Dear Debbie, page 7
“It’s none of your business, Debbie.”
“None of my business!” I burst out. “Garrett, I write an advice column. That’s what I do. People ask me for advice, and I give it to them. It’s up to them if they follow that advice.”
“Not anymore you don’t.”
I stare at him. “What?”
Garrett lets out a long sigh and massages his temples. “The husband is threatening to sue us. This guy means business. The only way he would retract the lawsuit is if I fired you. And Bernice.”
Well, that explains Bernice’s empty desk.
“Why did you have to fire Bernice?” I feel terrible about that most of all. She’s a single mother with a daughter in college. At least I have Cooper’s income to lean on. “I’m the one who wrote the column.”
“It was Bernice’s decision to print the letter,” he says. “She knew what she was doing.”
“It was good advice.” I clutch the hem of my skirt in my fists, which have suddenly grown sweaty. “That woman needed help, and I told her the truth. You’re really going to fire me for helping a woman who was being abused?”
“This is a family-oriented paper,” Garrett reminds me. “That’s what our advertisers expect. You can’t tell people to get a divorce. You just can’t, Debbie.”
“So you’re just going to give this asshole everything he wants so he doesn’t sue you?”
“Actually, I agree with him. You should not have gotten involved. If Bernice had shown me the column, I would’ve told her not to print it.”
I’m sure Bernice did show him the column, but as usual, my lazy boss didn’t bother to look at it. Now that Bernice is gone, he’s screwed. Who will put the paper together? I doubt he even knows how. But I’m sure he’ll find some other sap to do all the work while he sits there pretending he’s important.
Garrett rises from his seat, his spine abnormally straight. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. Sierra will escort you to the door.”
“Escort me?” That buzzing in my head starts up again. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “What do you think I’m going to do?”
He doesn’t answer that question. What I really want to say is that if I did want to stir up some shit, I doubt scrawny little Sierra could stop me. Luckily for him, I plan to go quietly.
I have a desk in the office, although I’ve barely got anything in it. Sierra babysits me while I grab a legal pad out of the desk and a few pens. I also have a color photograph of Cooper with the girls in my desk drawer. Nobody offers me a box, so I just carry everything in my arms.
“I’m sorry, Debbie,” Sierra says, looking uncomfortable, “but I have to ask you for your key.”
I had forgotten I even have a set of keys, but I check my key ring, and sure enough, there is a mystery key that I suspect opens the door to the office. The buzzing in my head grows louder as I work it free and hand it over to Sierra’s waiting hand. She goes through the rigamarole of testing it to make sure it’s the correct key and that I’m not giving them a fake one. As if it wouldn’t have been super easy to make a copy if I wanted to.
It’s funny that they’re so worried about the key. That isn’t the thing they should be worried about me having. At the thought of this, the buzzing suddenly stops.
“Sorry about this,” Sierra says. “I always liked your column. You gave really good advice.”
I hug the legal pad to my chest. “Garrett doesn’t think so.”
“Well, it’s just so important that the paper is family oriented,” she says. “The sanctity of marriage, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s nothing more important than the bonds of marriage,” Sierra says sagely. “So you can’t violate that by telling a woman to leave her husband. And our advertisers feel the same way. Without them, the paper would be done. You know that.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do know that.”
Sierra walks me all the way to the door and makes sure that I leave without a fuss. As I trudge back to my car with my meager belongings, I can’t suppress a jolt of sadness. Even though it was just a silly little local paper, I enjoyed my job. I liked giving advice. My own life has felt like a mess, but when it came to other people, I always seemed to know exactly what they should do.
It’s time to start taking my own advice.
16
The brownies are still in the oven when the front door slams shut.
It’s too early for Cooper to be home. And Lexi is likely frolicking around God knows where with her boyfriend. I checked her location with Findly ten minutes ago, and she was at the Hingham Shipyard. So unless it’s a burglar, which I suppose is possible but unlikely in the middle of the day, it must be Izzy.
“Izzy?” I call out.
No answer. But the footsteps coming from the foyer sound like hers. I pride myself on being able to distinguish the members of my family just based on their footsteps. Izzy’s are quiet but surefooted. That’s what makes her so good at soccer.
Sure enough, a few moments later, my younger daughter’s face appears at the entrance to the kitchen. I turn to acknowledge her, even though she has not yet said one word.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey.”
I open the door to the oven to check on the brownies, and the scent of chocolate quickly fills the kitchen. I inhale deeply and sigh. It’s one of my favorite smells.
“Why are you always making brownies?” Izzy complains.
I look at her in surprise. First of all, I am not “always” making brownies. In fact, the last time I made them was nearly a year ago, for a holiday bake sale at her school. And second of all, what child complains about fresh baked brownies? Even Lexi doesn’t find fault in my baking.
“Sorry,” I say. “I guess that means you don’t want any.”
“Ew, no.”
