Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You Read online

  Hopeless, Merissa thought. Both of us.

  All Merissa’s good news—even the early acceptance at Brown—what did it mean now?

  Not a thing. Not a thing.

  Whatever Daddy said about being proud of his little girl, loving her—not a thing.

  Except, years ago, Merissa was sure he’d felt differently. As he had felt differently about Merissa’s mother, and being married and a father.

  And a long time ago, before she’d become the person she was now, when she’d been smaller, and so cute. When she’d been Daddy’s little girl and he’d stared at her with love—pulling her onto his lap, whispering to her.

  Who’s my little girl? Beautiful baby girl.

  This was before Morgan Carmichael had become so successful. Before he’d begun being away so many nights. Sometimes weekends. Traveling—on business.

  Because Merissa was not a baby now. She was thin—(thank God!)—meaning that you could see her ribs through her pale skin, and you could feel the vertebrae of her spine if you touched her spine—(which Merissa would not allow, if she could avoid it)—but she was definitely female: breasts, curly little hairs sprouting in her armpits, at her crotch, and on her legs.

  And tall: too tall. For there were boys who were scarcely Merissa’s height, who would never ask her out for that reason. Even with Merissa slouching—just a bit—there was no disguising this fact.

  Last time Merissa’s height was measured, she was five feet seven and a half inches tall. Her weight was 104 pounds.

  That hadn’t been for a while, though—now Merissa could not be examined for fear of the little wounds and scabs being discovered.

  Don’t touch! My body is my own secret.

  She’d learned from Tink: Don’t let the Enemy near.

  Only friends—who have “proven themselves loyal”—can come near. But even friends shouldn’t be entrusted with some secrets—

  A secret can be too toxic to expose to a friend.

  So, no one had known what Tink was planning.

  That way, no one could stop her. No one could scream, scream, scream at her, Goddamn you, Tink, we love you!

  No one could betray her by telling Big Moms. Better yet, one of Tink’s teachers at school.

  It was obvious that what Tink had done to herself had been planned with care. Everything that Tink did, her creative efforts particularly, was planned with care and very little left to chance.

  The fact was: Tink had been pronounced d**d—(Merissa could not think, still less say aloud, this terrible word)—on her seventeenth birthday, which had been June 11, 2011.

  Pronounced d**d on a morning when her mother, Veronica Traumer, “Big Moms,” was thousands of miles away in Los Angeles.

  Pronounced d**d at the Quaker Heights Medical Center to which she’d been rushed by ambulance, having been discovered, in her bed, not breathing and unresponsive, by Mrs. Traumer’s housekeeper.

  “Stop! Just stop.”

  Merissa spoke aloud, frightened.

  “Don’t think of Tink now.”

  It was just too sad to think of Tink. And it was just too frustrating to think of Tink. And you couldn’t, frankly, think of Tink—if you’d been Tink’s friend—without being very angry with her.

  Merissa’s father had not ever liked Tink. Though he hadn’t said anything really negative or critical, you could tell—the way a man can smile sneering at the mention of a girl’s or a woman’s name so you know he isn’t impressed.

  Not even pretty. What kind of “TV actress” could that homely red-haired girl have been?

  To her shame, Merissa had laughed with Daddy. As if what Daddy said, like some cruel, crude remark tossed out by a sneering guy, was funny.

  You want them to like you—love you. You laugh at their jokes that aren’t funny; you smile when they break your heart.

  For it was certainly true, Merissa’s father did not like her to cry.

  Merissa’s father did not like her to be “emotional.”

  Years ago when Merissa had been little, of course she’d cried—fretted, fussed, threw little red-faced tantrums—but only when her mother was close by.

  If she’d dared to act up when her father was close by, he would make a cutting remark and walk out of the room.

  Mom had joked, when Merissa was an infant, that any hint of nursing, diapers, diaper changing had been enough to make Daddy uncomfortable.

  And Daddy had not ever liked the infant smell—baby formula, soaked diapers, baby talcum powder.

  Who’s Daddy’s little button-nose? Daddy used to tease when Merissa was freshly bathed, dressed, and cute.

  But that was years ago. When Daddy seemed to have more time to be at home with his little family, and to care.

