22. Martha
Martha
I despise teenagers. Boys and girls in equal measure.
They are good for nothing, truly. Like, what is the point of a teenager?
They still live in your house and drain and drain and drain you while they become educated.
And the education part takes a really long time and so much energy that any adults left in the house are depleted beyond recognition.
This is what pushes them into this thing called middle age. It’s a hideous and unworthy phenomenon.
When Nicola said we were dealing with Emmy—dear, sweet little Emmy—I expected some nice, little pre-pubescent thing that wasn’t menstruating yet.
Instead, I walk in to find some vegan-cheese-eating witch questioning me on where I was last night.
If she knew what was good for her, she would just keep her mouth shut, eat her grilled cheese, do the dishes, clean the house, and go to sleep without talking so much. That’s not what happened.
My hands are on her shoulders, my fingers pressing into her flesh. Let’s get one thing straight, Nicola. Emmy is not my kid. She’s yours. I’m single, remember? I’m here to assist. That’s the deal.
Nicola squirms inside, begging me to stop, freaking out about the fact that she’s only living for Emmy, etc., etc.
But what about me? I insist. Haven’t I made your life better, Nicola? Aren’t I worth getting out of bed for? I mean, fuck! Before I came along, where were you? You know you couldn’t even figure your shit out, let alone deal with the debt you’re in, the case, or Redfern.
But I can.
“Listen, kid,” I start. “I’m sorry I threw the plate, but you were warned a couple of times. Stop asking about the other night.”
Emmy’s eyes won’t stop tearing. She’s sniffling like some girl in a horror movie.
“If you talk about it, if you bring it up, if you ask about last night or anything like that,” I press, “That’s an issue. We can’t have that.”
Emmy sniffs once, long and loud. “We?”
“Yeah. You and me. And your mother.”
She nods. “Mom. You’re acting like a total freak.”
I shove her backwards against the kitchen counter.
If you hurt my kid, I will end you, Martha.
“Fuck you, Nicola!”
“Mom! What are you doing? You’re scaring me!”
“Your mom is having some kind of moment.” I smack my head, hard, knowing Nicola will get the picture. “Be quiet.”
“Mom, are you taking your medicine? Do you have a migraine right now? Is that what this is? Are you hallucinating?”
Emmy puts her hand on my arm. On her wrist is a friendship bracelet under three black leather bands. I always wanted one of those. The friendship, not the bracelet.
“Just don’t ask about the other night.”
“Fine,” Emmy says, wiping her face. “Can you let me go? You’re acting like a real nut job.”
I release my hands and scan the kid up and down. “You really need to rethink your look, you know that?”
“Jesus Christ! What the hell has gotten into you?”
“Me? Nothing! I look normal. You’re the one with the raunchy tank top, the shaved head, the dyed hair, and the jewelry that screams emo skank.”
Emmy stares at me. “Mom, are you kidding me right now? What is this?”
“Did you ever think that’s why kids at school are talking shit about you? I mean, holy shit, that scar on your head is bad enough, but you’re decorating it like it’s some kind of prize or something. Maybe you should try to cover it up.”
Emmy looks down at her hands. “You know I’ve tried a million times.”
“Yeah, well, why hasn’t your mom ever helped you?”
“That’s a good question. You’re busy.”
“You’re your mom’s entire world. Don’t you know that?”
Emmy’s eyes tear up. “I get it. You’re having a really tough day. But the plate and everything? Geez, Mom!”
I sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.” My body arches and stretches in my chair. “I just forget sometimes, you know? It’s hard coming back from the dark and trying to exist again.”
“Tell me about it.” Emmy plays with her black bracelet, snapping and unsnapping it on her wrist. “So, you think I look like an emo skank?”
My hand finds her grilled cheese. I bite into the corner. “Yeah. I do.”
She smirks. “That reference is so nineties.”
My shoulders shrug. “Well, that’s my era. Live with it.”
A laugh bursts through her lips. “You’re on drugs.”
“I’m not. Don’t need them.”
“No. That’s what it is. You’re smoking weed.”
“I’m not, but if you have any, I will smoke it right the fuck now.”
“Geez. How much pain are you in?”
“Gee, I don’t know, let me check my pain weathervane.” I lick my finger and stick it into the air. “Your mother reports she’s in a ton of pain. Just give her all the weed you have.”
Emmy runs upstairs and comes back down. She has a small bag that she dumps on the table. They look like regular wrapped candies.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t freak out. Someone at school gave them to me. She got them for free. Her brother works at a dispensary.”
“ ’Course he does.”
Emmy’s eyes are big, glowing orbs. She watches me as I take one, unwrap it, and pop it in my mouth. A lime-green Jolly Rancher. A smile passes over her lips as I pop it into the corner of my cheek. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to eat one?”
“I don’t know. What if I feel weird?”
“You mean you’ve never been high before?”
Emmy shakes her head no. I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. “You mean to tell me that you look like that, and you haven’t smoked weed?”
“What has gotten into you? You’d literally kill me if I came home stinking of pot. It’s not that I haven’t been offered. I just say no. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
“No, idiot. You’re supposed to say yes and then realize what you like and what you don’t like in life. If you don’t try, how do you know?”
“But it’s drugs …”
Careful, Martha. I swear to God, I will make you nonexistent.
I cough and nearly swallow the candy whole.
