Jenna

Wednesday Afternoon
KAREN'S HOUSE

I've known Karen all my life. I never thought about it until now. I mean, how weird. It's like I've been living in a soap opera and didn't even know it. But it always seemed natural that Karen would baby-sit me and Jeremy or that she would take us to the movies at the mall or that we would go over to her house on New Year's Eve and stay the night

It was never a secret that she and my dad had gone to the same college and gotten married. I never wondered what Mom thought about any of it, because she and Karen seemed like friends. Ever since I can remember, Karen would come over for Thanksgiving dinner and bring a rum cake, and at Christmas, a fruitcake she had let soak in wine for a month. She and Mom gave each other birthday and Christmas presents, and I always thought it was pretty cool that my dad had remarried but he and his new wife were friends with the old one.

I know this house as well as I do my own. It's old and sits back from the street, behind hedges so high no one passing by can see in. Our house is old but this one is older—"1810," the little sign on it reads. It was built by somebody who taught at the college, and I guess only people from the college have ever lived in it. Karen's father taught at the college and she works there now, in public relations. Her parents were killed in a car accident when she was a junior at Barnard. Dad and Karen lived here when they were married.

I have my own key, and Jeremy and I each have our own room. Mine is the same one Karen had when she was a girl. It's on the second floor at the opposite end of the hall from the master bedroom, which used to be Karen's parents' and then Dad and Karen's and is now just Karen's. My room looks out over the backyard and the lilac bushes. Karen's dad tried to grow every kind of lilac there is and I guess he came pretty close. Karen tends them now. At the end of the yard is a small gazebo, and sometimes when I need to think or just want to be alone, I go sit there. If it weren't so cold I'd sit there today.

Instead I've been up here in my room since yesterday afternoon. Karen came and tried to talk to me several times, but I kept my back to her and just stared out the window at the gazebo. God, I can be such a bitch. I mean, Karen came to get us and I was so glad to see her but she looked a wreck. I'd always thought that Karen, of all people, would keep it together, no matter what I know I'm not being fair but that's just how it is.

I've always liked Karen because she cares about how she looks. Her long dark brown hair seems to shine of itself, as if she put conditioner on each strand one at a time. She usually wears aviator-style glasses that are tinted gray, which is just so cool. I mean, it's not obvious like rose- or yellow-tinted glasses. And Karen has this way of knowing what to wear without overdressing. Whatever she wears is not only exactly right for the occasion, but it is always the best, whether it's jeans or whatever. The cut is just right, the fabric, the accessories. Karen is tall, almost as tall as Dad and he's over six feet. God, they must have looked really cool together. Dad is so good-looking I wonder why he ever married anybody. Karen is tall and thin and so sophisticated. She could have been a model.

I've always wondered if she was my real mother. It would make sense because I'm more like her than Mom. Rachel and I don't have anything in common. Mom could care less about what's fashionable. Her entire wardrobe consists of jeans and men's shirts. And if that's not bad enough, she almost never wears a bra.

That might have been cool in the sixties but this is the nineties, and unless you are going somewhere really glam and want to show some serious cleavage, put on a bra and keep gravity away as long as you can. A couple of summers ago we were at the Cape and Mom and I were changing to go for a swim and I saw her breasts and they weren't bad for somebody her age. They were small, but gravity hadn't sent them too far toward her feet yet. I told her she should start wearing a bra if she didn't want to end up looking like she was posing for National Geographic. She shrugged and said she didn't care. Rachel never cared about anything except her damned painting.

She sure as hell didn't know what to do with me and probably wondered if I was really her child as much as I wondered if she was really my mother. Ever since I can remember, I've liked lipstick and eye makeup and nice clothes. When all the other girls in first grade were going to school in pants and jeans, I insisted on wearing dresses or skirts. One Thanksgiving—I must have been around six—I noticed how good Karen looked. I couldn't put it into words then, but I looked at her and I wanted lip gloss to shine on my lips like it had been born there and eye shadow that could make my eyes appear to smolder. I wanted somebody to teach me how to wear clothes that would make people look at me whether they wanted to or not, and it was just so obvious that Karen knew all that and I looked at her and asked, "Will you take me shopping for clothes?"

Mom laughed, looked at Karen, and said, "Would you? Please?" Even though I was glad Mom didn't seem to be hurt or anything, I also felt like she was giving me away. It was like she didn't want to have anything to do with what was most important to me.

