Dear debbie, p.6
Dear Debbie, page 6
Rochelle leads us into her house, down the endless foyer into her living room. Harley’s jaw looks like it’s about to unhinge. Rochelle takes us into her newly renovated living room, where every piece of furniture is made out of the most expensive Italian leather (including the television, I think). The two other members of our book club, Tabitha and Sloane, are both already on the sofa.
“I told you that Debbie would be here eventually,” Rochelle announces to the other two women.
Tabitha giggles. “We took bets on what time you would finally show up, Debbie.”
Harley looks at me in confusion, because we’re only two minutes late. Somehow, my lateness has become a running joke, even though I’m usually quite prompt.
“Please excuse the mess,” Rochelle says to me and Harley, even though her house is spotless except for the row of champagne bottles lined neatly on a side table in the living room. “We’re preparing for an incredibly important party tonight. Did I mention to you that Gerard is going to announce his candidacy for the state senate seat tonight?”
“Yes, I believe you did,” I murmur.
“Anyway, tonight is going to be so crucial,” she says. “Even the mayor is going to be making an appearance to endorse him.”
“The mayor?” Harley repeats in amazement.
Rochelle nods solemnly. “It’s going to be quite the event. Esmerelda came this morning to clean the entire house, and it took forever.” She gives me a knowing look. “You’re so lucky you have so few bedrooms, Debbie. A house like mine takes forever to clean. But it has to be perfect.”
“Don’t worry, Rochelle,” Sloane says. “Tabby and I will be right at your side to support you tonight.”
Of course, I won’t be at Rochelle’s side, because I have not been invited to the party. There was a brief explanation from Rochelle about the guest list being “limited.” Not that I want to go to her stupid mayor party anyway.
But it would have been nice to be invited.
I set my tray down on Rochelle’s antique coffee table and remove the tinfoil from on top of the sandwiches. As soon as I take the foil off, Tabitha and Sloane both simultaneously dissolve into giggles.
“Did you make the sandwiches yourself?” Rochelle asks me, stifling a giggle of her own.
“I did.” I’m trying to keep the defensive edge out of my voice, but it’s hard when I’m talking to Rochelle. “It’s turkey and avocado with a sun-dried tomato spread.”
“How cute!” Sloane exclaims.
Harley frowns at me. “Debbie, didn’t I mention that I’m allergic to avocados?”
I clasp a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, you did. I can’t believe I forgot. I am so sorry, Harley.”
“Debbie is the most forgetful person I know,” Rochelle comments, even though I can’t recall ever forgetting anything in the past. “But don’t worry, Harley. Our cook threw together a charcuterie board.”
It is quite the elaborate charcuterie board. There isn’t one piece of meat on it that hasn’t been formed into the shape of a flower. And I can count no less than eight types of cheese.
“I hope you’ll try my sandwiches though,” I say to Rochelle.
“Of course I will!” Rochelle picks up a triangular slice of one of the sandwiches that I painstakingly put together after I got back from the gym. “Like I said, they’re adorable. You can just tell that they’re homemade.”
She nibbles on the edge, which encourages the other women to take a piece too. I’m so pleased they’re trying my sandwiches. I certainly wouldn’t want all that hard work to go to waste.
13
HARLEY
Rich bitches.
That’s what I keep calling these women in my head. I’ve been chanting it over and over again, especially when Rochelle starts pontificating about this stupid boring book that I didn’t actually manage to read.
Rich bitches, rich bitches, rich bitches.
It helps that the words rhyme.
“I just think Velvet Moon is so clearly a takeoff on King Lear,” Rochelle says. “There is the elderly father and the three daughters vying for his favor. It’s such an obvious retelling.”
Rich bitches, rich bitches, rich bitches, rich bitches.
“I mean,” Rochelle continues, “I don’t even know how you can appreciate it without having read the play.”
Sloane and Tabitha nod in solemn agreement. It’s only Debbie who says stoutly, “I liked the book, and I never read King Lear.”
“Well, of course not,” Rochelle says. “You never went to college, and that’s the sort of book that you need to read on a collegiate level.”
Debbie’s face turns slightly pink. I don’t even know why she is at this book club, because she doesn’t seem to like any of these women very much. Unlike the three of them, Debbie is actually nice. Sometimes it seems like she doesn’t have much going on upstairs, but she tries her best.
And her house isn’t as big as this one, but it’s still beautiful. The sort of house I’ve always wanted. The sort of house I will have one day.
I still don’t know how she forgot about my avocado allergy though, considering we talked about it only a couple of hours ago. Even though the charcuterie board is something else, Debbie’s sandwiches look really good, and I wish I could have one. Debbie is flighty, but this is next level.
