Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (34 page)

Once through security, Marjorie stopped to grab pretzels and water for the flight. By the souvenir shop’s register sat an impulse buy basket of rubber bracelets imprinted with words, the kind Belinda had mentioned liking. Marjorie chose a French blue one for her that read
DREAM.
Just imagining the kid’s glee at receiving it bolstered her.

She had time to kill at the gate. She examined an unfamiliar mole on her arm and wondered if she had cancer. She scanned e-mails on her phone. Barack Obama’s campaign was asking for a donation, pleading:
Marjorie, time is running out!

You can say that again. But for what?

Nothing from Gus. He hadn’t tried to explain himself. It was probably for the best.

Belinda had responded. Marjorie felt lifted at the prospect of hearing the latest in her prepubescent saga: Had she chosen the bulldog, after all?

Marjorie clicked on the e-mail. It opened. She read the message, then read it again and again and again before her brain would absorb its meaning:

Ms. Plum (If that is truly your name),

Please do
NOT
e-mail, call, or otherwise attempt to contact our daughter, Belinda, ever again. We recently discovered that you are not who you claim to be and are not associated with Write Her Tutoring or any other scholastic enterprise.

We’re not sure what kind of
twisted
person pretends to be a
tutor/mentor
and dupes a
defenseless
child (who had come to admire you for mostly
superficial
and reprehensible traits that a
responsible
parent could hardly view as positive). Are you pleased with yourself?

We’ve come to understand from cursory Internet research that you’re a former PR executive with nil integrity and a history of mental illness. As for the money, keep it to finance your next
rehab
stint.

Do not under
ANY
circumstances contact us again or risk police/legal action.

Harriet & Dinah Porter-Levinson

Marjorie stopped breathing, for real this time.
This is a metal chair connected to a row. This is me, a fraud, caught in a lie, in an airport, but going nowhere.
No amount of orientation was going to help. She gasped.

She was drowning in shame. How bizarre and frightening she must seem to these two mothers, trying to do right by their kid in a world full of threats from diseases to pedophiles, from tsunamis to car crashes—where disturbed young men shoot up movie theaters and politicians spout about the “sanctity of marriage,” then sext pictures of their genitals and swap fluids with underage boys in public restrooms. How destructive of Marjorie to come into their lives and misrepresent herself, making them even less trustful. Poor Belinda was probably on lockdown.

What kind of person had Marjorie become? She’d done something she’d be too ashamed to tell even her parents, her best friends. Why had she misrepresented herself that first day instead of finding a sensible solution? Why had she continued to omit the truth?

She was upset at being exposed; nobody enjoys a threat of “police action.” But more than that, the letter—an articulation of what she’d done—put the act into perspective and made it concrete. Through her own carelessness, her unwillingness to take responsibility for her choices, she’d lost Belinda, with whom she’d developed a true bond, who understood more about life at eleven years old than Marjorie did at twenty-eight.

The devastation set in, hot and heavy. Marjorie curled over her lap, almost sinking to the floor. She’d had promise, hadn’t she, once upon a time? That’s what everyone said. But then so did the suburban prom queen, passenger in a car that smells like stagnation, her taffeta mall dress ripping at the seams, where she is already starting to spread.

How could anyone still believe in her? That’s when Marjorie remembered Fred.
Fred, Fred, Fred.
Shit! She had to call and explain what she’d done, so her friend could get ahead of the narrative with her tutoring employer. What would Fred think? Would she tell Michael? Would he tell Celeste? Would they tell
Gus
?

Marjorie took as deep a breath as possible, more of an accordion’s wheeze, and dialed. It was late in New York. Fred might not answer.

The phone rang once. Then again. Then one more time.

“Hello.”

“Fred! Oh, thank God I caught you. Do you have a second?”

“I guess.”

“I don’t know how to say this. I—I did something … bad. And it affects you.”

“It would have been nice if you’d thought of that before.” The pixie’s voice was tinny: no chirps or twitters, flat affect. Marjorie was too late. She swiped at a wisp of hair that had fallen into her eyes, blurring her sight. “Write Her called me yesterday,” Fred continued. “I know you pretended to work for them.”