Rachel thought I was superficial because I cared about clothes. Even if I was only going to the mall on a Saturday afternoon with some other kids, I was always dressed to kill. I didn't just throw on a pair of jeans and a shirt I spent hours trying on different combinations of pants, jeans, skirts, blouses, shirts, and sweaters until I found the right color combination, but then I might decide to wear a pair of earrings that didn't go with the clothes and I would have to start all over again. When I finally came downstairs I knew I looked good, and it would've been nice if every once in a while Rachel had said, "You look nice, dear," but she would just look at me. No expression on her face. Dad's face would light up like he had just found a million dollars, but not Mom. Sometimes I wanted to scream, "Wh/re you looking at me like you just stepped in a pile of dog shit?"

She didn't understand. There is nothing superficial about clothes. When there's something really important I want to get from Dad, 111 wear pigtails and a yellow blouse and jeans. That's one of my little girl looks. But when there's something I want from Mom, I'll put my hair in a braid, wear a dark green blouse, a pair of slacks, and shoes with a little bit of a heel and no makeup. Mom hates makeup. Dad likes it. I play roles. That's all life is, anyway. You play different roles to get what you want and make people react how you want them to. It's public relations. That's all.

But being a bitch is not a role. I wonder sometimes if bitch is the real me. When Karen walked in Miss Worthing's office, I was shocked at how she looked. She hadn't bothered to refresh her makeup and her hair looked scraggly and she looked, well, just ordinary. I know I shouldn't have expected her to look glam after hearing that her ex-husband had murdered his present wife in broad daylight in the center of town. And because of Dad's position at the college, she had probably been talking on the phone to reporters all day, but I was disappointed that she of all people hadn't been able to keep it together. I mean, if I couldn't believe in Karen, who was left?

So I was really cold to her all yesterday. I'm sure she thought I was upset about what had happened and I guess I am. I mean, I don't know. It still doesn't seem real. And I'm feeling guilty, too. I know that's stupid, but I can't help remembering all the times I wished Karen was my real mother and would fantasize about something happening to Rachel, and then I could go live with Karen and she would be my real mother. And now it's happened.

Karen came in my room this morning before she left for work. She whispered my name. I heard her but pretended I was asleep. It would have been nice if I had at least opened my eyes and said good morning. All she wanted was to see if I was all right and it doesn't matter if she thought I was asleep. I knew I wasn't.

I don't know what happens to me at times like that. I don't mean to be a bitch. Well, that's not entirely true. Sometimes I do. This past summer we were having one of our usual Sunday brunches. They used to be fun until things started going bad. Dad would cook. I think he's a better cook than Mom, though she makes a mean soup. But Dad would make omelettes filled with jelly or cheese, or pancakes so light you hardly had to chew them. There'd be as much bacon or sausage or ham as you wanted to eat or, sometimes, smoked trout or salmon. We would sit around the big table in the kitchen or out on the deck if it was warm, and eat and talk and laugh and listen to some sixties music, which is Dad's favorite. He was my and Jeremy's age in the sixties, so he was too young to go to Woodstock and it's like a part of him still wishes he had been there. That morning he was playing a Mamas and Papas CD, and I guess I got to thinking about them—the Mamas and the Papas—and how what rotten mamas and papas they had been to their children. So I asked him why he and Karen got divorced, and then something really bitchy made me add, "I think she would have been a great mother." And I put this really sweet smile on my face. Mom knew I was being a total bitch, pushed her chair back from the table, and glared at me.

"Then the next time you need a fucking ride to the mall or claim you need a pager or eighty bucks for a pair of shoes, call Karen!" And she was out the door and on her way to the studio, just like that, Jeremy tagging along behind her. I should ask him, but I think that was the last Sunday brunch we had.

"Mom? I'm sorry," I called after her. "I didn't mean anything," which was a total he.

"Don't be like that, Rachel," Dad yelled. "And Jeremy, you come back here right now." But neither one acted like they heard him. Not that it mattered. Dad trying to be like some stern disciplinarian was a big joke.

I don't know why I said that to Mom. I knew it was going to piss her off. Sometimes I said or did stuff just because I knew it would get to her. It was like I had this power over her. Maybe I didn't have the power to make her love me, but having the power to piss her off was okay. At least she would notice me.

But there was something else that morning. I was pissed because she had moved into the studio and taken Jeremy with her and pissed because she didn't appreciate Dad. It was obvious to me that they weren't happy and that she didn't understand me or him. I understood Dad better than Rachel ever would.

Dad seemed kind of sad that morning, depressed even. He's usually very happy doing brunch, but that Sunday something was off and Rachel didn't even notice. Or if she did, she didn't care. Making Sunday brunches was one of Dad's ways of saying he loved us, and Rachel was clueless. So I was pissed and wanted to make her go away and I did.