“It feels like this one might have gone over your head a bit.” Rochelle flashes Debbie a sympathetic look. “It was a very complicated book, and the writing was very literary. And I imagine it was a bit long for some readers.”
A bit long? Velvet Moon was nearly six hundred pages, and I had to read every sentence twice before it made sense. If I ever come back to book club, I wouldn’t mind a book that isn’t written for people who have doctoral degrees. I told Debbie that I read Velvet Moon, but there was no way that was going to happen. It felt like I was back in high school again, struggling through an impossible book assigned by the teacher.
But I still wanted to come. So I did what I did in high school—I bought the CliffsNotes version of Velvet Moon. Those things are incredible, you know. They summarize every chapter and then interpret it. It even mentioned the thing about King Lear, although it said that it was a common misinterpretation.
Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with CliffsNotes. I wouldn’t have gotten through high school without them, although it’s slightly mortifying to need to cheat for a book club. But nobody has to know.
Debbie actually read the book though. Not only that, but she genuinely enjoyed it, and based on the comments she’s made so far, she seemed to understand it better than any of these other women. But now she just sits there, like she’s not quite sure what to say.
“I wouldn’t mind reading something…shorter,” I speak up. I don’t want to admit that the book was much too hard to get through, risking Rochelle’s snide comments being directed at me instead of Debbie. “More like…three hundred pages.”
“But five hundred and eighty-nine pages go by in a flash with a brilliant author like Barbara Fanning!” Sloane protests. “It’s like drinking a fine wine. And if you can’t make it through six hundred pages, you won’t be able to get through three hundred pages either.”
I may not have been much better in math than I was in English, but that one doesn’t quite add up for me. I have to admit though, I’m not sure I could have made it through even twenty pages of Velvet Moon.
“I just think it’s not worth discussing any book that hasn’t won a Pulitzer,” Sloane continues. “We shouldn’t have to dumb down our book choices for the people with less education. If Debbie can’t participate, we can meet separately.”
“I can participate,” Debbie protests weakly.
At that comment, the three women exchange meaningful looks. I know what that look means. These three women are gearing up to kick Debbie out of their little club. I shift uncomfortably on the sofa, wishing I could make up an excuse and get out of here.
“Debbie,” Rochelle begins in an authoritative voice, “I just think that this book club might not be right for…” She stops speaking abruptly, as if her train of thought was interrupted by something. Her long, dark eyelashes flutter, and she takes a deep breath. “Is it hot in here?”
That ass kisser Tabitha looks like she’s about to protest that the temperature is a perfect seventy-four degrees, but then something changes in her expression. “Yes. It is a bit hot.”
“I don’t feel hot,” Debbie says helpfully.
“Maybe it’s menopause?” I suggest.
Rochelle shoots me a look, but there isn’t much conviction behind it. She looks very pale all of a sudden. I mean, she did have perfect alabaster skin, but it’s changed color in the last few minutes. It looks…
Actually, she looks a bit green.
Abruptly, Rochelle clamps a hand over her mouth. She makes a mad dash out of the room, bumping the side table in her haste to get to the bathroom. Multiple bottles of champagne tip over like pins in a bowling alley, shattering as they crash to the floor. The champagne that spills out of the bottle is probably worth more than my car, but Rochelle is past caring. The sound of her retching echoes through the entire first floor of the house.
Sloane and Tabitha exchange looks, and that’s when I notice that the two of them look a bit green as well. “I think I might head out,” Tabitha murmurs. “I…I’m not feeling that hot.”
“I’ve heard there’s a bug going around,” Debbie says sympathetically, although she doesn’t look green in the slightest. In fact, she’s got a big smile on her face.
Tabitha and Sloane seem quite eager to get out of the house. Sloane makes it entirely down the walkway, but Tabitha isn’t so lucky. As we exit Rochelle’s property, I catch a glimpse of her vomiting in the pristine front yard. Debbie doesn’t so much as pause to make sure her friend is okay.
“As you can see, there’s a bad bug going around,” she tells me as we head down the block back to her own house. “I hope Rochelle doesn’t have to cancel her lovely party tonight with the mayor.”
“Debbie,” I say quietly. “It seems like they have…you know, food poisoning…”
She blinks at me, her wide-eyed stare completely blank. “Gee,” she says, “you think so?”
I almost ask if there’s any chance it could have been something in the sandwiches she made. I didn’t eat any, and I didn’t get sick, and I happened to notice Debbie didn’t have one either. Then again, it would be rude to imply to my friend that something she made with her own two hands caused three women to go into fits of vomiting, even if it could be true.
I’m just grateful Debbie forgot about my avocado allergy. Things could’ve been much worse.
