Deep Down True (3 page)

She rested the fork on the plate and soothed herself by running her hand across the table linen, brushing at the sharp crumbs that had flaked from Kenneth’s slice of buttered baguette. Her skin felt cold and papery brittle, as if the bread shards might pierce her and draw blood. In the manufactured dimness of the restaurant, Kenneth’s face looked shadowed and bleak, as if he, too, might be contemplating the things that could cut him open.

He cleared his throat, a barely perceptible gargle accompanying the brusque cough. His allergies were acting up, and Dana almost asked him if he’d taken his antihistamine pill. But it was not her place to listen for this sound anymore, or to remind him to take his medicine. Better for her to start listening to her own sounds: the dull, unwilling thud of her pulse, the high-pitched shame of having failed at something so important and so public.

“Promise me something,” she’d asked over her salade niçoise. “Please don’t bring your girlfriend when you see the kids. Let them have all of you for the next couple of months at least.”

“What do you mean, all of me?” he’d said, not insulted yet but ready to be. “You think I don’t give the kids my full attention?”

“No, it’s just . . . I want them to have as much time with you as possible.” Dana was afraid that Grady and Morgan would lose their father completely, as she had lost hers. Perhaps Kenneth would be swept away by this new person, as her own father had been swept away.

“I’m only moving to Hartford,” Kenneth muttered. “It’s not Mars.” The waiter returned to ask if they cared for dessert. Kenneth declined for them both.

 

 

Dana had muddled through those confusing, elongated months since the divorce. She found herself squinting a lot, a vain attempt to bring into sharper focus this new life of single parenting. And she noticed an edge of sharpness creeping into her tone these days.
Stay positive,
she told herself, gunning the motor of her minivan a little harder than necessary on her way to the dentist. But that barest glint of serration remained ready to strike nonetheless.

They’d been going to Dr. Sakimoto for nine years, since Morgan was three. On her first visit, Morgan had been too frightened to climb up onto the big vinyl chair by herself, so Dana had sat in it and held the shaking girl on her lap. As soon as Marie the hygienist touched her instrument to Morgan’s teeth, Morgan threw up.

“Okay, sweetie, okay,” Dana had soothed Morgan while trying to clean up the mess.

Dr. Sakimoto had appeared in the doorway with a roll of paper towels. “Not a problem,” he’d said. Dana had expected a high, nasal voice to match his short, slightly pudgy form, but his voice was low and solid-sounding, as if it came from the heels of his shoes. “Happens all the time, doesn’t it, Marie?” Marie hadn’t seemed so sure of that, walking quickly from the room with her hand over her nose.

Dana kept apologizing as she cleaned and comforted Morgan.

“Just a few tossed cookies,” he assured her, wiping down the chair. “A minor problem in the scheme of things. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Dana had sighed. “You’re right.”

Morgan was almost twelve now and no longer wanted her mother anywhere near her in the dentist’s office, Dana mused as she reclined in the very same chair, a paper bib clipped around her neck.

“Any change in health status?” Dr. Sakimoto asked as he studied Dana’s chart, propped against his stomach. He reminded her of a birdbath: short and squat, yet with an almost visible reservoir of good humor. “New medications? Rapid weight loss or gain?” he asked.

“Yes to that last,” she answered.

He glanced at her—at her face, she noticed, not at her body, where he might have tried to gauge for himself whether she’d gotten fatter or thinner. “Yes?” he said. “Loss or gain?”

“Both. I lost fifteen pounds very quickly, but I’ve gained back about ten.”

“Were you sick?” he asked. “I hope it wasn’t some fad diet.”

“The Divorce Diet,” she joked humorlessly. “Not a fad, exactly—more of an epidemic.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said gently. “How are you?”

“Okay, I guess.” It appeared he was waiting for more, so she added, “I’m still flossing.”

“Good,” he said. “Because nothing’s more important than proper dental hygiene when life starts throwing punches.”