“Oh, Jesus, Fred. I’m so sorry. I went there that first day planning to tell the truth, but then, I don’t know what happened. I never explained. I know it sounds pathetic.”

“It does. And
insane.
I can’t lie, Marjorie. I’m not a master manipulator like you.”

“Fred, I—”

“No. Let me say something. Because I’m so incredibly mad at you. That job was my primary source of income.” Marjorie cringed, as Fred’s voice rose. “So I have every right to feel this way.”

“I know. Of course you do.”

“But more than anything, I’m
worried,
Marjorie. Because this was a really weird thing to do. You always say I’m open-minded: If you had told me that you never explained the situation that first day, I would have understood. Hell, I probably would have lent you cash, if you needed it. I saw you cracking under the weight of your crumbling world. That’s why I welcomed you into my house, my life, and tried to help.”

“You were amazing and generous from the start. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Me neither.” There was a pause. “We spent all this time together and you never mentioned a thing. I think maybe you need help.”

“Fred. I hear you. I probably do need a psychiatrist or like a whole panel of therapists. But this was an anomaly. This isn’t who I
am.
”

“I don’t think you know who you are. And as long as you straddle two identities and act passive about your life, you’ll never figure it out.” Fred sighed. “Honestly, I almost called your mother.”

“My mother?”

“To keep this hidden, to be deceptive in that way? It’s destructive. I just—I can’t have that around me right now.”

Marjorie’s stomach dropped. “You want me to move out.”

A silence. “I guess so, yeah. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t have the answer.”

Marjorie willed her voice to stay steady. “Okay.” What else was there to say? She couldn’t blame Fred. She’d acted unstable, horrible.

“I gotta go.”

“Okay.” They each hesitated, as an announcement came over the airport loudspeaker:
Flight 852 to Cairo is now boarding.
Marjorie wished she could hop on board and disappear. “Fred, I am really sorry.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you are.”

Marjorie’s eyes brimmed with—she knew
unearned
—tears, about to crest the ridge and flood her cheeks. She’d lost Belinda, Fred, even Gus, and, worst, the new life she’d come to love. And it was her fault; she’d taken it all for granted.

The boarding process began. On the redeye, she couldn’t sleep; she was too uncomfortable. She didn’t touch her pretzels, read her book, or watch TV. And when the flight landed early the next morning, she shuffled like a zombie toward baggage claim. The recycled air had sucked her dry: skin, throat, eyes.

At the taxi stand, the dispatcher asked where she was headed. She hesitated for so long that he prompted: “Manhattan? Brooklyn? The Bronx?” as if she needed a menu.

There was only one place left to go.

39

Marjorie rang the doorbell and waited, her suitcase beside her like a pewter bodyguard. She heard footsteps, and then the door swung open to reveal Mac in a T-shirt and boxer briefs, sleep written across his face.

He welcomed her with a sardonic smile. “Look who’s here.”

They had been together for over a month now, and yet she still felt like she was arriving for an illicit one-night stand.

“Look who.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes. Or … is it an eyesore? I can never remember which is a good thing.”

“I think I’m supposed to be a respite for your sore eyes.”

He grinned. “I missed you, smarty.” He leaned across the threshold and planted a kiss on her lips. “Actually, I
really
missed you.”

“You were lying the first time?”

“I didn’t realize how much.” He opened the door wide. “Come on in. I didn’t expect you until tonight.”

“I was ready to come home.” She grabbed her bag (since he didn’t) and dragged it inside. She watched him pull a bottle of Advil from a kitchen cabinet. “Rough night?”

“John wants me to invest in this spiced rum company. It’s pretty good with pineapple juice. Too good.”

“Of course you like it. It’s sweet.”

“I like you and you’re not sweet.”

“No, I’m not. I’m disgusting. Plane, heat, ugh.” Marjorie slipped off her shoes and collapsed on the couch with a thud. It was impossible to relax in this room with its sharp angles.

“What?” he called.

“Nothing.”

Mac returned and sat down beside her, leaning back against the couch. “So, you’ve been a little … I wanna say
freaked-out
lately, not to put words in your articulate mouth.”

Marjorie was taken aback. So he had noticed. “Oh, you know me.” She waved him off.

“Yeah. I do.” Mac had no intention of dismissing the topic. He let the silence compel her to answer. Was this a skill born of countless interventions for his sister?