Ew? I can only shake my head, but that’s fine. Even if she wanted to try one, I wouldn’t give it to her.
Izzy is still standing at the door to the kitchen like she wants to tell me something, but she’s completely silent, her backpack lying at her sneakers. It’s unusual because between my two girls, Izzy is the chatterbox. She never stops talking, whereas Lexi always chooses her words more carefully. (Especially in the morning, when talking is verboten.)
“So what happened with soccer?” I ask her.
“Nothing.” She lifts a shoulder halfway as if she’s too tired to actually shrug. “I got sick of it.”
I find that really hard to believe. Izzy has been playing soccer since she was in kindergarten. Every Saturday morning, bright and early, I would drive her to the local middle school where they had soccer practice for the grade school kids. Finding parking during soccer practice was a stressful and sometimes terrifying experience, but as soon as I found a spot, Izzy would burst out of the car in her pigtails and cleats and soccer socks. (I still don’t understand what soccer socks are, but I obligingly bought them every single year.) Practice was her favorite part of the whole week.
So no, I don’t believe she quit.
“Lexi says you got kicked off the team,” I remind her.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I quit.”
It was so easy to tell when Izzy was lying when she was little. When she was about three years old, she stole some chocolate chip cookies from the kitchen, and she swore her innocence, but the whole time, her lips were stained with chocolate and cookie crumbs. Little kids are so clueless.
She’s a much better liar now, but I have no doubt that she didn’t quit soccer. She would never quit soccer.
“You’re not going to call Coach Pike, are you?” she asks in a worried voice.
“Of course not.”
“Because that won’t change anything.”
“I told you, I’m not going to call him.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.” I let the oven door bang closed. “Do you think I don’t have anything better to do than call your coach? He probably wouldn’t even answer the phone anyway.”
Her shoulders relax after my reassurance. “I’m going to do my homework. I’ve got a ton of homework this year.” The fog in her eyes clears slightly. “So it’s actually better I don’t have soccer.”
Bullshit. But okay, I’ll pretend to believe it if it makes her feel better. “Izzy?”
She avoids my gaze. “Yeah?”
I consider asking if Coach Pike ever peeked in on the girls in the locker room the way Lexi’s friend said he did. But I have a feeling that even if it’s true, she’ll never tell me the truth.
“Do you need any help with your homework?” I finally ask.
“Nope.”
She never does.
Izzy doesn’t ask me about my own day, but that’s not surprising. She couldn’t care less about my day. She’s a good kid, but it doesn’t matter to her that my magazine photo shoot got co-opted. She might care that I lost my job at the newspaper if it means less money for the family, but we’ve got Cooper’s job to rely on, so it probably won’t even register.
It’s not worth mentioning, honestly. My kids have more important things to think about than their mother’s drama. Besides, I can handle it.
Izzy gives me one last suspicious look, because she knows that I’m not good at leaving things alone when I’m upset over them. But she doesn’t question me further. After a minute, she picks up her backpack and heads in the direction of the stairwell.
I always keep my promises to my children. I promised Izzy I wouldn’t call her soccer coach. And I won’t.
I’m going to drive down there.
17
COOPER
After five miles on the treadmill, I don’t feel any better.
I used to run track in high school and the beginning of college. I was pretty good for a while, although I had some issues during my last two years of college and I dropped off the team. And later, I graduated and then got married, and especially after I had kids, I didn’t have time for exercise.
When you’re in your twenties and even thirties, you can stay in pretty good shape without hitting the gym. But at forty? Forget it. So when Jesse suggested the two of us join Titan Fitness, I decided it was time to get back in shape.
Jesse and I have been holding each other accountable. We both wanted to get back in shape, so we made sure to hit the gym at least three times per week. Jesse is better about it than I am. He often stays later than me, and today, he practically had to drag me here. Come on. It will make you feel better.
He’s usually right. Working out at the gym has been great for me in more ways than one. Jesse does a mix of weights and cardio, but I usually stick with the treadmill with just a little bit of weightlifting. Still, the difference is noticeable. Not only in my strength and endurance but also in my appearance.
After I cool down on the machine, I towel off the sweat on my face. Even though I’ve got a sweatstain on my collar, I notice a woman on the elliptical giving me an appreciative look. I look back for just a little too long, and she winks at me. That’s when I quickly avert my eyes and hurry over to where Jesse is lifting weights.
“I’m going to head out,” I tell him.
Jesse puts down the weights and takes a long chug from his water bottle. He wipes his mouth and looks up at me. “Are you okay, Cooper? Do you want to go out for a drink or something?”
Definitely not. “I just want to go home and get this over with.”
“You’re going to tell Debbie?”
Christ, the last thing I want is to tell Debbie. What I’d really like is to start searching for another job and not let her know until I’ve secured something. But God knows how long that will take. And it’s not like I’m not keeping secrets from her already. Something has to give.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say.
