Here, Home, Hope Page 4

  “I hate to even tell you anything about Bruce, since you never liked him,” Kathryn said. Drink. Sob. Meat. Cheese.

  I tried not to flinch at having my mind read. “That is not true,” I mumbled. “I just love you and want to keep him on his toes. Heck, he’s your husband and you’re a treasured friend.” But he was probably cheating on her, I thought.

  Bruce was as close as we got to celebrity in Grandville. His television production company started as a one-man operation and had grown into the largest one in the Midwest, with divisions handling trade shows, TV, and even movie production across North America and even in Europe. He always made sure to name-drop upon returning from one of his shoots, thus earning spots at important dinner parties and photo ops with mayors and chamber of commerce folks. Grandville, the heart of sophistication and your connection to the stars . . . as long as Bruce Majors was in the room. Yes, he even had a cheesy celebrity name. I’d never been sure his name was real, either.

  “Maybe if I hadn’t been a working mother, this wouldn’t be happening,” she said. “I don’t know. I’m just not sure what to do.” Sob. Cheese. Wine. Meat.

  “Wait a minute, Kathryn. You’re my hero. Trailblazer. Woman in business who’s made it to the top. And you’ve been a great mom. It’s the quality time, not the quantity; you always told me that and you’re right. Your job is your passion and you’re great at it. You’re a great role model for Mel. You’re a great role model for me,” I said, taking another piece of sausage to comfort myself at the news that Kathryn was doubting herself, her choices.

  Kathryn’s spectacular career was at least as impressive as Bruce’s. She’d started after college as a regional manager for the fastest growing chain of women’s clothing stores in the country. The chain kept growing and Kathryn kept being promoted. Described in the New York Times Style section as “one of the brightest, most fashion-forward creative directors of a major chain” when she was in her late twenties, Kathryn was the chain’s first female vice president by age thirty-five. Six months ago, when we’d had dinner, she shared her expectation that she’d make president by the fall. She hadn’t mentioned any trouble at home back then.

  I marveled about our collective ability as women to keep all the pain hidden, just below the surface. In Grandville, and I suspected many places just like it, real emotions were locked behind closed doors. They weren’t on display at the country club, never on the tennis court or at bridge or bunko. They weren’t revealed during book club and especially never at PTA meetings. The façade of everything being fine, just fine, was as thick and hard to crack as the shiny white veneers covering our teeth. But it shouldn’t be this way with a person’s closest friends.

  Why didn’t I know Kathryn was distraught? For that matter, why haven’t I been aware that Charlotte’s business was booming? My self-absorption seems to have reached dangerously high levels since the Christmas cancer scare. Just last month, for example, the city magazine’s lead feature story had an unoriginal headline declaring Kathryn Majors “a major force to be reckoned with.” She was a fashion industry rock star, but I hadn’t found the time to call and congratulate her on the story. Perhaps jealousy kept me from doing so, but I think more likely it was pure self-centeredness. Between making sure the kids and Patrick are happy and that I’m there for them, putting on my supermom cape whenever necessary, I haven’t really been available for my friends. I guess I’m lucky to still have them. I could fix the situation, too. If I could figure out what was bothering me, I could be a better friend to both of them. And maybe I can open up to them about what I’ve been dealing with.

  “Hey ladies, sorry to interrupt,” Charlotte said coming out onto the porch with the twins in tow. Oreo jumped onto my lap in a clear sign of his superiority and my lack of discipline. He made a small whining sound and pointed his nose in the direction of the sausage. “The girls and I have to hit the road. I got a call to show the listing already. Someone read my name and number on the sign. It’s really amazing. Signs are the number one way to get a home sold. Well, that and the Internet, but around here, signs are key. People drive around and look for deals! Bye, Kathryn, good to see you. I’m sorry we didn’t get to catch up. Come on, girls!”

  I got up to walk them out and each of the twins gave me a squeeze. “Are you alright, Charlotte?” I said, when I was sure we were out of Kathryn’s hearing.

  She seemed nervous, and once again she wouldn’t make eye contact with me. “Kathryn needs both of us,” I said.