  Merissa tried to remember when Daddy first began to seem not so much to care.

  When Merissa had been in middle school, maybe. Eighth grade.

  Already, she’d been too tall. Towering over some of the shorter boys.

  Being pretty—(Merissa had always been “pretty”)—didn’t matter so much if you were self-conscious, insecure. There were less attractive girls, like Brooke Kramer, who behaved as if they were good-looking and entitled to attention.

  If Merissa had earned only “good” grades at school—B-plus, A-minus—her father wouldn’t have been impressed. It took really Good News—top achievements—to get his interest. And even so, he rarely asked Merissa about her classes, her teachers, what she was actually doing/learning—he hadn’t yet had time to read “Our Environment, Ourselves” as posted on the Scientific American website.

  At Class Day the previous June, when Merissa Carmichael had been called to the stage as one of just five Quaker Heights “Outstanding Students” of the year, her father hadn’t even been in the audience.

  Of course, Merissa’s mother had been there.

  Virtually everyone’s mother had been there.

  Merissa’s birthday was September 5. Not an ideal time for a birthday, so close to Labor Day.

  Merissa had always felt deprived of attention, anyway of enough attention—too much happening at once at the start of the school year.

  Her girlfriends helped her celebrate. And Mom always made a fuss over her birthday.

  This year, Daddy had been damned sorry he had to be away—traveling on business to Chicago, then Atlanta. But he’d remembered to call Merissa on her cell phone just before dinner that night to wish her “Happy seventeenth birthday.”

  “Thanks, Dad! I’m flattered you got my age right.”

  There was a moment’s startled silence at the other end of the line.

  (Was Daddy’s girl being sarcastic?)

  “Just kidding, Dad. I’m really glad to hear from you . . . and miss you like crazy.”

  Merissa’s mother was disappointed, too. And maybe just a little surprised.

  But determined to be cheerful and uncomplaining—understanding, upbeat.

  “Daddy is really, really sorry, Merissa—you could hear it in his voice. It just breaks his heart to miss so many—to miss special times with his family.”

  Merissa’s mother suggested that Merissa invite her closest friends from school to have dinner with them that night, but Merissa said no thanks!

  Her friends had already treated her to a really nice lunch at a restaurant in town, and they’d given her presents, and Merissa had told them that her birthday dinner was that night, just her mom and dad.

  Merissa’s mother persisted. “Well, maybe just call Hannah? She’s such a sweet girl. . . .”

  You don’t know Hannah any more than you knew Tink. Or me.

  “It’s late notice, of course, but I’m sure that Hannah would love to come over for a while at least. There’s plenty of food; we can eat in the family room, you could watch a DVD. . . . We could even invite Hannah’s mother—she might be free, if her husband isn’t home.”

  “Mom, thanks! Sounds great, except I really don’t want to ‘double date’—Hannah and me, and you and Mrs. Heller.
” Merissa spoke lightly, but inside she was trembling with rage.

  Wanting to tell her mother, If Daddy doesn’t love me, nobody else matters. What do I care about anybody else?

  That night Merissa worked herself into an anxious state, unable to sleep. The little (secret) wounds on her body were smarting and hurting, and she was just slightly frightened that one or two of them were becoming infected—this was scary.

  All kinds of crazy thoughts flew through her mind, and there came Tink to tease her—What did you expect, Perfect One? Your birthday is soooo important to Daddy?

  Tink was just jealous, Merissa thought. Tink hadn’t any actual father anyone had ever seen, and Tink’s mother, Big Moms, would have “sacrificed” any kid of hers to her “third-rate career”—as Tink had liked to say.

  Sometimes, in front of her mother, Tink would make this wisecrack. And Veronica Traumer would say, hurt, “Trina, that is so unfair. It is so untrue. I want you to apologize immediately!”

  “You mean, your career isn’t third-rate? That’s what I got wrong?”

  Insulted, Veronica might stalk out of the room. The air would quaver in her wake and smell of a strong perfume. You would get the impression that Tink and her bosomy, brassy-haired mother were flinging TV dialogue at each other, not spontaneous and sincere words, and so it was okay to laugh.

  In fact, you couldn’t not laugh at most of what Tink said.