He frowns at me. Like my wife, Jesse is a problem solver. When something is wrong, his instinct is to figure out a way to fix it. “You know, this could be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Really,” he insists. “I mean, you said yourself that it was turning into a dead-end job. Now you can find something better.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I say, not feeling at all sure that he’s right.
“We should do something this weekend,” he says. “So you don’t sit around the house moping all day.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“What do you want to do?”
I can’t think of anything I want to do. It will take all my effort not to lie on the sofa wallowing in despair. What I should be doing is posting my profile on all the job-hunting websites and contacting recruiters. All stuff I hate, but I have to do it.
Still, I can think of one thing that might cheer me up.
“Let’s go to the firing range,” I say.
Jesse grins at me. “Yeah?”
“Sure, why not?”
“You’re on.”
Yes, I do own a gun. One of the major sources of discord in my marriage is the fact that I purchased one a few years ago after there were a few burglaries in our neighborhood. Debbie was adamantly against it, citing admittedly accurate statistics about how people who own a gun are more likely to shoot a family member than an intruder. But in the end, I won out and bought it. The compromise is that I keep it in the garage, locked up, and I only use it at the firing range. The kids don’t even know it’s there.
And I enjoy firing the gun. After everything that happened this week, it will feel good to quite literally blow off a little steam.
I take a quick shower at the gym and throw on a change of clothes. I’ll be home before dinner but not early enough for a long conversation before we eat. I still don’t quite know what I’m going to say to Debbie. Lately, she has seemed different. More…fragile. More distracted.
That’s why I can’t be entirely honest with her. Not now.
I return to the front desk to sign out with my card. That woman from the elliptical who had been smiling at me earlier passes by, somehow even more alluring in her jeans and sweater than she was in her skintight workout outfit. My gaze is drawn to her like a magnet, and it’s only when she winks at me that I manage to rip my eyes away.
Not a good idea, Coop.
“Have a good workout today?” Cindy, the woman who works the front desk, interrupts my thoughts.
Am I imagining it, or is there a bit of an edge to her voice? “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”
“You know,” she says, “your wife was here earlier, working out.”
Yes, that was definitely an edge to her voice. But she wouldn’t tell Debbie I was ogling some other woman, would she? I barely looked! “Oh. Okay.”
“Well,” Cindy says, her tone back to neutral, “have a great evening!”
I nod wordlessly and head straight home before I can do anything else stupid.
18
DEBBIE
So I’m not going to the high school only to see Coach Pike. I also have to drop off the cans for the food drive.
I realize that doesn’t make it better, but somehow in my head, it does.
Even though it’s after hours, the administrator who works at the front desk, Elena, is still around. She buzzes me into the school, and her eyes light up at the brown box filled with cans that I’ve got in my arms.
“Debbie!” Elena grins at me. “I knew you’d come through.”
“Yes, and I can skip the gym after carrying this over here,” I joke, even though I already had my workout for today.
I set the cans down on the counter while Elena taps at some keys on her computer. I linger there for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to handle this.
“Hey,” I say, trying to make my voice as casual as possible, “would it be okay if I popped over to speak to Coach Pike for a minute? I need to talk about the soccer schedule with him. There are a few days that Izzy can’t make it in.”
“Sure, go right ahead,” Elena tells me without looking up from the computer screen.
She trusts me. She doesn’t think that there’s any chance that I’m going to do anything I shouldn’t. But in my defense, I’m not going to do anything terrible. I would just like to have a conversation with the soccer coach about why he felt the need to cut his best player. If that’s not an honorable intention, I don’t know what is.
After all, what is more honorable than protecting your child? If my parents had protected me better…
Well, no point in thinking about that right now.
I already know that Coach Pike has his office on the first floor, not far from the soccer field. While I walk down the high school’s familiar hallways, I reach into my purse to pull out the brownies wrapped in tinfoil. I am certainly not beyond throwing chocolate at a situation to make it better.
I get lucky. Soccer practice has already ended, and the coach is sitting at his desk, shuffling through some papers in front of him. He is in his fifties, and I’m pretty sure he’s bald or at least balding, but I can’t know for certain since I’ve never seen him without a baseball cap on his head. He’s got a Hingham Prep T-shirt on, which stretches over the folds of his belly. He actually seems to be in poor shape for somebody who coaches sports, but who am I to judge?
I rap on his open door, plastering a smile on my face as I hold out the tinfoil-wrapped brownies as a peace offering. “Coach Pike?”
He raises his eyes. I’m still wearing the yellow dress that I had on during my meeting at the newspaper, and I can feel Pike’s gaze crawling up my body. I squirm and clutch my purse to my chest with my free hand.
“Can I help you?” he asks me with a lecherous smile. I never liked this man, but I like him even a little less right now.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m Isabel Mullen’s mother.”
“Oh.” The smile instantly drops off his lips. “I see.”