  “No, she needs you right now.” She gave me a guilty glance, then looked away quickly. “Okay, maybe I stretched the truth a little bit just now. I do have a showing, but it’s for tomorrow. But . . . I need to get the girls home and showered and in bed. And I haven’t even celebrated the good news with the man in my life.” She began hustling the twins across the yard toward her car.

  “Tell Jim I said hi,” I called after them, but she didn’t seem to hear me.

  BACK ON THE PORCH, KATHRYN SEEMED CALMER. BEFORE, SHE had been alternating between desperate and suicidal. Now she was settling for just miserable. She blew her nose. It sounded as loud as a foghorn.

  “Let’s start with Melanie. How can I help?” I asked.

  “Maybe you could talk to her. The only other friends I have are women who work for me, and I can’t let them know what’s going on. Bruce is no help at all. I don’t know who else to turn to. The problem is, Melanie won’t talk to me. I make her all her favorite foods and she’ll say she doesn’t want any. She hates the counselor I found her.” She pinched the corner off a piece of cheese and began rolling it into a tiny ball. “I spoke to an eating disorder clinic in Southern California and they had space, but I don’t want to admit her to some program across the country. Maybe she’ll open up to you.”

  Yeah, sure, I thought. Your middle-aged, slightly overweight college roommate seems like just the person a struggling teen would open up to! Well, I could give it a shot. Clearly this was more up my alley than, say, learning Spanish or selling cosmetics.

  “Why me? Kathryn, I’m happy to do whatever I can, but—”

  “Kelly, even though we haven’t spent a lot of time together in the last few years, I still consider you my best friend in the world. My maid of honor, my other half of the hot dog bun.” She smiled.

  I smiled too. With another friend of ours, we’d dressed up as a hot dog for a college Halloween party. I ask you: how could anyone who could create a three-person hot dog costume not have a future in the fashion business?

  “I don’t have anyone else to turn to,” she said. “I’ve made a career of being in charge, in control. That’s how I’ve lived my life. But that comes with a big cost. My life seems glamorous, and it is at times, but often it’s very lonely.”

  I reached out and put my hand on her arm. “I’ll do everything I can to try to help. Just keep reminding yourself that Melanie doesn’t hate you. She’s a teenager. Maybe she’s more troubled than some, but remember, we were there too. I could’ve killed my mom at times. It’s hormones and pressure and, well, life.”

  “With her, it’s more intense, though, especially recently,” Kathryn said.

  I just couldn’t believe it. Kathryn and Melanie had always been so adorable together: dressing in matching mother-daughter clothes when Mel was young; vacationing in Chicago to shop at the American Girl store; flying to New York to see plays on Broadway. I always longed for a girl of my own when I’d hear their stories or see photos from their trips.

  “How about I drop by tomorrow and visit her? Assuming she’s home alone while you’re at work. I need to head to Target and gather stuff to put together some care packages for the boys. Maybe she could help me out? What’s she doing during the day? Would she be up for a run to Target?”

  “Basically, she mopes all day. Now that she can’t practice with the volleyball team, she just sits in her room and wastes time on her computer. She won’t go to the pool; she won’t call a friend. She does see her boyfriend, but
I think that’s because I don’t like him. Oh, this is a mess,” Kathryn said.

  Feeling almost certain this should be on my Things to Change list—do not offer to care for a wayward teenager—I chose instead to say, “Look. I’m lonely. Bored. All I have to look forward to until I pick up the boys is the fitting of my lower bite plate. Let’s give it a shot. Do you think Melanie would help me with the care packages? Maybe I can figure out some other things we could do together during the day. Camp Kelly will open its doors if you give the word. And, it’ll give you the break you need. Deal?”

  “Okay, it’s worth a try,” Kathryn said. She smiled at me. “What would I do without you?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that because I’m here—always will be.”

  “Thanks Kelly.” She took a breath and seemed to relax. “But what should I do about Bruce?”

