Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (10 page)

“I don't want her talking to those girls. Not right now. It won't kill her.” She paused. “Why can't you agree with me? Just once?”

He ignored her question. “She'll see them on Monday anyway, or are you planning to home school her?”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” she said, continuing to eye him coolly.

“Look, what I'm trying to say is that we don't want her to get so stressed out that she—” he hesitated, again drawing her eye to his before adding, “—that she starts cutting herself again, right?”

There was momentary silence, as Isabel's eyes took on a pained expression. “Oh, God, don't say that. You don't think—” the remaining words refused to cross the threshold of her lips.

“If you handle this right, Phoebe will see you as her ally, not her enemy. The last thing you want is for her to feel like a martyr.”

Isabel looked forlorn as she thought about what he said. “We're hostage to her self-destructive habit. It's not fair, Ron. It just isn't. We need to get her away from those kids, don't you see?”

“By
those kids
are you including Dylan?” he asked.

She pursed her lips refusing to answer, fully aware that if Amanda invited Phoebe over she would likely let her go, and that indeed this qualified as a contradiction and a double standard. But then Amanda was not Sandy. She thought about telling Ron this, but not after what happened last night. At least not yet. It was Liz and the suggestion of a joint birthday party that suddenly rose to mind. Maybe that was it. The answer to this vexing situation.

She looked at him blankly when he said, “So what do you think? We give her back the phone or her computer?”

“What?”

He repeated his suggestion of returning one or the other to Phoebe in order to avoid further alienating their daughter. To keep her from cutting. But Isabel was already up and halfway through the arched doorway before he could say anything about Noah and the dance.

As she mounted the stairs to Phoebe's room, she tried to think of what to say. She knocked, but Phoebe didn't respond. For a moment, terror engulfed her as she imagined her daughter lying in a pool of blood. She almost burst into the room, but knocked louder, this time getting a feeble reply. “Who's there?”

“It's me, honey. Can I come in? I want to tell you something. It'll only take a sec'.”

Though Phoebe didn't invite her in, Isabel turned the knob and slowly opened the door. Peering into the room, she saw Phoebe on her bed staring at the ceiling. She went and sat on the edge of the bed still formulating what to say. “Look, honey, I've thought about it some more and I think it's okay for you to have your phone. Or your computer. You decide.”

“Both,” Phoebe said flatly, continuing to stare up at the scattered, white-painted clouds.

“Both, huh?” Isabel said, trying to figure out how to respond. Her gaze dropped to the quilt as her hand ran absently over the textured fabric. Only inches from her fingers sat a dark reddish spot. She took in a sharp breath. Fresh blood? She stared at Phoebe's arms, wishing her eyes could pierce the sleeves of her shirt. “Okay, maybe. But you have to talk to me a minute, Phoebe, and then you can have your gadgets. You probably have some homework to do anyway, right?”

“Right.”

This was more painful than she'd anticipated. Maybe she should have said, When you feel you can discuss this with me, let me know and then you can have your stuff back. It was often like that. In hindsight, the words came to her, but in the moment she needed them they simply went missing. She wanted desperately to ask Phoebe about the stain.

“Maybe I should come back in a little while?”

“I thought you wanted to talk,” Phoebe said.

Isabel launched into an explanation about being in a tough situation because of her status at the school. “It means that I have to be a role model, Phoebe, and I imagine you don't care about that, but people need to know you won't get special dispensation just because you're my daughter. Do you see?”

“Not really, since I didn't do anything wrong.”

“It's guilt by association, Phoebe. People will assume you were smoking even if you weren't.”

“Yeah, and by punishing me you're making them think it's true.”

“You know you have restrictions because you lied.”

“But they don't know that, and anyway I'm sorry about that, Mom.”

Isabel grew flustered. What Phoebe was saying bore a certain logic. She shifted gears. “Look, sweetie, maybe we can start planning a birthday party. Skyla's mom came up to me last night and said you two were planning to have one together. Is that right?” Phoebe nodded. Well, at least that had been true.

“So what do you think about that?” Isabel thought she detected a flicker of interest, but all Phoebe said was, “Maybe.”

Isabel began outlining plans for the party until she saw that Phoebe wasn't listening. “What's the matter?”

“I don't really care about the birthday party. Anyway, it was all Skyla's idea, having it at the Club and whatnot.”

She could see there was something else on her daughter's mind. “What
do
you care about? What is it?”

“I want to go to the fall dance.” The next three words brightened Phoebe's countenance. “Noah asked me.”

