Mary Jane, Jessica Blau [diy ebook reader TXT] 📗

“Beanie Jones called me at six a.m. to ask if I’d seen the paper,” my mother said. I couldn’t tell if she was more upset aboutthe photo or about the fact that she’d had to hear about it from Beanie Jones.

“Beanie Jones . . . ,” I began, then stopped. What could I say about Beanie Jones that wouldn’t make this situation worse?If my parents knew Jimmy had been naked with someone while I was babysitting, they’d be even more angry than they were now.Also, I didn’t have the appropriate vocabulary to say to my parents what Beanie Jones and Jimmy had done. I wouldn’t daresay the words sex or intercourse or open marriage. My mother and I didn’t even discuss my periods. (About a year before my first period, a box of sanitary napkins and an elasticsanitary belt appeared under my bathroom sink. After I started using them, the box was replenished each month, as if by magic.)

“EXPLAIN.” My father banged a fist on the table and I jumped. I thought of Izzy Cone. How she’d probably never had even a second in her life when she felt afraid of her parents. Fear, I suddenly realized, was an emotion that ran through my home with the constant, buzzing current of a plugged-in appliance.

I figured I’d start with the medical situation. “So, Dr. Cone is treating Jimmy—”

“Jimmy.” My father snorted. “You’re on a first-name basis with an adult?”

“Beanie Jones told me he’s a heroin addict.” My mother sniffed, then blinked. I’d never seen her cry, and I was worried shewould.

“No one is supposed to know they’re in town because of . . . well, because of doctor-patient confidentiality.” I was gladI remembered the exact wording Dr. Cone had used.

“Beanie Jones certainly knew!” my mother said.

“Dr. Cone told me I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone.”

“Why were you with them if Dr. Cone was treating him? And why is a heroin addict traipsing around town with you anyway?” Mymother glanced at the paper and then back to me.

“They’ve been living on the third floor of the Cones’ house. Dr. Cone sees him in his office all day and Mrs. Cone entertainsSheba. That’s why I’m taking care of Izzy.” The truth seemed the least harmful explanation of all.

“What kind of doctor is he? One patient all day long? Is he a real doctor?” my father demanded.

“She doesn’t have cancer?” my mother asked.

“He’s a psychiatrist. His office is in the converted garage. And she doesn’t have cancer.” I felt emotion, like the kind I’dbeen having at the Cones’ all summer, welling up in me. Tears started rolling down my cheeks.

My father seemed unconcerned about the cancer lie. “Why is Jimmy kissing you?”

“He’s whispering in my ear. Not kissing me.” I pushed the words out past what felt like a fist caught in my throat.

“Why?”

“He didn’t want to take the pictures. He wanted to leave. He was telling me that.”

“Why was he telling you that? Has this man deflowered you?”

“What? No! What? No, Dad!” That he had even thought of my “deflowering” was a shock. As far as I knew, my father was unawarethat I even menstruated.

“Tell us the truth.” Dad’s eyes were drilling into me again.

“I swear. I’ve never even kissed a boy.” It came out as a whisper: a secret it didn’t seem my father—who had never beforeasked me a personal question—had a right to know. A secret that I hadn’t minded telling the Cones and Jimmy and Sheba at thebeach.

“And where did you get those clothes!?” My mother sniffed again. Her eyes looked wet.

“Mom. I’m s-sorry.” I stuttered and choked on my last word. Then my throat opened up, and I was fully crying.

“Stop that crying. Go to your room,” my father said.

That was impossible. I remained in my seat, my back bumping up and down as I sobbed. Instead of deflating me, the crying actedas a pump and allowed me to summon the person I’d become at the Cones. For the first time in my life, I defied my father.“I can’t. I won’t. I need to go take care of Izzy.”

“YOUR ROOM.” My father stood, came to the other side of the table, and hovered over me. I cowered.

“But they’re waiting for me!”

Like a biting snake, my father’s hand was instantly around my upper arm. He yanked me out of the chair and pulled me toward the stairs. I knew there were kids in the world who were actually pummeled by their parents or caregivers, and I knew that what was happening with my father wasn’t close to that. Still, it felt as invasive and destructive as I imagined a fist-beating to be. I broke free, as if to save my life, and ran to my room.

Seconds later I heard the front door slam.

I was facedown, crying and shaking from the exchange with my father, when my mother came in. I sat up and looked at her. “Mom!They need me. I can’t not go to work.”

“Your father went down there to talk to them.” My mother sat on the end of my bed and stared at me.

“They need me, Mom. They need me to take care of Izzy!” I couldn’t have told you what made me cry more: missing the Conesor feeling battered by my father.

“Did that Jimmy person ever do drugs in front of you?”

“No!” I took a few deep breaths, in and out, until I could slow the crying. “Dr. Cone helped him to quit drugs. That’s whyhe’s here.”

My mother blinked. “Why would the Cones be so careless as to let a known drug addict into their home with a little girl andyou?”

“Mom!” I swallowed back the tears that were about to burst out again. “You let me watch Sheba’s show on television. You knowshe’s a good person! He’s good too.”

“How good can she be if she’s married to a heroin addict?”

“Sheba likes church, Mom. We sing church songs together.” I could feel my body slowing. Calming. Sinking into the bed.

“Beanie Jones said she knew this was going on all summer