Fly Away (26 page)

All of the lights are on and I can hear the TV.

Frowning, I close the door behind me. It clicks shut.

I walk down the hallway, turning off lights as I go. Tomorrow I will have to have
a talk with Marah. She needs to understand that light switches flip both ways.

As I pass her bedroom door, I pause.

Her light is on. I can see the strip of it beneath the closed door.

I knock gently, sure she has fallen asleep watching TV.

There is no answer, so I open the door quietly.

I am unprepared for what I see.

The room is empty. There are Coke cans on both nightstands, the TV is on, and the
bed is unmade from this morning. Rumpled sheets are heaped in the middle of the bed.

“Wait a second.”

Marah is not here. At one o’clock in the morning. She
lied
to me about being home and in bed.

“What do I do?” I am talking to myself now, or maybe to Kate, as I rush from room
to room, flinging open doors.

I call her phone. There is no answer. I text:
Where are you???
and hit send.

Should I call Johnny? Or the police?

It is one-ten now. I am shaking as I pick up the phone. I have dialed 9-1 when I hear
a key jiggling in the lock on my front door.

Marah comes in as if she is a cat burglar, trying to tiptoe, but even from here I
can see that she is off balance, and she keeps giggling and shushing herself.

“Marah.” My voice is so sharp I sound like a mother for the first time in my life.

She turns, trips, hits the door hard, and starts to laugh. Then she clamps a hand
over her mouth and mumbles, “Shorry. Thass not funny.”

I take her by the arm and lead her into her bedroom. She stumbles along beside me,
trying not to laugh.

“So,” I say when she collapses onto her bed. “You’re drunk.”

“I only had two beersh,” she says.

“Uh-huh.” I help her get undressed and then guide her into the bathroom. When she
sees the toilet, she moans, “I’m gonna be shick—” and I barely have time to hold back
her hair before the vomit flies.

When she is done puking, I put toothpaste on her toothbrush and hand it to her. She
is pale now, and as weak as a rag doll. I can feel her trembling as I guide her into
bed.

I crawl into bed beside her and put an arm around her. She leans against me and sighs.
“I feel terrible.”

“Consider this a life lesson. This is not two beers, by the way. So what were you
really drinking?”

“Absinthe.”

“Absinthe.” That is not what I expected. “Is that even legal?”

She giggles.

“In my day girls like Ashley and Lindsey and Coral drank rum and Cokes,” I say, frowning.
Am I really so old that I don’t know what kids are drinking these days? “I am going
to call Ashley and—”

“No!” she cries.

“No, what?”

“I, uh … wasn’t with them,” she says.

Another lie. “Who were you with?”

She looks at me. “A bunch of kids from my therapy group.”

I frown. “Oh.”

“They’re cooler than I thought,” she says quickly. “And really, Tully, it’s just drinking.
Everyone does it.”

That’s true. And she’s definitely drunk; I can smell it on her breath. Drugs would
be different. What eighteen-year-old doesn’t come home drunk at least once?

“I remember the first time I got drunk. I was with your mom, of course. We got caught,
too. It wasn’t pretty.” I smile at the memory. It was 1977, on the day I was supposed
to go in foster care. Instead, I’d run away—straight to Kate’s house—and convinced
her to go to a party with me. We’d gotten busted by the cops and been put in separate
interrogation rooms.

Margie had come for me, in the middle of the night.

A girl who lived with us would have to follow the rules.
That was what she said to me. After that, I got to see what a family was, even if
I was on the outside, looking in.

“Paxton is way cool,” Marah says quietly, leaning against me.

This worries me. “The goth kid?”

“That’s harsh. I thought you didn’t judge people.” Marah sighs dreamily. “Sometimes,
when he talks about his sister and how much he misses her, I start to cry. And he
totally gets how much I miss my mom. He doesn’t make me pretend. When I’m in a sad
mood, he reads me his poetry and holds me until I feel better.”

Poetry. Sorrow. Darkness. Of course Marah is drawn in. I get it. I’ve read
Interview with a Vampire.
I remember thinking Tim Curry was totally hot in
Rocky Horror,
spangly heels and corset and all.