  But Merissa didn’t want to think about Tink right now. She was worried that her mother might do something ridiculous—like conspire to give a surprise birthday party for Merissa a day late and call Merissa’s friends behind her back after all.

  It was a crazy worry, but at two a.m. Merissa couldn’t sleep, switched on a light beside her bed, and texted Hannah.

  LET ME KNOW IF MY MOM CALLS YOU ABOUT A SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY. I WILL KILL MYSELF IF THERE IS ANY SURPRISE PARTY FOR ME.

  Of course, Hannah didn’t text back until morning—after Merissa spent a miserable night.

  HI MERS—WHAT SURPRISE PARTY? WHOSE?

  Merissa was stunned; she’d been such an idiot. Texting such a message to Hannah! Revealing too much of her private life and actually saying I will kill myself, which was a really stupid and gauche thing to say, after Tink.

  She’d have to tell Hannah that of course she was only kidding. Wasn’t serious.

  At Quaker Heights there was a kind of red alert: If anyone you know speaks of suicide, please do not keep this information to yourself but tell a parent, a teacher, or your guidance counselor.

  How embarrassed and ashamed Merissa would be, if her careless words got her into trouble!

  If her father found out. Oh God.

  Of course, Merissa’s father had promised he’d make up for missing her birthday—he’d bought her a silver bracelet with MERISSA engraved on it.

  (Merissa suspected that her mother had bought the bracelet, right here in Quaker Heights. Though the box was a fancy Tiffany box.)

  Tonight she’d caught a glimpse of herself downstairs in the kitchen in the shiny copper bottoms of frying pans hanging from hooks in the kitchen.

  Ugly! A twisted-looking face with bug eyes, little slit for a mouth.

  One little turn of the dial, a beautiful face can turn ugly.

  At last, the Unspoken was Spoken.

  For it happened that Morgan Carmichael was “moving out”—“temporarily”—from the house on West Brook Way.

  Moving out? Daddy, but why?

  He tried to explain to Merissa—his decision had certainly had nothing to do with her.

  He tried to explain to Merissa—this was a “joint decision” of his and her mother’s.

  (But where was Mom? Why wasn’t Mom here, to make this easier?)

  “Sometimes it’s a good, healthy thing to put a little distance between ourselves. To get a new perspective. To see where improvements can be made in a relationship.”

  Merissa listened, stunned.

  She could not bring herself to ask, Is there another woman, Daddy? Is that what you are trying to tell me but don’t have the nerve?

  “. . . terrific new condominium village by the river. As soon as I get settled, you’ll come to visit, okay?”

  Merissa’s mouth was numb. Her tongue felt as if it had been shot with Novocain.

  “. . . really convenient, just a mile from the train depot. An hour from the airport and New York City.”

  Still, Merissa was silent. For what she wanted to ask, she could not dare ask. A flicker of impatience came into her father’s face.

  “We’ll talk more, Merissa. A lot more. Okay? And you’ll come visit—soon as I get settled?”

  Now, in the days following, Merissa heard her mother on the phone, often.

  Not talking with her father, though. But talking.

  (To her women friends? To those friends who, like her, had husbands who’d “moved out—temporarily”?)

  Laughing, or maybe crying. Breathless and dazed-sounding and trying even so to be amusing.

  “One of his closets was almost empty, and I was so shocked, I said to him, ‘Morgan, what? What is this? Are you moving out of our house without telling me?’ and Morgan laughs in that way of his like I’ve said something ridiculous and tells me straight-faced, ‘My clothes are at the dry cleaner’s, Stacy—I’ve been forgetting to pick them up.’ And I was so pathetic, wanting to believe him, I said, ‘Oh, I’ll pick your clothes up at the cleaner’s, I’m going into town tomorrow morning,’ and Morgan says, like it’s all he can do to force himself to look at me, ‘Stacy, I don’t have the receipt—I’m not sure which dry cleaner it is.’ And I say, just so naive, ‘But why isn’t it Kraft’s? We’ve been using Kraft’s for years.’ And I said, ‘There are only two dry cleaners in Quaker Heights, or maybe three—if you count the one out on Route 27—but you wouldn’t have gone to that one, would you?’ And Morgan says, ‘I’ll take care of it, Stacy,’ and shuts the closet door.”