He’s right,
she thought.
I should be taking better care of myself. I should work out more.
But then she saw his commiserating smile. He was kidding, of course. She might still be flossing and loading the dishwasher and baking muffins for her children’s class parties, but Dana knew what was different now. She’d always been able to connect with others, laugh at their quips, make them feel funny even when they weren’t. These days, however, she never seemed to get the joke.

 

 

That afternoon Dana was backing her minivan out of the driveway, with Grady in the backseat bobbing his head to his favorite inappropriate music station. “Getcha, getcha down on the floor, beggin’ for more . . .” the singer chanted over synthesized percussion. Dana hoped her second-grader didn’t really know what he was hearing.

Suddenly there was unexpected motion in her rearview mirror. A large object—a car?—was slicing across the driveway behind her. Because its direction was reversed in the mirror, she swerved the wrong way to avoid it, then overcorrected and swerved back. Grady’s football-helmeted head banged against the window as they zigzagged backward down the driveway. “Ow!” he screamed.

Dana slammed on the brakes and wrenched around in her seat. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, rubbing his elbow, one of the few un-padded parts of his body.

Dana looked through the back window to see a rust-speckled orange hatchback parked by her fallen mailbox post.

“Shit!” the driver snarled through the open window, a curtain of tar-black hair obscuring the face.

Dana had a moment of fear. A curse-spewing stranger had careened onto her property. Should she even get out of the car? But Grady was already climbing out the sliding side door, heading straight for danger, as usual. Dana scrambled out after him.

“You piece of crap!” the driver, a female, was hissing at the car. She appeared to be trying to shake the steering wheel loose from its metal column. “
Uhhh!
My life
sucks
.” Dana still couldn’t quite see her face, but the voice was familiar. . .

“Alder?” said Grady, leaning against the dirty car.

Dana’s niece deflated, her shoulders slumping forward in defeat. “Hey, G,” she muttered.

“Alder, are you okay?” fussed Dana, reaching to open the door. “Does anything hurt, sweetie? Here, let me . . .” She took Alder’s elbow as the girl extricated herself from the ripped vinyl interior of the car. Alder’s gray T-shirt was printed with the vague red outline of a building consumed in flames. The scribbled lettering spelled out TORCH THE HOUSE.

Dana hugged her, and Alder let herself be hugged. It had been more than a year since they’d seen each other.
August,
Dana remembered.
Ma’s funeral.
The difference in Alder’s appearance was startling. Her gingersnap-brown hair had been dyed black, and her clothing was bleaker than Dana ever remembered. Alder’s style had always been a multihued, eclectic look. Unconventional but appealing. Now she had a wispy listlessness to her, so unlike the sturdy, straight-backed girl Dana had always adored.

“Can I live here?” Alder asked as they walked up the driveway. Dana’s worried smile fell.

“Yes!” Grady said. “Definitely! Right, Mom? Right?”

Alder gave him a slow shove that sent him sideways onto the lawn. He threw himself out for extra yardage, the plastic sections of his shoulder pads clacking against each other as he landed. “Oh, man!” He laughed as he lay on the grass. “This is so awesome!”

 

 

Dana left Alder in the kitchen with a glass of sugar-free lemonade and drove Grady to practice. On the way back, she called her sister.

“I should’ve known she’d go to you,” muttered Connie. “She blew off school again.”

“The . . . uh . . . that creative . . .”

“The Summit Creativity and Awareness School. I practically had to prove she was the second coming of Salvador Dalí to get her in.”

“Are you positive it’s the right school? I’m sure it’s great, but maybe it’s not the best fit.”

“Okay, enlighten me,” Connie said. “What did you have in mind? Deerfield? Williston? Because she’s
done
at Hamptonfield High. That place is for single-cell organisms.”

Dana bit the tip of her thumb. “I heard about the trig incident.”

“Trigonometry! Trigo-freaking-nometry! Like she’d
ever
have use for that. Like it
matters
!”