But still, Marah is young and Dr. Bloom says she’s fragile. “As long as you’re with
a group of kids—”

“Totally,” Marah says earnestly. “And we’re just friends, Tully. Me and Pax, I mean.”

I am relieved by this.

“You won’t tell my dad, right? I mean, he’s not as cool as you are, and he wouldn’t
understand me being friends with someone like Pax.”

“I’m glad you’re just friends. Keep it that way, okay? You’re not ready for anything
more. How old is he, by the way?”

“My age.”

“Oh. That’s good. I guess every girl gets swept away by a brooding poet at least once
in her life. I remember this weekend in Dublin, back in— Oh, wait. I can’t tell you
that story.”

“You can tell me
anything,
Tully. You’re my best friend.”

She twists me around her little finger with that one; I love her so much right now
it honestly hurts. But I can’t let her glamour me. I need to take care of her.

“I won’t tell your dad about Pax, because you’re right, he’d freak. But I won’t lie
to him, so don’t make me. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“And Marah, if I come home to an empty house again, I’m calling your dad first and
the cops second.”

Her smile falls. “Okay.”

*   *   *

It changes something in me, that late-night talk with Marah.

You’re my best friend
.

I know it’s not quite true, that really we are surrogates for each other, both of
us standing in for Kate. But that truth fades in the sunshine of a beautiful Seattle
summer. Marah’s love for me—and my love for her—is the lifeline I have needed. For
the first time in my life, I am really, truly
needed,
and my reaction to that surprises me. I want to be there for Marah in a way I’ve
never really been there for anyone. Not even Kate. The truth is that Kate didn’t need
me. She had a family who loved her, a doting husband, and adoring parents. She brought
me into the circle of her family and she loved me, but I was the one with the need.

Now, for once, I am the strong and stable one, or I intend to be. For Marah, I find
the strength to be a better version of myself. I put my Xanax and sleeping pills away
and cut back on the wine. Each morning I get up early to make her breakfast and make
the calls for dinner takeout to be delivered.

Then I go to work on my memoir. After the dismal reunion with my mother, I decide
to let go of the part of my story I don’t know. It’s not that I no longer care—I still
care deeply. I am desperate to know my own life story, and my mother’s, but I accept
the reality. I will have to write a memoir based on what I know. So, on a gorgeous
day in July, I sit down and simply begin.

Here’s the thing: When you grow up as I have, a lost girl without any real past, you
latch on to the people who seem to love you. At least that’s what I did. It started
early, my holding on too tightly and needing too much. I always craved love. The unconditional,
even unearned kind. I needed someone to say it to me. Not to sound poor me, but my
mother never said it. Neither did my grandmother. There was no one else.

Until 1974, when I moved into the house my grandparents bought as an investment. It
was on a little street in the middle of nowhere. Did I know when I moved into a run-down
house with my pothead mom that my world had just shifted? No. But from the moment
I met Kathleen Scarlett Mularkey, I believed in myself because she believed in me.

Maybe you’re wondering why my memoir begins with my best friend. Maybe you’re speculating
that I’m really a lesbian or just plain broken or that I don’t understand what a memoir
is.

I’m starting here, at what seems to be the end, because my story is really about our
friendship. Once—not long ago—I had a TV show.
The Girlfriend Hour.
I walked away from it when Katie was losing her battle with cancer.

Apparently, walking away from a TV show without warning is bad. I am now unemployable.

How could I have done it differently, though?

I took so much from Kate and gave too little back. That was my time to be there for
her.

At first, when we lost her, I didn’t think I could go on. I was sure somehow that
my heart would simply stop beating or my lungs would stop filling up with air.

People aren’t as helpful as you’d think, either. Oh, they’ll roll out the comfort
mat when you’ve lost a spouse or a child or a parent, but a best friend is different.
You’re supposed to get over that.

“Tully?”

I look up from my laptop. How long have I been working? “Yeah?” I say distractedly,
reading over what I’ve done.

“I’m leaving for work now,” Marah says. She is dressed in all black and her makeup
is a little heavy. She calls it a uniform for her new job as a barista in Pioneer
Square.

