becky and I used to share a room, but once I moved out, Becky deserved to have the extra space. There’s a mini-trampoline with a safety bar and an arts-and-crafts table where my twin bed once stood. It’s the only home she has ever known.
My parents have lived in this house for nearly thirty years. It would be paid off, but they needed to refinance it to cover Becky’s medical bills.
I know how much they spend every month; I’ve gone through the bills my mother keeps in a drawer in their sideboard.
My head is filled with questions again. This is the one that matters most: What’s going to happen to them when the buyout money is gone?
Thursday, November 22
Aunt Helen and Uncle Jerry host Thanksgiving every year. Their house is a lot bigger than my parents’, with a dining room table that can easily seat the ten of us. My mother always makes green bean casserole with fried onions around the edges, and Becky and I prepare the stuffing. Before we leave, Becky asks me to do her makeup.
“I’d love to,” I tell her. She was the one I first practiced on, back when we were kids.
I don’t have my case with me, but Becky’s coloring is so much like my own—fair skin with a scattering of freckles, light hazel eyes, straight brows—that I dig into my personal makeup bag and set to work.
“What kind of look are we going for?” I ask.
“Selena Gomez,” Becky says. She’s been a fan since Selena was on the Disney Channel.
“You love to challenge me, don’t you?” I say, and she giggles.
I smooth a tinted moisturizer onto Becky’s skin, thinking of what my mother had said at dinner. I stopped going to Florida with them once I moved to New York, but my mother always sends me photos of Becky collecting seashells in a bucket, or laughing as the spray hits her stomach. Becky loves the nonalcoholic Pink Panther drinks with a little umbrella and extra maraschino cherries that the server brings her at my parent’s favorite seafood place. My dad takes Becky to play miniature golf while my mother walks on the beach, and they all go crabbing at the end of the pier. They rarely catch any crabs and when they do, they always throw them back.
It’s the one time of year when they seem to truly relax.
“Why don’t you come visit me in New York after Christmas?” I suggest. “I could take you to see the giant tree. We could watch the Rockettes kick and sing, and get hot chocolate at Serendipity.”
“Sounds good,” Becky says, but I can tell she’s a little nervous about the idea. She has come to see me in the city before, but the noises and crowds unsettle her.
I add some blush to try to bring out her cheekbones, then dab a soft pink gloss on her lips. I tell her to look up as I gently apply a coat of mascara.
“Close your eyes,” I say, and Becky smiles. She likes this part best.
I reach out and take her hand, then guide her to the bathroom mirror.
“I look pretty!” Becky says.
I give her a big hug so she doesn’t see my eyes fill. “You are,” I whisper.
After my aunt Helen has served the pumpkin and pecan pies, the guys head to the living room to watch the game, and the women decamp to the kitchen for cleanup. It’s another ritual.
“Ugh, I’m so full I’m going to barf,” my cousin Shelly moans as she untucks her blouse.
“Shelly!” Aunt Helen admonishes.
“It’s your fault, Mom. The food was great.” Shelly winks at me.
I reach for a dish towel as Becky brings in the plates, carefully setting them down in a row on the counter. Aunt Helen redid her kitchen a few years ago, replacing the Formica with granite.
My mom starts to scrub the platters that Aunt Helen carries in from the dining room. My cousin Gail, Shelly’s sister, is eight months pregnant. She plops down on a chair at the kitchen table with a theatrical sigh, then drags over another chair so she can put her feet up. Somehow Gail always manages to avoid cleanup, but for once she has a reasonable excuse.
“Sooo . . . tomorrow night everyone’s getting together at the Brewster,” Shelly says as she scoops leftover stuffing into a Tupperware container. By everyone, she means our high school classmates who are having an informal reunion.
“Guess who’s going to be there?” She pauses.
Does she really want me to start guessing?
“Keith. He’s separated.”
I can barely remember which football player he was.
Shelly isn’t interested in him for herself; she got married a year and a half ago. I’d bet twenty bucks that by next year, she’ll be the one with her feet up.
Shelly and Gail look at me expectantly. Gail is rubbing slow circles on her stomach.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my skirt.
“Sounds fun,” I say. “You’re going to be our designated driver, right, Gail?”
