“It’s different,” she snarls. “I’m a woman. You have to know the enemy.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “You own Anything Else and Melinda and Melinda and those aren’t even in the fucking canon.”
She simmers. “Get me out of here.”
“This is a teachable moment, Melanda.”
“This is not happening.”
“Oh, sweetie, I think we’ve established that this most certainly is happening.”
“You’re a sick man.”
“Well, like you, I do appreciate Crimes and Misdemeanors.”
“That movie belongs to Anjelica Huston,” she snarls. “Not that pig.”
I’m on her phone, pacing, and I wish you could see me right now, Mary Kay. “Okay,” I say. “Welcome to Melanda’s Movies 101.”
“Stop it.”
“We casually buy movies in the middle of the night, but sometimes our selections say a lot about our underlying issues.”
“No.”
“You like your female bonding stories—Beaches and Romy and Michele and Terms of Endearment—and you identify strongly with Bridget Jones. You own all three movies, plus Jerry Maguire and New in Town. Huh. Perhaps the woman you identify with most is Renée Zellweger.”
She turns red. “There was a fucking sale, you idiot.”
“You’re also a fan of the psycho woman genre. The Hand That Rocks the Cradle… Single White Female…”
She sinks to the floor and she’s crying now, she’s moving forward—yay!—and I hunker down like a counselor, meeting her at ground level. “Melanda, it’s okay. We’re both in shock. We both lost our tempers…” It’s not true—I acted in self-defense—but sometimes you have to lie to your pupil. “We need a minute to decompress…” And I need a minute to figure out what to do with her. “You were burnt out. Anyone can see that. So just take this for what it is, some time to self-reflect. These movies are your bedtime stories, your comfort foods.”
She blows her nose on her shirt. A GIRL IS A GUN. “You’re insane.”
“Forget about me, Melanda. I’m worried about you. You could have gotten hurt out there…” She looks at me like I’m the crazy one. I carry on. “Look,” I say. “Every Sunday you plan a detox from your phone. You turn off your notifications but you never go through with it.”
She bites her lip. Then she clocks the Safeway bag I put in her room while she was sleeping. “Can you put the TV in here? I have sensitive retinas.”
“Melanda…”
She knows not to press me—she’s a fast learner, Mary Kay—and she juts her chin at the table. “What’s in the bag?”
“Your favorite thing in the world,” I say. “Safeway donut holes.”
She almost smiles, because what a thrill it is, even under circumstances like this, to be known for who you really fucking are.
13
I’m at the fucking gym—gotta be seen, gotta normal the fuck up—and Seamus is working out two feet away, singing along to Kid Fucking Rock, who waxes nostalgic-pervert about his whiskey-soaked glory days mounting an underage girl by a lake. Ugh. You and I—well, you and Melanda—are texting and for the second time in five minutes I plant my kettle bell on the ground to read your latest missive.
You: Drink this afternoon before your ferry? What time is your flight?
Melanda: Sweetie I wish but I am sooooo busy lol why
Melanda’s phone rings—you’re calling her, oh shit oh shit—and my stomach muscles quiver like I just finished a fucking Murph and I can’t talk to you—I’m not her—and I can’t talk now—I’m in a fucking gym. I send you to voicemail and I type. Fast.
Melanda: lol sorry but I can’t talk, too busy.
You: I get it but can you just talk for two minutes?
NO, MARY KAY, SHE CAN’T.
I type.
Melanda: Lol sooooo sorry but I’m running so late. Is this more Joe drama?
My heart pounds. But this is your pattern.
You: ugh yes and no I just wish we could go get a drink
We wouldn’t be in this fucking mess if you talked to me more than you talk about me and Shortus yanks his earbuds. “What’s up with you, Chatty Cathy?”
“Nothing,” I say. “My buddy in New York is having issues with his wife.”
Shortus grunts. “Sucks to be him. But that doesn’t mean it should suck to be you or us, New Guy. Take that shit outside. It’s distracting.”
I’m not New Guy anymore—I live here—and all these fitness junkies are only here because it provides distraction from their lackluster lives. Shortus reinserts his earbuds and I wipe down the kettle bell as if my hands are dirty and walk outside to deal with you.
Melanda: I wish we could go drink too but yeeeeee flight so soon!
You: And yay flight! You know I always root for you even if the idea of you ACTUALLY moving makes me feel insane. I really felt like a drink today but oh well so happy for you!
That hurts, Mary Kay. You don’t feel insane about Melanda. You miss me. And Melanda has no time for you—she’s watching one of her favorite Woody Allen movies—and you need a reality check.
Aw, sweetie you’ll be okay. Give my love to Phil and Nomi xo
You don’t like the patronizing tone—I know you and I don’t blame you—and I drive into town and pop into Blackbird—just another normal fucking day, no woman trapped in my basement—and the fecal-eyed multigenerational family is here. I bump into the grandfather’s chair and Nancy glares at me as if it wasn’t an accident and they’re all as cold to me as they are warm to each other. Motherfuckers, all of them. But at least they saw me. Normal Joe! Nothing to see!
You’re not Nancy, Mary Kay. You’re not happily married. But you’re not texting me to meet up for a drink and that’s the problem. I cross the street and head for the T & C and Melanda’s phone buzzes. It’s you again—shocker—and you want to know what she’ll wear for the big job interview. This is sadly normal for you two. She sends you her date outfits and you weigh in—I like the red—and she argues with you until you eventually give up—What matters most is how you feel in it. Gotta run. Phil’s home and as we know this is a miracle—but right now you’re in the salon, you’re bored, and you badger Melanda a second time.
Need pictures! Let me live vicariously through you.
There are so many problems with this statement, Mary Kay. Melanda can’t send you a selfie. She’s wearing the T-shirt she had on when she attacked me—A GIRL IS A GUN—and you are too young to feel like the only living you have left to do is vicarious. I turn the screw.
lol that is so sad. No offense but I feel like the Joe stuff is making you crazy.
You deflect and say that you might get bangs today—just fully become my mother—and that’s a cry for help but Melanda is a bad friend. I read enough to know what she would say so I lie to your face: Do it. You can rock bangs! You have the face for them and you are NOT your mother. Send me pic if you do gotta run so busy before flight lol
You give a smiley face. Send pics! I’m here! Excited for you, M!