But Dad seemed a little annoyed with me. "Sometimes, Jenna, you need to think before you open that mouth of yours. You may not realize it, but you can hurt people with your words," he said.

I nodded like he had just laid some huge revelation on me. One of the first things a kid learns is that you can hurt people with words. You sure as hell aren't big enough to hurt them any other way. All you have is your mouth and you better learn to use it to hurt somebody before they hurt you. The only problem I had growing up was figuring out how much I could say and get away with. But once I learned that all I had to do was put on a sweet smile and speak in a soft voice like I was as innocent as fucking Bambi, I could cut somebody's fucking heart out with a couple of sentences and never get blamed. I always knew what I was saying, and if Dad didn't know that much about me, it made me wonder what kind of psychologist he was. Or maybe he's a great psychologist except when it comes to his own family. After yesterday I guess that's an understatement.

Anyway, I made all the appropriate apology noises and said I would tell Mom I was sorry, which I never did. Now I wish I had. Shit. It's going to be a long fucking life if I start feeling sorry for all the shit I put her through.

Dad hadn't even looked at me when he gave his little reprimand. It was like he had gone through the motions and done his father thing but his mind was somewhere else. He was kind of staring at the table and turning the saltshaker around and around. I'd never seen him like this.

I had asked my friends, none of whose parents are together, how you know when your parents are going to split up. Charlotte's mom has been divorced twice and her dad is on his third marriage, so if anyone knew what to look for, she did. She said my parents had all the signs, like not talking to each other, and when they did, working real hard to be nice. The big one was whether they were still sleeping in the same bed, which they weren't. Mom said she moved to the studio because she wanted to focus on painting. Yeah, right! I couldn't remember a time when painting wasn't all she cared about.

But it was kind of strange because after she moved to the studio I felt like I saw more of her. It seemed like we made a point to eat dinner together every night and afterward Mom would be around for a couple of hours and the four of us would play cards and just hang out together.

But then, all of a sudden, she would be gone. I never understood. Was it something I said? Did she have a time limit on how long she could stay? One minute she was listening to you like there was nothing else in the world she wanted to do, and the next, she was gone. Sometimes she said good night like a normal person. A lot of times, though, she just got up in the middle of a sentence and walked out the back door, Jeremy tagging along like a homeless puppy.

But I didn't care. All it meant was that I could have Dad to myself. He and I would stay up late, talking, and he talked to me like I wasn't a kid but, well, like I was Mom, or who he wished Mom was.

That Sunday it seemed like my question about him and Karen getting divorced made him remember, because he started talking about her and there was a sadness in his voice, like he missed her. She went to Barnard and he to Columbia. Then her parents got killed and Dad and Karen got married the following year when they graduated. I got die impression that Karen's dad had a lot of money and that Karen paid for Dad to go to graduate school while she got a P.R. job with some publisher. Then just as Dad was finishing up his Ph.D., the job at the college opened up. He went for it, got it, and they moved here.

I had heard parts of the story when Mom, Dad, and Karen would talk, but Dad put it all together that Sunday. What blew me away, though, was him telling me that he and Karen had had a kid and she died. Dad wouldn't go into any details, but I got the feeling something really bad happened, like Karen had accidentally drowned the baby in the bathtub or something. I really wanted to know what it was. If I had pushed him, Dad would've told me. He can't say no to me, which, according to Mom, is part of my problem. But he had a look on his face like it was hurting him to remember so I let it alone. Whatever happened, that seemed to be what destroyed the marriage.

Not too many months after the baby died, Rachel Pierce came to Birchfield College as artist-in-residence, and she and Dad met at the opening of an art show. I've watched enough movies on HBO and Showtime, not to mention soap operas, that I <~an fill in the blanks. Grieving father estranged from his wife meets attractive, dark-haired artist from San Francisco. I was around nine or ten when I realized my parents' wedding anniversary was just three months before my birthday.

I've always been smart in a worldly kind of way. Probably comes from watching TV all my life. Dad thought it was okay for me to watch Sally Jesse and Jerry Springer when I was Utile. He said I needed to know how the world really was. Mom said that wasn't how the world was. I wonder what she thinks now.

Dad got real quiet after he told me about the baby that had died and I thought he was done talking. I didn't know what to say. It was weird because sometimes I like it when he talks to me like I'm an adult, but other times I kind of wished he treated me like a kid, because I don't know what I'm supposed to say or do when he lays something heavy on me.