“Like hell,” Gail says. “I’m going to be in a tub reading Us Weekly.”
“Are you dating anyone in New York?” Shelly asks.
My phone vibrates a second time, which it always does when I don’t immediately open a text.
“No one serious,” I say.
Her tone is sugary: “It must be tough to compete with all those beautiful models.”
Gail inherited her blond hair and passive-aggressiveness from Aunt Helen, who chimes in quickly.
“Don’t put off having kids for too long,” she says. “I bet someone is eager for grandchildren!”
Usually my mother lets Aunt Helen’s digs slide, but now I can almost feel her bristle. Maybe it’s because she was drinking again at dinner.
“Jess is so busy with all those Broadway shows,” my mom says. “She’s enjoying having a career before she settles down.”
Whether my mom is defending me or herself with the exaggeration i sn’t clear.
Our conversation is interrupted when Gail’s husband, Phil, wanders in. “Just going to grab a few beers,” he says, opening the refrigerator.
“Nice,” Shelly says. “Aren’t you lucky, getting to sit around and watch the game and drink while we women clean up.”
“You really want to be watching the football game, Shel?” he says.
She bats her hand at him. “Get out of here, you.”
I’m trying to feign interest in the discussion of whether yellow is the right color palette for Gail’s nursery when I give up and excuse myself. I go to the bathroom and slip my phone out of my pocket.
The overly sweet aroma of the gingerbread-scented candle burning on the sink counter almost makes me gag.
Across the screen is a new text from an unfamiliar number:
Excuse me if I am intruding on your holiday. This is Dr. Shields. Are you in town this weekend? If so, I would like to schedule another session with you. Let me know your availability
I read the text twice.
I can’t believe Dr. Shields has reached out to me directly.
I thought the study was only a two-part thing, but maybe I misunderstood. If Dr. Shields wants me for more sessions, it could mean a lot more money.
I wonder if Dr. Shields texted because Ben has the day off. It is Thanksgiving after all. Maybe Dr. Shields is in his home office, getting in a bit of work while his wife bastes the turkey and his grandkids set the table. He could be so committed to his job that he finds it hard to turn off, kind of like the way I’m beginning to find it difficult to stop thinking about moral issues.
A lot of the young women doing this survey would probably love the chance to go back for more sessions. I wonder why Dr. Shields chose me.
My bus ticket back to the city is for Sunday morning. My parents would be disappointed if I left early, even if I told them it was for a big job.
I don’t reply yet. Instead, I tuck the phone back in my pocket and open the bathroom door.
Phil is standing there.
“Sorry,” I say, and try to squeeze past him in the narrow hallway. I can smell the beer on his breath when he leans closer to me. Phil went to high school with us, too. He and Gail have been together since he was in twelfth grade and she was in tenth.
“I heard Shelly wants to set you up with Keith,” he says.
I give a little laugh, wishing he’d move aside and stop blocking my path.
“I’m not really interested in Keith,” I say.
“Yeah?” He leans closer. “You’re too good for him.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say.
“You know, I always had a thing for you.”
I freeze. His eyes lock on to mine.
His wife is eight months pregnant. What is he doing?
“Phil!” Gail calls from the kitchen. Her words shatter the silence. “I’m tired. We need to get going.”
He finally steps aside and I hurry past him, hugging the wall.
“See you tomorrow, Jess,” he says, just before he shuts the bathroom door.
I pause at the end of the hallway.
My wool sweater suddenly feels itchy and I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I don’t know if it’s from the pungent candle or Phil’s flirtation. The feeling isn’t unfamiliar; it’s why I left home years ago.
I make my way to the back porch.
As I stand outside and gulp in the cold air, my fingers reach into my pocket and feel for the smooth plastic encasing my phone.
My parents are going to run out of money eventually. I should stockpile as much of it as I can now. And if I turn Dr. Shields down, maybe he’ll find another subject, one with more flexibility.
Even I recognize that I’m coming up with too many rationalizations.
I pull out my phone and respond to Dr. Shields: Anytime Sat or Sun works great for me.
Almost immediately, I see the three dots that mean he is writing a response. A moment later, I read it: Wonderful. You are confirmed for noon on Saturday. Same location.