I glance at my watch. “It’s seven-thirty.”

“I have the night shift. You know that.”

Do I? Has she told me this before? She only got this job a week ago. Should I have
some kind of chart somewhere? That sounds like something a mother would do. She has
been gone a lot lately, hanging out with her old high school friends.

“Take a cab home. You need money?”

She smiles. “I’m fine, thanks. How’s the book going?”

“Great. Thanks.”

She comes over and gives me a kiss. As soon as she leaves, I go back to work.

Sixteen

For the rest of the summer, I work seriously on my book. Unlike most memoirs, mine
ignores my childhood and begins with my career. I start in the early days at KCPO,
with Johnny and Kate, and then drift toward New York and the network. Recording the
story of my ambition fuels me, reminds me that I can do anything I set my mind to.
When I am not working, Marah and I act like best friends: going to movies and walking
downtown and buying school supplies for the UW. She is doing so well that I have stopped
worrying obsessively about her.

Until a sunny day in late August of 2008 changes everything.

On that afternoon, I am in the new King County Library, putting together a collection
of the many magazine and newspaper articles written about me over the years.

I have planned on being here all day, but when I look up and see the sun shining through
the expansive glass windows, I make a snap decision. Enough work for the day. I pack
up my pages of notes and my laptop and I walk down the busy Seattle sidewalk toward
Pioneer Square.

The Wicked Brew is a small, trendy place that seems loath to spend money on lighting.
The interior smells like coffee mixed with incense and clove cigarettes. Kids sit
huddled together at rickety tables, sipping coffee and talking quietly. The shop seems
unconcerned with modern Seattle’s no-smoking laws. The walls are layered with concert
flyers for bands I have never heard of. I am pretty sure I’m the only one not dressed
in black.

The kid at the cash register is wearing skinny black jeans and a vintage velvet jacket
over a black T-shirt. His earlobes are the size of quarters and hold black hoops within.
“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Marah.”

“Huh?”

“Marah Ryan. She’s working today.”

“Dude, no one by that name works here.”

“What?”

“What?” he parrots back at me.

I speak slowly. “I’m looking for Marah Ryan. Tall girl, dark hair. Beautiful.”

“Definitely no one beautiful works here.”

“Are you new?”

“I’ve been here forever, dude, like, half a year. No one named Marah works here. You
want a latte?”

Marah has been lying to me all summer.

I spin on my heel and march out of the dingy, little place. By the time I reach my
condo, I am fuming mad. I fling open the door and call out for her.

No answer. I look at my watch. It’s 2:12 in the afternoon.

I go to her bedroom door, turn the knob, and go inside.

Marah is in bed with that boy, Paxton. Naked.

An ice-cold wave of pissed off overwhelms me and I shout at him to get off my goddaughter.

Marah scrambles back, pulls a pillow over her naked breasts. “Tully—”

The boy just lies there, smiling at me as if I owe him something.

“In the living room,” I say. “Now.
Dressed
.”

I go to the living room to wait for them. Before they get there, I take a Xanax to
calm my runaway nerves. I can’t stop pacing. I feel a panic attack forming. What will
I tell Johnny?

Like a mama hen, Johnny. You can trust me.

Marah walks in quickly, her hands clasped together, her mouth drawn into a frown.
Her brown eyes are wide with worry. I see how much makeup she has on—heavy eyeliner,
purplish black lipstick, pale foundation—and I know suddenly that she has been hiding
this, too. There is no work uniform. She dresses like a goth when she goes out. She
is wearing skinny black jeans and a black mesh top over a black cami. Paxton comes
out beside her. He doesn’t move so much as glide forward in his tight black jeans
and black Converse tennis shoes. His chest is skinny and bare, so white it’s almost
blue. A scripty black tattoo unfurls from his collarbone to his throat.

“Y-you remember Pax,” Marah says.

“Sit down,” I snap.

Marah complies instantly.

Paxton moves closer to me. He really is beautiful up close. There is a sadness in
his eyes, amid the defiance, and it is perversely seductive. Marah never had a chance
with this kid. How did I not see that? Why did I romanticize it? It was my job to
protect her and I failed.