I was just about ready to mumble something about how hard that must have been or some bullshit and get out of there when Dad stood up as if he was going to clear the table and said, "You have to promise that you will never tell Rachel what I'm about to tell you. I don't care how angry you ever get at your mother or how much you might want to hurt her one day, if you ever tell her this you'll destroy my relationship with you."

Dad had never spoken to me like that and I knew I had better take him seriously. "I promise, Dad. I promise."

He nodded. "Rachel knows that Karen and I had a child, of course. But Karen and I agreed that she should never know that our little girl's name was Jenna."

I almost shit! I saw the tears in his eyes and I almost knocked the table over getting around it to put my arms around him and hold him as tightly as I could. I'm tall for my age—five-eight—but Dad's over six feet and I was sorry I wasn't tall enough to put his head on my shoulder and hold it and let him cry on me. But I put my arms around his waist and burrowed my head against his chest and I could hear his heart and suddenly I was so afraid that one day his heart would stop and then what would I do and I don't know when I realized that, when I became aware, when I, well, when I felt this hardness against my stomach and I didn't know what it was at first and then I knew, I just knew, and I didn't know what to do, whether I should move away or what, and just then Dad put his arms around me and held me tightly against him and so I figured he didn't want me to move, that it was all right for me to stay there. I just stood real still and it seemed like it was getting harder and I couldn't believe I was making that happen but I was! It was me he was holding against him like he didn't want to let go. I mean, I hadn't done anything, not on purpose or anything, and not like I knew it was going to happen, but it was my body pressing against his, my arms around him. It was like I had this power. Older boys had started looking at me. Whenever I went over to the college or to Dad's office in town to get a ride home, the college boys would want to talk to me and they couldn't believe it when I told them I was only fourteen. I knew it was my breasts that boys liked, but I didn't really understand until that Sunday that I have a power over men because I'm a woman, and there isn't much they can do about it. Not even my own father.

We didn't stand there long before it was like Dad kind of woke up or something, because suddenly he took his arms from around me, stepped back, and looked toward the door as if he was afraid Rachel might be standing there or about to walk in. His face was red and I saw little tiny beads of sweat on his forehead.

"I need to clean the kitchen," he said, his voice soft and kind of hoarse.

"I'll help you," I offered.

He shook his head. "No. No. I need to be by myself."

"Are you okay?"

He smiled weakly. "I'm fine, sweetheart. I'm fine."

I think he felt kind of weird about what had just happened. I know I did. It was kind of nice but it was also really gross, so I wasn't sorry that he wanted to be alone. I went up to my room and lay on the bed and thought about being named for a dead girl. If I was named for her, who was I supposed to be? Was I me, or was I partly her? But the more I thought about it, and I thought about it a lot, I still do, I realized that all the love my father had for her was now mine, plus all the love he had for me. And maybe all the love, too, he couldn't give to Mom anymore because she didn't seem to want it.

Karen must be home because I hear the front door open and now, footsteps on the stairs. I look at my watch. It's two. What is she doing here? Has something else happened? I stick my head out the door of my room and Karen is coming along the hallway toward me. I rush to her and put my arms around her and hug her tightly. She hugs me back.

"What're you doing here?" I ask. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Have you eaten?" she asks, ignoring my questions.

"No, but I'm not hungry."

"I know," she responds, taking my hand and leading me downstairs. "But your body needs the nutrients whether you want to eat or not. What about some yogurt?"

"That'dbeokay."

It's only when we're sitting in the breakfast room and I have almost finished a second carton of blueberry yogurt that I notice how tired Karen looks. "Did you sleep last night?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "I guess I must have slept a couple of hours, but it doesn't feel like it. I look like hell, don't I?"

I nod, smiling.

She smiles back, weakly. "I feel like hell and everybody at the college can see it They were surprised I came in today, but when the school's chief psychologist shoots his wife in broad daylight, it makes the parents and alumni a little nervous. The worst P.R. job in the world is what they call damage control, and when the damage was done by your ex-husband, it makes things even more difficult. But things seem to be more under control and the president told me I could leave early. Have you seen the papers or watched any television?"

I shake my head.

"I'm glad. It's front page of the New York Times, Boston Globe, Washington Post, and every other newspaper in the country, and it's the lead item on every network news show."

"So, it's really true, huh? I mean, it wouldn't be in the paper and on television if it wasn't true, would it?" Even as I am thinking that I am not going to cry, the tears start running down my face and the knot in my stomach rips apart and a hole opens up. "My mom's really dead, isn't she?'

"I'm afraid so. I'm really sorry," Karen says softly.

I put the spoon into the yogurt carton and it tips over. I know I should set it upright but all I can do is stare as the tears drop onto the oak table and Karen comes to put her arms around me.