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This is my fault. I took her to Dr. Bloom’s, where she met this obviously troubled young man, and when she told me about him, I acted as a kind of permission board. I should have reminded her that she was fragile and damaged, a girl who cuts herself on purpose. I should have protected her. And when I found out they were having sex, I should have told Johnny. I certainly would have told Kate.
When it is my turn to say goodbye, I want to say all the things I should have said before. It makes me angry at my useless mom all over again—if I’d had a mother, maybe I would have known something about acting like one.
In Marah’s eyes, I see a carefully banked irritation. She wants us gone so that she can be alone with Paxton. How do we do this? How do we just leave her on this huge campus, an eighteen-year-old girl who cuts herself, with a boy who wears makeup and skull jewelry?
“Maybe you should live with me this quarter,” I say.
I hear Paxton make a sound of contempt, and I want to smack him.
Marah barely smiles. “I’m ready to be on my own. ”
I pull her into a hug that lasts half as long as I would like.
“Keep in touch,” Johnny says gruffly. Then he takes my arm and pulls me away. I stumble along beside him, blinded by tears. Regret and fear and worry braid together and become my spine, the things that hold me up.
The next thing I know, Johnny and I are at a bar on the Ave, surrounded by kids doing Jell-O shots in the middle of the day.
“That was brutal,” he says when we sit down.
“Worse than brutal. ”
I order a tequila shot.
“When the hell did she make friends with that loser?”
I feel sick to my stomach. “Group therapy. ”
“Great. Money well spent. ”
I down my tequila and look away.
Johnny sighs. “God, I wish Katie were here. She’d know how to handle this. ”
“If Kate were here there’d be nothing to handle. ”
Johnny nods and orders us both another drink. “Let’s talk about something less depressing. Tell me how your big-ass book deal is going…”
* * *
When I get home, I pour myself a large glass of wine, which I carry from room to room. It takes me a while to realize that I am looking for her.
I am anxious, edgy, and a second glass of wine doesn’t help. I need to do something. Say something.
My book.
I jump at the idea. I know exactly what to write. I get my laptop and open it up and find my document.
I have never known how to say goodbye. It is a failing that has been with me all of my life. It’s especially problematic, given how often partings have come up. I suppose it all goes back to my childhood—doesn’t everything? I was always waiting for my mother’s return. How many times have I said that in this memoir? I’ll have to go back and edit some of them out. But deleting the sentences won’t delete the truth. When I care about someone, I hang on with a desperation that borders on mental illness. That’s why I didn’t tell Johnny about Paxton and Marah. I was afraid of disappointing him—losing him—but let’s face it, he is already lost to me, isn’t he? He was lost to me the moment Katie died. I know what he sees when he looks at me: the lesser half of a friendship.
Still, I should have told him the truth. If I had, maybe the goodbye to Marah wouldn’t have felt so terribly, dangerously final …
* * *
Christmas of 2008 surprises me.
It has been three months since Marah moved into her dorm, and in that short space of time, life has changed for all of us. I have been writing regularly—not managing to rack up a lot of pages, but I am steadily finding the words that tell my story. It energizes me, this new pursuit, gives me something to do in the long and empty hours of the day and night. I have become a hermit of sorts, one of those middle-aged women who live their lives at arm’s length. I rarely leave my condo; there’s no need. Everything can be delivered, and really, I don’t know what to do with myself in the world these days. So I write.
Until Margie calls me one rainy day in late December. Have I been waiting for her call? I don’t know. I just know that when it comes in, when I see her name on my caller ID, I almost start to cry.