  Merissa thought, This does not sound like a joint decision.Merissa thought, Pathetic!

  More coolly, calmly: He wouldn’t do this to us, really.

  Text messages flew. So many, within an hour. Merissa’s thumbs ached. Her head ached. Within minutes of sending a text message—within seconds of receiving one—Merissa forgot what the message was, to whom and from whom.

  TINK—HEY. GUESS WHAT. YOU NEVER LIKED MY FATHER—(IT’S COOL, IT’S OK, HE NEVER LIKED YOU EITHER, DUDE!)—SO YOU WON’T BE SURPRISED. I GUESS HE’S IN LOVE WITH SOME YOUNG BEAUTIFUL MODEL LIKE A TV HAIR SHAMPOO MODEL ALL GLOSSY SWINGING HAIR AND PERFECT SKIN. AND BOOBS! YOU BET.

  LOVE FROM

  THE PERFECT ONE

  Merissa reread her message to Tink. Laughed and wiped at her eyes. No address for Tink! No choice but to delete.

  More calmly, Merissa thought really, really this could not be so. Hadn’t her father said it was a joint decision? He would not have lied to Merissa’s face, would he?

  Tink had told many tales of the Enemy: the Male Sex.

  But you couldn’t believe Tink much of the time. She’d been a TV child actor, and you’d think she’d been a stand-up comic, the extravagant and shameless way she exaggerated things.

  All men are beasts. But not all beasts are men.

  Definitely—they will bite the tits that feed them.

  (Was this funny? Or vulgar? Merissa had laughed at the time, but she’d been just a little put-off by Tink, then the “new girl” in their circle who talked, talked, talked rapidly when she was—as she didn’t hesitate to inform them—in her manic bipolar state.)

  Oh but it was sad: pathetic. Here in the Carmichael household.

  Nothing funny here. Even Tink would agree.

  Merissa’s poor mother, Stacy Carmichael, was that age—forty-five? Older?—like one of those still-attractive-but-fading middle-aged women you saw in TV advertisements promising miracle medication to combat migraines, hot flashes, insomnia, and depression.

  In one of the scarier TV ads, a ghost-cloud o
f gloom hovers about the head of the afflicted woman—OBSESSIVE THOUGHTS, SUICIDAL IDEATION, INSOMNIA. Merissa never watched the advertisement beyond the first two or three seconds, quickly switching channels.

  She was sure: Her mother was taking some sort of prescription medication.

  But this was not new—was it?

  Even on lovely, sunny days the ghost-cloud hovers. It is not suggested that there is a reason for the ghost-cloud—depression—for the ghost-cloud just is.

  Merissa had not heard of SUICIDAL IDEATION before—she was sure. She supposed that Tink had.

  All this made Merissa feel so sick and sad—and sort of disgusted—with her mother.

  And with herself.

  9.

  “NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW”

  It had begun by accident—almost.

  Distracted, coming down a flight of stairs at school the previous year—just after chemistry class, in which midterm tests had been handed back and Merissa’s grade was a disappointing 91—that is, an A-minus—though she’d studied hard and had expected she’d done better, and the thought came to her swift as a razor blade. Who’s “perfect” now? Who’s stupid and ugly and worthless now? Who gives a damn if you live or die?—and somehow she missed a step, fell hard, and struck her forehead on the railing, then fell several steps more to the floor; and there was blood on her face, on her hands—so quickly had it happened, Merissa felt more surprise than pain, and embarrassment—for people were staring at her, and several had stopped to help her—

  “Hey—is it M’rissa? You okay?”

  “Wow. You’re bleeding. . . .”

  Merissa insisted she was fine. She was deeply embarrassed to be dripping blood in the school corridor as people gawked.

  At a little distance, guys were watching. Merissa didn’t want to know who they were. A girl whom she scarcely knew, one of the popular seniors at Quaker Heights, was pressing a wad of tissue against the cut in Merissa’s forehead, saying in a concerned voice that they’d better take her to the school nurse, but Merissa stiffened—“No. No thank you. I’m r-really all right—I don’t want to miss my next class.”

  “C’mon, we’ll take you! You’re bleeding.”