“Look, you did the right thing, or whatever. You should always show it to your mom first and not accept anything from someone you don’t know.
Period. Listen, little sister, this THC is already doing a number on your mom’s chronic pain. So, what do you think about that?”
Emmy gives a wary smile. “I think it’s good, I guess. But you’re really freaking me out, Mom.”
“Tell you what,” I try. “Let’s give Mom a little vacation for a while. And let’s you and me have some fun for a change.”
Emmy shrugs, but her eyes are twinkling. “Okay, I guess so.”
I take her in, her small frame, her warm brown eyes. If she wasn’t dressed so weirdly, and if her face wasn’t scowling so much under all that black eyeliner, Emmy might actually be beautiful.
“Come with me,” I say and head upstairs. “And bring the candy.”
We move upstairs and sit in Emmy’s bathroom, crowded with the small, single sink and bad yellow lighting.
Nicola and Ben used to have a big, wide white marble bathroom countertop with two sinks and cupboards underneath filled with all sorts of goods.
I pull open drawers and fish out her makeup, including the stuff I borrowed before. It isn’t half bad.
“Sit up there,” I say to Emmy and point to the counter space around the sink. She looks at me the whole time like I’m nuts.
“I thought you hated it when I wore makeup.”
I throw a couple of bags of makeup onto the counter, then a few brushes and hair products. “I don’t hate it. Your mom does. And she’s on vacation, remember?”
Emmy bursts out laughing. “Okay, whatever, loony. Is this, like, some coping mechanism from Dr. Constance?”
“Yep. Good. Exactly. That’s exactly what this is.”
“Okay, Mrs. Loony.”
“Seriously, you need to get to grips with this hair situation,” I say, sticking a mirror in her hands. “Is your hair going to grow back over that scar or not?”
Emmy’s eyes tear up. “It’s a skin graft. Why would you ask me that?”
Stop it, Martha! What are you doing?
Oops. “Okay. Sorry. Well, so that’s the point, isn’t it? So instead of flaunting it and making it a big deal, why don’t you try to work with it a little bit?”
“What do you mean?”
I turn her to the side so that the part of her hair with the skin graft is facing me. “May I?”
Emmy shrugs. “Do I have an option?”
“Yeah. You can tell me to fuck off, if you want.”
She shakes her head. “Just do it.”
I part her hair slightly further up and bring it down so that the skin graft isn’t so obvious. Now it looks like the side of her head is just partially shaved, instead of totally bald.
“You think I haven’t tried that?” Emmy says. “It gets windy, and it just blows back over. Everyone can see it.”
“Right, that’s challenging,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Emmy. “See my issue? I can’t just wear a comb-over.”
“Fair enough. Well, how about we focus on the rest of you?”
“Good luck,” Emmy says. “There isn’t much to focus on.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I make Emmy wash off her makeup and remove the black eyeliner so we can start fresh.
Her eyebrows are a little wild, so I shape them and groom them to accentuate her eyes.
Then I moisturize her face. Her skin is flawless.
For her cheeks, I mix a few different shades together to get a nice peachy color, and I add something similar for her lips.
For her eyes, just a wisp of mascara over her lashes.
I comb her hair and style it with moisturizer for her curls.
That’s it. She’s fourteen, not twenty-four.
She should look it. I don’t let her look in the mirror until I’m finished.
“That’s me?” she says, her voice small. “I look so … different.”
“Come on,” I say, taking her hand. We go to the computer and open the Internet browser. “What’s your favorite store of all time?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “We haven’t been shopping in a really long time. Since before Dad died.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s not the point. We’re shopping now.”
I do a Google search for clothes for teenage girls.
A whole bunch of sites pop up, and Emmy and I browse through them, picking her favorite stuff, from dresses to jeans to cute tops and jackets, until she has a whole new wardrobe.
When we’re finished, Emmy looks gleeful and excited.
“I can’t believe you just let me buy all that stuff!
” Her face falls flat. “How are you going to pay for it?”
“Remember what I said to you about asking questions?”
She nods.
“You don’t need to worry. It’s not going to be a problem.”
“You got a new job?”
“Yes,” I tell her. It’s basically as good as done now. “Remember in The Secret Garden how Martha helps Mary get well and get back on her feet?”
“Um, yeah … I read that, like, a million years ago, but yeah. What’s your point?”
“Well, your mom has Martha to help her. And now that Martha has helped her, she can help other people, too.”
“That’s … weird. So, you’re going to be someone’s housekeeper?”
“More like someone’s personal assistant.”
“Don’t we need help?”
“I told you,” I say, eyeing her. “That’s what Martha is here for. Don’t you worry, little sister. Everything is going to be all right.”
Emmy lies back on the sofa and turns on the TV. “If you say so.”
My gut hums, all the while Nicola is scratching at me from the inside. From inside Nicola’s purse, I take out the little black-and-white photo of the white Rolls-Royce that Steve gave her. “You found him,” I remind her quietly. “Now let me do the rest.”
Emmy looks over at me. “Who are you talking to?”
“No one, Emmy. No one.”
I stretch back and relax for a moment, contemplating what it will be like to work for someone else. I know Nicola isn’t happy about it, but she doesn’t know me as well as she thinks she does. I can be a good Martha, a nice Martha, a home-and-garden Martha. For a little while.