Deep Down True (32 page)

“Did you sleep at all?” Dana murmured.

“No.”

“Are you upset?”

A tiny gasp from the opposite pillow and a shuddering against the mattress let Dana know she was crying. “Morgan,” whispered Dana, her hand smoothing along the skin of her daughter’s clenched forearm. “Morgan, honey.” Bit by bit, Morgan let her hand slide forward, so that Dana’s caresses could reach all the way up to her shoulder. Then suddenly she surged forward, pressing herself into the curve of her mother’s body. Dana wrapped her arms around her and breathed the still-childlike smell of Morgan’s prepubescent skin. She felt terribly sad for Morgan—for the pain of the divorce, and the pressure to be perfect, and the worry that kept her awake night after night.

The crying slowed. “I didn’t lie,” sniffled Morgan.

“About what?”

“I really did stop for a long time,” she insisted. “Like weeks.”

“When did you start again?”

“When we started eating all those cookies and brownies and stuff.”

“With Kimmi.” Morgan didn’t respond, and Dana suspected she didn’t want to implicate her new best friend. “How about if you stop baking and find something else to do when you’re together?”

“I tried that,” Morgan said. “But Kimmi really likes to.”

“I see. It’s that host problem again. Except you did it here, too, where
you’re
the host.”

“It’s hard, Mom, you don’t even know how hard! Some people are just, like . . . in
charge,
no matter where they are.”

The truth of it rippled through her. So many people in her own life seemed to fit that description. “You’re right,” she said. “And I
do
know how hard it is. Some people just seem to get their way no matter what you do, don’t they?”

“Yes! Like Devynne! It’s like a superpower or something.”

Dana restrained herself from demanding to be told what bad behavior Devynne had instigated. “I don’t know her,” she said, hoping to sound only mildly curious. “What’s she like?”

“She’s
so
popular—you know, like Kimmi?—but she’s not afraid of anything. She tries stuff. She has two big brothers, and they’re in high school, so she knows all about it.”

Dana worked to keep her breathing steady and tried to sound casual, “So . . . like pot or drinking? Stuff like that?”

“Yeah!” Morgan was excited now, half horrified and half thrilled to be telling the story. “Her brothers were high on Halloween when we went over there, and they kept laughing at our costumes like they were watching some hilarious show or something! And they said we could try it, and Devynne did, but then she started coughing really bad and they laughed even harder!”

Dana’s heart banged angrily against her chest. Her Morgan,
her baby,
being offered drugs! She hoped her next question wouldn’t stanch the flow of information. “Did you try it?”

“Mom!” said Morgan, jerking away from her momentarily. “That stuff is stupid!”

“Okay, sorry,” said Dana. “But you see why I had to ask.”

“I guess,” said Morgan. “But I’m not
that
dumb.”

You’d let Kimmi lead you back to bingeing and purging, but pot smoking is stupid,
thought Dana.
At least I know where you stand.

“I better get back,” Morgan murmured. “Case she wakes up and thinks I’m telling.”

The door opened and closed, disturbing the air in the room, making the sheers seem suddenly to throw themselves against the window glass before swinging back again. Dana lay awash in this new information. Only a few weeks ago, Kimmi had seemed like the antidote to Morgan’s insecurity—but clearly she had serious problems of her own.

I have to warn Nora about this.
The thought made Dana wince. She had no idea of how to broach the subject.
I can’t just walk up to her and say, “I caught our daughters making themselves vomit, and Kimmi seems pretty well versed in the procedure, and oh, by the way, she may also have smoked pot.”

More important, what about Morgan? How had she been drawn so quickly back into the self-destruction of bingeing and purging? Of one thing Dana was sure: she was in over her head with Morgan’s food issues.

 

 

Unable to sleep, Dana went downstairs to the office to look up child therapists online. The Multiservice Eating Disorders Association had a “Get Help” button with lists of professionals by town. She chose a few with kind-sounding names and cross-referenced them with her health insurance’s “Find a Healthcare Provider” resource. Bethany Sweet showed up on both lists.

With a name like that, she’s either the best person for the job,
thought Dana,
or the worst.

