It’s a waste of money, she heard her father saying wearily to her mom. If she doesn’t want to be there, we shouldn’t make her stay. He’d gotten old in the years since her summer on the Cape. There was a gauntness to his features; hollows under his cheekbones, circles under his eyes. His skin hung loosely on his face, like he’d lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose.
Diana tried temping, working nights in banks and law firms, entering data into computers, but the problems that had started after her return continued to plague her. She’d sit down with a stack of invoices, then blink, to find that an hour had passed without her having typed in a single number. After a few months, the firms were no longer able to place her, and her mother got her a job working the graveyard shift in the custodial services department at Boston University, cleaning offices and classrooms between ten p.m. and six in the morning. A van picked her up at the distant parking lot where she was allowed to leave her car; a supervisor gave her a mop and a bucket of cleaning supplies at the drop-off point; a different van picked her up in the morning. Her coworkers chattered, talking about their kids or their boyfriends or their husbands. They traded parts of the dinners they’d packed—half a meatball grinder for a Tupperware full of chicken with mole; baked ziti for spicy beef patties. Diana kept to herself, and, after a while, her coworkers left her alone. She didn’t mind doing the dirty jobs—prying chewing gum off the undersides of desks, scrubbing toilet bowls, mopping the men’s room floors. At least she could be alone, with her Walkman earphones plugged into her ears. She would mop, or spray down the mirrors and wipe them clean without ever looking at her own reflection, and, while she worked, she would think about whether she could kill herself and make it look like an accident. The world hurt; every man she saw was a man who could hurt her. Could she drive the car off the road on an icy night and hope the police would think she’d lost control? “Accidentally” step in front of the T?
She thought about the Dorothy Parker poem:
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
You might as well live, she told herself, and went plodding through her nights and sleeping her days away until, one morning in April, when her parents were both at work, there was a knock on the door. Diana tried to ignore it, but the knocking persisted, loud and ceaseless, like a cold spring rain. She pulled on sweatpants, went downstairs, and yanked the door open, preparing to hurl abuse at whatever inconsiderate delivery person or proselytizer had disturbed her. But it wasn’t a Mormon, or the UPS guy. It was Dr. Levy, dressed in a belted trench coat and leather boots, with a worried look on her face, a look that quickly turned into shock.
“Diana?”
Diana looked down at herself. She wasn’t fifteen anymore, and she knew she’d changed since that summer. Her face was a pale, bloated moon, and her hair was long and wild, witchy and untended. Dr. Levy looked different, too. Her hair was sleek. She wore red lipstick and gold earrings and an expensive-looking bag on her shoulder.
“Can I come in?” She held up a white cardboard box tied with twine. “I brought cannoli.”
Wordlessly, Diana held the door open. She led her former employer to the kitchen, a small, cheerful space, with goldenrod-yellow walls and a red-and-yellow floral-patterned tablecloth on the table, and her mother’s prize Le Creuset Dutch oven, enameled deep blue, sitting on the back burner of the stove. “Can I get you something to drink?” Diana asked. Her voice was a rusty croak; her tongue felt thick and balky. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
Diana gathered a tea bag, a mug, a bottle of honey, plates for the pastries, forks and napkins, which let her keep her back to her visitor. She turned on the radio to fill the silence with the sound of classical music.
“How are you?” Dr. Levy asked as Diana turned on the gas beneath the kettle, wishing she’d had time to shower, or at least comb her hair.
“Fine,” Diana said. Dr. Levy didn’t ask anything else, so Diana didn’t speak again, until she’d made the tea and there was nothing left to do but take a seat.
Diana sat and groped for the tools of polite conversation. “How are Sarah and Sam?”
Dr. Levy’s expression brightened. “They’re fine. In fourth grade, if you can believe it. They’re growing up so fast! Sam’s taking saxophone lessons. He can’t really play notes yet, but he can make these noises…” Dr. Levy made a squeaky honk, and Diana startled herself by laughing. “And Sarah’s in Girl Scouts. She’s taking it very seriously. Trying to rack up as many badges as she can.” Dr. Levy looked right at her. “But I came because I want to talk to you.”