“Oh, why didn't you tell me?” The news took Isabel aback. She could see how much this meant to her daughter, and she couldn't fail but notice the schoolgirl crush in her eyes. She felt herself caving in, about to tell her daughter she could go, when she remembered words her own father had spoken on more than one occasion. “What's punishment without pain? No, you wouldn't learn a thing.” Later, he'd told her that the best lessons are often as painful for the parent as for the child. And that's what she faced now. She had to be strong. She had to create clear boundaries and consequences. This was no time to waffle.

“I'm sorry, honey, I wish I could say yes, but you got yourself into this mess. You shouldn't have lied. Now you have to suffer the consequences.”

“But, Mom, I'm sorry.”

“I know you are.” It truly made her ache to see the bitter disappointment in Phoebe's eyes, but what could she do?

Late afternoon, when Ron entered the kitchen, Isabel was chopping vegetables for the evening meal. Without looking up, she said, “You acted like an ass last night, you know that don't you?”

Her abrupt pronouncement startled him. “What?”

She continued to focus her attention on the red pepper she was carving into neat thin strips. “Don't play innocent. You know what I'm talking about.”

“I do?”

“Damn it, Ron,” she said in a plaintive voice, “Sandy Littleton was practically coiled around your neck, and you just sat there grinning like you'd won the fucking lottery.”

Believing the best defense was a good offense, Ron said, “Oh, for God's sakes, Izzy, what did you want me to do, tell her to back off, my wife'll get jealous? How can you be upset about
her
?”

“
Her
?”

He knew that he didn't want to get into this discussion with Isabel; such exchanges never went well. Anyway, didn't Isabel know Sandy wasn't the kind of woman he'd ever get serious about? If nothing else, how could he ever trust her? But that was the least of it. No, she was little more than late night fantasy material.

“Well?”

He took in a deep breath. “Come on, let's drop it. What's for dinner?”

She hesitated, as if trying to decide whether she wanted to drop it or not. “Salad and a steak.”

He headed to the table where the
Washington Post
lay. A week ago, he'd reached out to a colleague there, but he'd heard nothing. For a time he'd aspired to be as famous a White House reporter for AP as Helen Thomas was for UPI, but he doubted that would happen. No, he hoped for a break at the
Post
. But he knew that hoping wasn't enough. He picked up the paper. “Hey, d'you see this?” He pointed at a headline in the middle of the page. “Housewife Sandy Littleton bests Cleveland Park lawyer.” He laughed.

Isabel stifled a giggle. “You, you—” she stopped cutting and looked up at him from under her sweep of dark hair. “I guess I'll just have to deal with slutty women hanging all over my husband.” Then pointing the sharp knife at him, she added, “Just don't test me, Ron Murrow, you know I'm not to be toyed with.”

That, undoubtedly, is true, he thought, recalling the brief affair he'd had two election cycles ago. He rolled up the paper and swatted her on the butt with it. “When's dinner going to be ready, sweetheart?”

“Shortly after you throw the steak on the grill,
honey
.”

When Ron looked over his shoulder he caught Isabel staring at his ass. Her eyes sparkled. He still knew how to turn her on.

“All right then. One big fat steak coming up.” He pulled the meat and a bottle of Stella out of the fridge, giving Isabel a peck on the cheek as he passed her.

Outside on the deck, he turned on the grill and took a slug of beer, marveling that he'd survived the Sandy incident unscathed. The temperature had risen throughout the day, and while it was far from balmy, it was a glorious late September dusk. Surveying their landscaped garden, he thought that he and Isabel had created a beautiful home; they had great kids, teenage years aside, and had established a reasonably happy life together.

Of course Isabel's income helped. It only bothered him some that he made less; what bothered him more was that elusive Pulitzer, he seemed as far from earning it now as when his reporting career began. And he was sure that's what counted for Isabel. For that to happen, though, he figured he needed to start putting out feelers to top-tier papers besides the
Post
–the
New York Times
, maybe the
Wall Street Journal
. Maybe he could even switch to being an on-air reporter. CNN. He'd do it on Monday, he promised himself.

Ron took another long hit of beer, then breathed in the fall air. His mind wandered as he stared into the yard, at the Japanese maple and the nearby cherub fountain that Isabel had given him as a joke gift.

The water pulsed rhythmically out of the statue's small, uncircumcised penis. It captured his attention. A teasing, taunting, bare-breasted Sandy rose genie-like from the mist. In her papery whisper he heard her say,
Fuck me, Ron Murphy
, and then laughing gaily. He felt his cock stiffen. He closed his eyes and for the second time that day saw himself burying his head between her breasts, then licking her nipples while she sucked him off.