  Tread lightly, I reminded myself. Anything you say about a best friend’s spouse or boyfriend can and will be used against you should they stop fighting and profess undying love for one another once again. This is a fact on my Life Lesson list, which is an altogether different list from my T2C list. Life lessons are truths sometimes learned the hard way. “Let’s not deal with him for the moment. Let’s worry about Melanie and you. We’ll focus on getting the Majors girls settled and then we’ll figure out what Mr. Majors is up to.”

  And with that we went inside and called Melanie to tell her the exciting news that she and I would be spending some quality time together. We put the phone on speaker, and I thought I heard her perk up at the notion of my coming over. Or maybe it was the trek to Target. Or I could’ve been imagining it. Whatever it was, however, Kathryn was thankful. Perhaps Melanie’s summer at Camp Kelly would be just fine after all.

  As I watched Kathryn’s car’s retreating taillights, it struck me that I had just volunteered to help my best friend’s troubled teenage girl. What was I thinking? Okay, I’d had two-and-a-half glasses of chardonnay, so I thought I was a superwoman with the answers to all life’s problems. Yes, my friend was in need. But really, what did I know? I’m the mom of two boys, and they are entirely different animals.

  PATRICK, UPON RETURNING FROM HIS DAY OF GOLF AND evening of cards, was too frisky and happy for me to tell him a teenage girl would be hanging around the house for awhile. So instead of spilling the beans, I took out my mouth guard and we had very sweet, married-with-children-who-aren’t-home sex.

  After he’d gone to sleep, I stayed up, trying to get back into the novel I’d been reading before he’d come home. Problem was, I wasn’t paying attention to the words on the page. I was more focused on the fact that neither Charlotte nor Kathryn had asked how I was doing. How did I feel lately? What was going on with me? And, really, I guess I’d acted fine in front of them. But shouldn’t they have asked? The care and feeding of friends is reciprocal, isn’t it? Mutual asking, mutual sharing.

  If someone had decided to ask me—with Patrick snoring loudly beside me—how I was doing, I would have burst into sobs. In fact, thinking about the subject brought tears to my eyes, so I turned out my light and closed them tight.

  The next morning, as Patrick poured his second cup of tar—he makes high-octane, coal-black coffee every morning and then drains almost the entire pot before I come down for a mug of my own—I announced the news.

  “So, hey, before you leave, I just wanted to mention that Kathryn’s daughter Melanie will be hanging around here for a few days. That’s okay with you, right? I mean, last night was crazy, what with Charlotte actually having a real estate listing across the street and pounding her sign in where Bob had been sitting looking miserable, and then even though her real estate career is booming she looks really thin, so I think something is bothering her, but before I could find out, Kathryn just shows up and she’s sobbing and I sliced some comfort meats and, well, she’s still married to Bruce and I’m all that she’s got, really, and she asked me to help so what else could I do, you know?”

  I batted my eyelashes. Patrick didn’t seem to be falling under my spell. Maybe I needed Latisse?

  “Kelly, I’m not really sure what all that means,” he said, not smiling.

  “Well, okay. Kathryn needs our help. Her daughter, Melanie—”

  “I remember Melanie,” Patrick said, plopping his briefcase down in the middle of the island in my exquisitely decorated kitchen. “But I don’t remember you having any sort of expertise in counseling a teenage girl. Besides, aren’t you excited about the precious time we have together when our twelve- and fourteen-year-olds are away? I feel like we are being sucked into a drama, here, like Law & Order: Suburbs.”

  “Very funny. Do not bring my obsession into this discussion.” So what if I’d watch Law & Order 24/7 if I could? Actually, come to think of it, with cable and my DVR, I could . . . Note to self for the Things to Change list. Number Six: Curtail time spent watching Law & Order. “Kathryn asked for my help. She is desperate. Melanie is sick; she’s anorexic. This is what friends do. This is what we do. Thank you.”

  He is right, of course. I may have acted a bit impulsively, offering to hang out with a teenage girl who doesn’t know or trust me. What have I gotten myself into? I only thought about helping Kathryn; I didn’t think I’d be honking off Patrick in the process. I knew Patrick would come around, but maybe I hadn’t handled things perfectly.