She was leaving a message on Ms. Sweet’s voice mail when she heard movement in the hallway and wondered who could be up so early. She followed the sound of footsteps out to the mudroom, where Kimmi was waiting by the door, fully dressed, packed bag hanging from her narrow shoulder. Glancing furtively behind her, she caught sight of Dana and flinched. “I . . . I called my mom,” she murmured breathlessly. “I don’t feel good, and she’s coming to get me.” She searched desperately out the little window next to the door. “She’s here!”

“I’ll walk you out,” said Dana.

“No!” said Kimmi. “You don’t have to.” She twisted the door handle, and when she opened it, Nora was standing on the front step, about to knock. Her sleek mahogany hair was dull and disheveled. She wore a green velour hoodie that barely covered what looked to be a pajama top. “You said you’d be waiting outside,” she growled. Then she saw Dana. “Get in the car,” she ordered Kimmi. The girl didn’t wait to be told twice.

“It would probably be a good idea for us to talk,” Dana suggested. “Maybe later on today.”

Nora ran a hand through her hair. “No,” she said. “Let’s just get this out now.”

“Oh, well . . . if you want—”

Nora cut her off. “I know about Morgan’s eating disorder. I’ve known about it for weeks, but I decided to let the friendship run its course. We aren’t the kind of people to steer our daughter away from a child who could benefit from her friendship. But now that Kimmi’s told me what they’ve been up to, as a responsible parent I have to put a stop to it. I can’t let her get dragged down by another girl’s misfortune.”

Dana’s face went wide with shock.
Kimmi dragged down? KIMMI?

“Nora, you certainly have every right to do what’s best for your daughter, but I think you should know what I saw and heard last night.”

Nora huffed an impatient sigh. “I
know
what you saw and heard. Kimmi told me all about it. Morgan made those awful brownies and pressured Kimmi into eating them with her, then showed her how to throw them up.”

“I’m sorry, but that is
not
what happened, Nora. I heard them. Kimmi was saying . . . Well, to be quite honest she was bragging about how good she is at making herself vomit. It sounded to me like Kimmi’s been doing it for some time now, and I—”

Nora’s eyes narrowed into beads of fury. “Don’t you
dare
blame this on my daughter! Kimmi was perfectly fine until she befriended Morgan. Polly told me about Morgan’s problem, and I felt sorry for her—to be ‘quite honest
,
’ as you say”—Nora’s fingers sliced quote marks into the air—“I felt sorry for
you,
too! And this is the thanks I get. I should have known—”

“Hold on,” Dana said, finally picking out the strangest detail from this barrage. “
Polly
told you?”

Nora backhanded the air, swatting away the admission. “My poor daughter is waiting in the car, probably traumatized, and
I’m
standing here dealing with
you.
All I can say is, I hope you’ve learned something and you’ll finally take responsibility!”

She swung around, yanked the door open, and whipped herself through it as if propelled by a slingshot. It was clear her intention was to slam it, but she’d inadvertently kicked one of Grady’s cleats toward the doorsill on her way, and the door bounced open again. For the briefest instant she stopped, as if uncertain whether she should go back for a second try, but then she continued down the steps. Through the open doorway, Dana could hear her bark something at Kimmi as she got into the car. Then she gunned the motor, threw the car into reverse, and sped backward down the driveway, narrowly missing the mailbox post.

It was another moment or two before Dana’s skin, flushed to a near boil, registered the wintry air infiltrating the house through the open door. She pushed her stunned limbs forward to dislodge the cleat and secure the entryway. When she turned around, Morgan was standing at the other end of the mudroom, her eyes wide with horror.

B
Y LUNCHTIME DANA KNEW SHE HAD MADE mistakes—from forgetting to input appointments to using incorrect billing codes on claim forms. Weeks and months from now, Tony would face double-booked slots, fussy claim reps, and irate patients from the many errors she’d made just in this one four-hour period.

But all she could think about was Morgan . . . who’d overheard the entire bizarre conversation with Nora and rightly concluded that her ex-best-friend-forever had been using her for cover . . . who’d realized that the lies Kimmi had told her mother would soon spread like pinkeye through the whole sixth grade . . . and who had wept in childish fright and ancient shame.