Despite the context, it felt good to be known. Marjorie picked at the frayed wrist of her sweatshirt. “This has seen better days. Days, days, days.”

“Ah. The nervous repetitive tic. Now I know you’re stalling.”

She exhaled. “Fine. You win. I guess maybe I’ve been a little … unsure.”

“Ha! I knew it!”

She looked at him, surprised.

“
What?
I did.”

“You seem oddly cheerful about it.”

“I’m new to this relationship thing and, I’m just saying, I was right.” He shrugged. “Plus, someone is freaking out and it’s not me.”

Marjorie laughed, despite herself. Only Mac O’Shea could turn a glitch into a personal success, spin straw into gold. She shoved him lightly and he caught her hand.

“Look, don’t worry. I’m not bringing up the moving in thing again. I learned my lesson.”

Marjorie felt drowsy. She tipped her head onto his shoulder and closed her eyes, as she had a hundred times since they were children. It was so comfortable.

“Hey Mac,” she murmured. He smelled faintly of some expensive, sporty men’s cologne. His arm slid around her; his hand rubbed her shoulder. “About our cohabitation, the invitation still stands?”

“Sure.” The word vibrated through him, lulling her further.

“Then I accept.”

“Oh, yeah?” She could feel Mac smile, his muscles contracting. “Okay, then.”

She opened her eyes and peered up at him. “I missed you, stupid.”

“Good to know, Madgesty.”

As she settled her head onto his lap, he murmured, “Hey, while you’re down there…” She smacked him and he snickered, as she fell into a dreamless sleep.

A decision made in haste and out of desperation is not well-endured.

Marjorie woke up a couple hours later on the couch to a shrill call from her mother that she ignored. As she rubbed her eyes, she remembered her conversation with Mac and her first impulse was to flee.

The shower was running. She cracked the door. “Mac! Just running out!”

Steam escaped. “Where to?” he called back.

Good question.
“Um, coffee.”

“You can use my espresso machine.”

“Too lazy.”

“I can do it for you when I’m out?”

“No, I want an iced half-caff cappuccino … with vanilla. Too complicated.” She’d never had anything of the kind.

“Mmm. Sounds good. Get me one too!”

Outside, a bus belched exhaust; she breathed it in like sweet country air. She wasn’t sure whom she felt more upset about betraying: Mac or herself? She just felt off.

Fumbling for her phone, Marjorie called the one person to whom she could confess without judgment. “Pickles? It’s me.”

“Oh, honey bunch,” she cooed after Marjorie imparted the story, along with fresh tears. “That is tricky to say the least.”

“Obviously, I need to tell Mac about Gus.”

“No you don’t.”

“I don’t? Are you sure?”

“If there’s one thing I’m positive about, it’s that. Telling him would only make him insecure. And an insecure Mac O’Shea sounds ugly. And like it might involve strippers.”

“True.”

“This was a one-time thing. Was it not?”

“No. I mean, yes. Gus and I are not an option.”

Pickles paused. “Are you choosing Mac because Gus is not an option or because you want Mac?”

Marjorie shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m panicked about moving in with Mac or if … there’s a lot going on. What do you think?”

“Oh, Madge, you know I can’t answer that. Maybe it’s not coincidental that this happened after Mac asked you to shack up. You could be afraid of a good thing?”

“So you think I just panicked?” Marjorie felt relieved. She was off the hook. She could write this off as a blip, return to her old life with Mac, be happy.

“I don’t know. I’ve been watching you and Mac circle each other for years. When you finally took the plunge, I never thought you’d be the one to panic. But if this Gus guy—”

“Let’s not talk about Gus.” Marjorie spotted a coffee shop and headed across the street. She needed to get Mac that vanilla drink she’d invented—what was it again? “Let’s talk about you: Actually, can you tell me how you knew that you wanted to marry Steve?”

“Me? Well, obviously, we fell in love. But also I guess I knew he could give me the life that
I
wanted, not my mother or anyone else. Everyone said I was too young and crazy, but I knew.” Marjorie heard the squeak of a rocking chair; maybe Pickles was nursing. “Make sure your choices are your own, love, or you’ll never be happy.”