Isabel's voice wafted outside. He took a moment to clear his head. He knew the consequences. No, he told himself, no point in risking everything over another stupid affair.

On Monday morning, the pit in Phoebe's stomach felt like a heavy stone, something that threatened to send her to the bathroom. The sensation grew as she entered the school building, her steps slow and leaden, like moving through sludge in a nightmare. She considered skipping first period with Noah. How could she face him? She dreaded telling him she couldn't go.

On the long walk through the Great Hall, she hoped people weren't talking about her. Jessie would say, “Who cares?” But that wasn't how Phoebe felt. She didn't want them saying things about her, especially things that weren't true. Maybe she'd talk to Skyla at lunch. She seemed to know everything that everybody said. Even as the thought flashed into her mind, Skyla's sun-streaked ponytail swung past her eyes, practically striking her in the face.

“Ooh, you bad girl, you will sooo have to tell me about it at lunch. Usual spot? I'm supposed to meet Mr. Dunn, you know, the one who looks like Brad Pitt, for extra help, and I'm way late…see you?” Skyla left Phoebe nodding as she swirled away in a cloud of pink. Pink jeans, pink tank top, pink sweater with pink pearl buttons, pink scrunchy, and somehow, amazingly, it all worked.

The encounter gave Phoebe a slight boost until she saw Noah at his desk. They exchanged a shy greeting just as Ms. Dickinson demanded their attention. About halfway through class she managed to pass him a note that said,
Need to talk to you
.

Her heart hammered in her ears as he walked beside her. How could she go through with this? “It's about what happened on Friday,” she began. “My parents are pretty mad. They're so ridiculous.”

“Mine are pretty uptight too.”

She felt some relief on hearing this and explained how she'd spent much of the weekend locked in her room, overdramatizing her punishment. Then, her eyes cast down, afraid to meet his, she said, “I'm sorry. But, part of what's happening, is like, well, my mother grounded me, and that means I can't go to the dance.” She looked up at him with a miserable expression, her eyes searching his.

“Oh,” he said. His cheeks puffed out and he released a long stream of air. “Yeah, that sucks. Wow. Parents can be so stupid. Well, don't worry about it.”

“I'm sorry,” Phoebe said.

The buzzer sounded for their next class and they parted ways.

On the verge of tears, Phoebe bit her lip and whispered “bye” as she headed off to the bathroom.

Sitting in bed with a tray on her lap, Sandy swiped her finger through the thick chocolate icing of the cupcake she'd saved from the parents' party and stuck it in her mouth. “Mmm,” she said, and gave her finger another lick.

They weren't as good as anything Mrs. Eddinger had baked, but not bad. Mrs. E, as Sandy came to call her, had been her kindly neighbor back in Towson. She'd introduced Sandy to fine European pastries – Linzer tortes, Napoleons, all manner of chocolate confections. She'd encouraged Sandy and treated her like a daughter when her own mother hadn't. Often played checkers and cards with her.

She would have been proud of me, Sandy now thought, recalling several women who'd appreciated her efforts at spreading good cheer and goodwill as Mrs. E had taught her. Starting last year when Jessie entered Woodmont, Sandy had often brought food to those felled by the flu, delivered cookies to her daughter's friends on their birthdays, and had even cleaned someone's bathroom after hearing of the poor woman's reaction to chemo treatments. She'd done all these things hoping to be more accepted and included by Isabel and some of the other mothers at Woodmont.

But the thought that had been gaining ground all morning, well, it was related to the cupcake. If Liz VanDorn could promote her baked goods at the parents' party (the sign had read: “courtesy of Liz VanDorn's Cupcake Shoppe), she could see no reason why she shouldn't send a note to all the moms and introduce them to
Slenderella
. This might even endear her to them.

A short while later, in front of the computer, her bright pink fingernail clicked against her tooth in a steady beat as she scoured her mind for something witty to write. But as the minutes passed, she got nowhere. Finally, annoyed with herself, she said, “Keep it simple, stupid.” Her motto after her mother had kicked her out. And with that arrived a brilliant idea. I'll give them a discount, she thought.

Her fingers went to work writing out an email, then she began the laborious task of typing each parent's email address. When she finally got to Winthrop, though, she frowned. She still couldn't believe what Bill had told her – that Isabel wanted Phoebe to stop seeing Jess. As if what had happened was all Jessie's fault!

“Screw her,” she said aloud, and considered not including her in the email. Then she recalled Isabel's face when she'd found her and Ron sitting together on the velvet couch. Her eyes glinted at the memory. Clicking into a new tab, she thought she'd see if she could find Ron on Facebook.