Dana had spent several hours attempting to console her inconsolable daughter, managing only to see her through to a sniffly, hiccupping exhaustion. When Alder got home from Jet’s, she had quietly included herself in Dana’s efforts and had eventually guided poor Morgan to the TV room to watch a movie with her. They’d been lying under the pink fleece blanket with the opening credits of
Little Women
rolling as Dana reluctantly left the house, promising to be home for lunch at the latest. Alder called around nine to say that Morgan had fallen asleep watching Susan Sarandon give the speech about wanting her daughters to value themselves for more than just their “decorativeness.”

At lunchtime Dana popped her head into Tony’s office. “I’ll try to be back by one,” she said, feeling suddenly so tired she was unsure if her legs would carry her all the way to the parking lot.

Tony nodded, watching her intently, inviting further explanation. It was that same look he’d given her over lunch at Keeney’s that day, and its intimacy unnerved her. But all he said was, “Take as long as you need.” She retreated before the last word was out of his mouth.

On the drive home, she called Kenneth and told him what had happened, to which his irritable response was, “Why did you let them make the brownies in the first place?”

“What am I supposed to do—
outlaw baking
?” she yelled back. Her phone beeped, indicating another caller. “I have to go,” she said, and switched calls. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Bethany Sweet!” said a high, perky voice. “Is this Mrs. Stellgarten?”

How
old
is she?
Dana thought desperately.
A teenage therapist is
not
what we need right now!
She was tempted to hang up, but instead she sighed and said, “This is she.”

“Great!” chirped Bethany. “So glad I caught you! Is this a good time?”

No, it’s a positively awful time,
Dana thought, pulling in to her driveway
. But it’s as good as any.

Over the next ten minutes, Bethany Sweet asked a series of questions, from “What’s Morgan like?” to “Is there anything particularly stressful going on right now?” to “How often do you suspect she’s purging?” It was hard to take her seriously with her high, sing-song voice, but she seemed professional enough, and she made sure to mention her eight years of experience as a child and family therapist. She had a cancellation on Thursday; would that fit Morgan’s schedule?

Yes, it would. And though Dana still had doubts, it seemed as if she’d been thrown a lifeline, thread-slender though it might be, and she let herself take a deep breath for the first time all day. As she turned to open the car door, Polly’s face, pinched in an apprehensive smile, bobbed into view on the other side of the glass.

There was the briefest moment when all Dana wanted to do was step out of the car and into the possessive embrace of Polly’s friendship. If there was ever a time when she needed the compact solidity of Polly, her intractable certainty and loud, intemperate love, it was now. But that worried smile, staining her features like an ill-considered tattoo, served to remind Dana of Polly’s crime.

Dana got out of the car. “I can’t talk to you now,” she said as she strode toward the house.

“Let’s go for a walk.” The tension in Polly’s voice made it sound like a question.

Dana started up the steps to the porch. “Morgan’s waiting for me.”

“Dana,” called Polly, and then more insistently, “Dana!”

She stopped and turned to face her neighbor. “What.”

Stance wide, arms taut at her sides, Polly’s pixielike body was braced for an assault. “How is she?”

Dana could see now that Polly knew. Nora must have called her to vent about the morning’s altercation and spilled the beans about repeating what Polly had said. Dana had never wanted to slap someone so much in her life. “She’s just been thrown to the sharks by her best friend,” she said tightly. “She’s heartbroken.”

Polly’s chest registered a quick intake of air. “Can I . . . Would you let me talk to her? Maybe I can—”

Dana could feel fireworks going off in her major arteries, tiny explosions that burned the back of her throat, making her words come out in a violent hiss. “Are you
joking
? You betrayed her! I told you something in strictest confidence, and you blabbed about it—to someone in your
book group,
for godsake! Maybe the whole group for all I know—maybe the whole damn town!” Dana came down the steps, her finger shooting out in front of her. “She’s
miserable
and
mortified,
and
no,
you cannot see her, and no, I will not take a walk with you. So you just
go home
!”