“Yes . . . but I don’t know if it was best to force a discussion about it at Back-to-School Night.”

“When else would I force a discussion about it?” demanded Connie. “All the parents and so-called teachers were
there
, Dana. The whole paramilitary establishment!”

“Well, then, uh . . .” Dana mumbled. Her sister’s rants were implacable and exhausting.

“
Well, then, uh?
”Connie mimicked. “You sound like Ma! If you start using bobby pins and Charlie cologne, I’ll do an intervention on you.”

“I’ve always thought a bobby pin or two might come in handy.” Dana smiled, enjoying the rare opportunity to poke at Connie a little.

“Don’t antagonize me—I’m in crisis!”

“All right,” Dana acquiesced. “Does Alder say where she’d like to go to school?”

“Like she knows. And who says high school is the key to happiness anyway? It was the key to a four-year stupor for me. Besides, Alder has
talent
. If she’d ever spend more than ten minutes in the studio, she could probably have a gallery opening by the time she’s eighteen!”

“Mm-hmm,” Dana sympathized without actually agreeing. “Maybe it might make sense for her to stay here for a few days, until the two of you cool off.” She rolled her eyes at the unlikelihood that Connie would
ever
cool off.

“Fine,” said Connie. “Let her stay. Let her live out her little suburban Abercrombie & Fitch fantasy. She’ll come to her senses—all six of them—soon enough.”

“You’re welcome,” said Dana.

“Right,” Connie snorted.

Dana pulled in to the driveway. Connie was right in a sense—Dana’s house, snuggled in the pleasant little town of Cotters Rock, Connecticut, had seemed the embodiment of all her homey fantasies. A center-entrance Colonial, white with hunter green shutters, it had a blooming crabapple tree and a stately front door. They never used that door anymore, though. They’d used the mudroom door by the garage since Morgan had learned to walk, her little shoes always muddy, her snow boots reliably wet.

When she went in, Dana found Alder right where she’d left her, the lemonade untouched. “Did something happen?” Dana asked, settling into a chair beside her.

“Yeah, my whole fucking pathetic life happened.”

“Sweetie, would you mind toning down the language just a little?”

Alder shrugged an apology.

“Your mom said you’ve been skipping school.”

“She’s driving me in
sane
.”

No doubt,
thought Dana. “Well . . . it would be really nice to have you around for a few days.” She smiled at Alder, mentally deconstructing the hair color and the sour look. Little Alder. Smart, funny, spontaneous girl. The first baby Dana had ever held. “I’ve missed you.”

A thin trickle of warmth flowed across the girl’s face, a memory of some former happiness. “What’s Cotters Rock High like?” she asked.

“S
HE CAN’T STAY IN
MY
ROOM ,” MORGAN TOLD HER mother after dinner. Alder and Grady had gone out in the yard to throw a football around. “Look at her, Mom, she’s all goth! Or emo at least!”

“Emu?” asked Dana.

Morgan rolled her eyes. “Mom, that’s like an
ostrich
or something. Emo is . . . It doesn’t matter. She looks freakish. I’ll
never
be able to sleep with her there.”

Morgan had never been a good sleeper, not even in the womb, and rarely slept through the night even now. Darkness and solitude seemed to be appetizers for a full-course meal of worrying about an English test, or whether her hair would come out right in the morning, or whether Kimmi Kinnear hated her. Sleep was the trump card, and Morgan had played it.

“All right, she can stay in the TV room. But that means you and Grady
both
have to watch TV in the basement. With no fighting. You understand?” Dana bit the tip of her thumb. “I hope she won’t be insulted.”

“Insulted?” Morgan snorted. “She’s sixteen, Mom. Trust me, she doesn’t want anything to do with a stupid sixth-grader.”

“Morgan, honey, you are not—”

“I know, I know.” Morgan ate Grady’s unfinished steak fries, her hand flying back and forth between the plate and her lips. “It’s just an expression.”