A pink origami heron was taped to Phoebe's locker. It was a few minutes before her final class of the day, which she shared with Jessie. She hadn't seen her friend all day and couldn't help wondering if Jessie was avoiding her. She unfolded the paper bird, which she figured was none other than the work of dear Emma, of whom she was growing increasingly fond.

twitchy ponytail…eyes like frozen fire

you'd better look both ways…beware desire

She puzzled over it, then Emma appeared. “Hey, what's this?” Phoebe said, waving the pink paper.

“It just came to me over lunch, thought you'd like it.”

“I do,” she said with a smile, “but you're not like trying to send me a message, are you?”

“I just worry about you, little seamstress,” Emma said, returning her smile. She leaned against the adjacent locker. “With
Skyla
I do think you need to be careful though.” Emma wore a very short tight skirt and black tights with high-top sneakers, one of them propped against the locker door. “D'you know your mom called my house on Saturday?”

Phoebe slumped slightly and shook her head. “I'm sorry, Emma. She's such a pain.” As those words left her mouth, Phoebe glanced over her shoulder, hoping no one had overheard her.

“Yeah, she wondered if we'd smoked weed.” Emma's long black bangs hooded her deep blue eyes.

“I didn't get you into trouble, did I? My mom asked if you guys had smoked and I couldn't lie.”

“Nah, Lorraine doesn't care,” Emma said. “I told her about it when I came home on Friday.” Like Jessie, Emma sometimes referred to her mother by her first name.

“You did?”

“Yeah, nothing bothers her. At least nothing I do.”

“Oh, I wish my mom was cool like that.”

Emma's eyes darted off thoughtfully. “Cool, huh?”

“Yeah, I mean the fact that she didn't get all worked up about Friday, lets you go wherever you want. Lets you do just about anything. My mom'd kill me.”

After a brief silence, Emma said, “You're wrong about that.”

“About what?”

“That I have a cool mom.” She leaned over and pulled her camera out of her backpack.

“She's not cool?”

“Nope. She, like basically doesn't give a shit. There's a difference.”

“Oh.” Phoebe's eyes drifted to Emma's piercings. From eyebrow to nose to ear. Reassessing. Readjusting her thoughts to fit this new information.

Emma turned her camera toward a cluster of students down the hall, adjusted the lens, took a shot. Wheeling back toward Phoebe, she aimed the camera at her. “Click,” she said.

Phoebe thrust her hands in front of her face. “Oh, Emma, please don't, I look awful.”

Emma shook her head. “No, you don't, you're so pretty, even now, when you're feeling all fucked up and sad.” She did a little jig, which made Phoebe laugh. “You've got us, okay?” Just then the bell rang for next period.

“Okay. Guess I'd better get going,” Phoebe said, avoiding Emma's heartfelt stare.

“Yeah, me too.” Emma was turning away, when she stopped and embraced her friend. “Sorry you got grounded, Feebs. It sucks.”

On the way to biology Phoebe wondered which was worse, a mom who cared about every little thing or a mom who couldn't care less. In the short time she'd known Emma, she'd never met her mother, though she'd heard stories. Now she wanted to meet her.

The difficult and irritating weekend came speeding back to Ron when he returned to the office after a White House briefing. Now he could add Gil Rosenblum, his contact at the
Washington Post
, to his list of annoyances. A short two-sentence email congealed Ron's disappointment. Gil was sorry they hadn't gotten back to him sooner, but they were in the midst of making some important changes and he'd be in touch soon.

A polite brush-off at best. Ron sat fiddling with a pencil, twisting it from finger to finger, then tapping the eraser on his desk. Now he had no choice but to set up lunches with his friends at the
New York Times
and the
Wall Street Journal
. One of the problems, though, was that each of these reporters covered the White House, Ron's beat. He'd have to convince them he could make the leap to another area. But which one? He could go back to covering Congress, though he really yearned for a broader canvas. Lately, at AP, he'd been coasting, so what clips would he use to show off his talent? He could point to his online following, maybe. What he really wanted was to dig back into investigative journalism, as he'd been trained at Columbia's graduate journalism school.

He picked up the phone, then put it back down. He turned to his computer and half-heartedly tapped out a couple of emails, not citing the specific reason for an invitation to a beer after work. For old-times sake he suggested meeting at The Monocle, a stone's throw from the Capitol.

As he scrolled through the rest of his inbox, he noticed an email from Sandy Littleton.

Phoebe dashed into her biology class just as it began. “Sorry,” she mouthed to the teacher. When she sat down, Jessie whispered, “Where've you been all day?” and Phoebe gave her a discomfited look. Apparently, she wasn't mad at her.