  My jaw clenched, I circled the island, and walked into the hug he was heading my way to give me. Patrick smelled like coffee-tar and his favorite aftershave, a bottle of something we’d picked up in St. Kitts on yet another one of his partners’ awards trips. I couldn’t wait for this fall’s trip to Italy. For the last few years the annual trips had been to the Caribbean. They were taking it up a notch this year. We always had a great time together. Patrick still made my heart sing, and I knew he’d see the light about Melanie. It seemed impossible for him to sustain anger. At least, toward me.

  “Honey, if it’s this important to you, give it a try. I’m just pointing out that, as far as I know, you and I have zero experience with a troubled teenage girl, and we pray every night we won’t have troubled teenage boys. But if we can help, we should,” Patrick said.

  His blue eyes sparkled as he looked down at me. At almost six feet tall, he is my knight in shining armor, the perfect fit for me. He was wearing my favorite shirt and tie combo: blue shirt with a blue-, white-, and yellow-striped tie. All in all, he’s as good as it gets. My jaw relaxed.

  “You are the best,” I said. “Thanks for being a sport. For all I know, Melanie might refuse to see me, but I’d like to invite her over here to spend time on sort of a neutral ground in her life. I’m good with exchange students, you know. This is similar, like rent-a-teenager. I would be sad if I didn’t even try.”

  “At least this one speaks English. Hey, this is reminding me of the Chilean exchange student I didn’t know about and, oh, yeah, the French exchange student before that. They were great, just a little extra work around here.” He chuckled. “I gotta go, Kelly. Good luck!”

  Fortunately, he didn’t mention the Chinese exchange student we almost hosted. Turned out that the program was during the summer, when the boys would be away at camp and thus not enriched. Truth be told, I love having kids around; I love a busy home. Pets and people—especially kids and teens—even if they’re from foreign lands and I don’t speak their language. I can always smile and make them feel welcome.

  When Mathieu came from France, he spoke not a word of English except “Hello,” and we all managed a mean “Bonjour!” which sounded exactly how Americans who don’t know French pronounce it: Ban jer. Embarrassing. But the kid was a trooper, and smart too. Eric from Chile was shy, but very kind and always smiled. He laughed every time I tried to say good morning. But both were great for the boys to get to know. It was like having older brothers.

  But . . . an anorexic American from a few blocks away . . . not so much. But still, maybe I am good with teenagers. Even if, or maybe especially if, I don’t speak
their language. Perhaps I could be an exchange student coordinator. Were there jobs like that? I’d add it to my Things to Change list. Number Seven: Consider employment with an exchange student organization.

  With Patrick on his way to work, I turned to the fount of all knowledge: Google. What do I do with a teen who is anorexic? Why is she broken? How do I fix her? Judging by the 3,698,201 results located in my Google search, there was a lot to sort through.

  Anorexia can be caused by family dysfunction and almost always affects females: one out of a hundred, and mostly those from higher socioeconomic backgrounds. Hello Grandville. Many anorexic girls come from high-achieving, high-pressure families. Or they are involved in sports or activities—modeling, for example—that require thinness. Many of these circumstances seem to fit Melanie’s. Bruce and Kathryn aren’t getting along, and that’s dysfunctional. Both parents are high-performing overachievers who, consciously or not, have modeled that behavior for their daughter, and probably expect it from her. They’re a wealthy family, and when I last saw her, Melanie had been fixated on America’s Next Top Model.

  After getting ready for my day, which included stressing over a neutral, cool outfit to wear and realizing I had none, I climbed into Doug, ready to head over to Kathryn’s. Before I started the car, I spotted Dr. Weiskopf’s card, which seemed to be glaring at me. “Oh, alright, it’s now or never,” I said out loud, thinking I could ask the good doctor about Mel. And then, before I could chicken out, I picked up the card and dialed the number.

  Dr. Weiskopf could see me today, the helpful man who answered the phone explained. Well, this doctor was obviously no Dr. Phil if he had appointments available on such short notice, but I made an appointment anyway, for 2:00 pm, which would give me plenty of time to craft some amazing care packages with Melanie to ship to David and Sean.