14
FROM DEAR DEBBIE DRAFTS FILE
Dear Debbie,
I have been married for over 20 years now, and although in many ways it is a happy marriage, there are certain aspects that I am unhappy with. I’m hoping you could give me some advice.
When we first got married, my husband was adamant that he didn’t want me to work. I thought this was very sweet, and when my children were young, it made sense. I loved how he provided for us. But it could also be frustrating. For example, he set up our credit card so that he had to approve every purchase. When I wanted to buy something, I would have to call him about it and get his verbal approval beforehand, or else the card would be declined.
Similarly, we only have one joint bank account, and it only has a small amount of money that is my “allowance.” Since I am the one who buys groceries, most of the money must be spent on that, and if I want any other purchases, I have to ask him to add money to the account. He insists that I “save” the money from my tiny allowance, so if my shoes wear out and I need a new pair, I have to save for months to buy them.
He feels that I’m not responsible with my spending, and he has a point. I’m not the one earning the money. For that reason, now that our children are older, I suggested the possibility of getting a job so I could have my own money. I thought this was the perfect solution, but when I mentioned it, he became furious and said that if I got a job, it would mean that I don’t trust him to support me.
I am just frustrated because even though we are well off, I have been living on a shoestring budget for my entire marriage. How can I convince my husband to let me work and become more financially independent?
Rich But Broke
Dear Rich But Broke,
What you are describing is financial abuse. Your husband is using money as a way to control you and he deserves to suffer. You don’t need his permission to get a job. You don’t need his permission for anything! My advice is that you should slip poison into his wine at dinner speak to a divorce lawyer.
I’d be happy to give you more information on poisons that are unlikely to be detected on autopsy local legal options if you’d like to contact me through my email address on the website.
Debbie
15
DEBBIE
It’s a few minutes before two o’clock when I pull into the parking lot for the Hingham Household newspaper.
The office is in a small strip mall next to a Chinese restaurant and below a massage parlor. I didn’t eat that much at Rochelle’s house, because I was avoiding the sandwiches, and I have to admit that Chinese food and a massage sounds pretty good right about now. Maybe I’ll make a stop after Garrett and I talk about whatever was so important that it couldn’t be done over the phone.
The words Hingham Household are etched in black lettering on the glass door, although a few of the letters have rubbed off so that it reads Hin ham Househo. I turn the knob and enter the small space, walking past the few scattered desks leading to the lone office occupied by Garrett Meers. I had always imagined that the offices of a newspaper would be big and bustling, but this place is the opposite of that. It’s small and carpeted and usually so silent, you can hear a pin drop. It smells vaguely of cigarettes, which is strange since I don’t think anyone who works here smokes.
The only one who is here today is Garrett’s secretary, Sierra. She’s so gorgeous that it’s not surprising that I’ve seen Garrett checking her out when he thinks nobody is looking. Sierra looks up briefly when I enter the office, but she doesn’t say a word and even avoids eye contact. I find that odd, because usually that girl can’t shut up.
And something else about the office sets off an alarm bell in the back of my head:
Bernice isn’t here.
Bernice is a senior editor at the paper, and even though Garrett is the editor in chief, Bernice makes all the important decisions. I generally submit my column directly to her, and I’m not convinced Garrett even reads it.
It wouldn’t be strange for Bernice not to be in the office, because I’m sure the last thing she wants is to sit at that creaky wooden desk all day. However, the emptiness of her desk is what strikes me as a red flag. There are usually stacks of paper on her desk, a nameplate, and a photo of her daughter grinning at a state fair. All that has vanished.
“Hi, Sierra,” I say. “I’m here to see—”
“Go on in,” Sierra tells me, since she has obviously been expecting me. It’s yet another slightly disturbing red flag.
I knock on the door to Garrett’s office, even though it’s slightly ajar. He calls for me to come in, and I slip into his broom closet of an office. Garrett is in his early forties, maybe a year or two younger than I am, and he’s always clean-shaven and well dressed. He likes to project the image of the paper being more important than it is. After all, who is he dressing for when we are the only ones here?
“Hi, Debbie.” He tries to smile, but only the left side of his lips turns up. “Have a seat. Please.”
I oblige, taking the seat in front of his desk, smoothing my dress so that the hem stretches over my knees. I can’t push away the sinking feeling in my chest. “Is everything okay? Where is Bernice?”
Garrett opens his mouth, but instead of answering that question, he just shakes his head. “I need to talk to you about a column you did a little while ago.”
“Okay…”
“There was a woman who wrote to you, talking about a problem with her husband,” he reminds me. “And this is the advice you gave her…” He picks up a printed copy of the Hingham Household off his desk, which is already dog-eared on the offending page. “You said, ‘Your husband is using money as a way to control you. You don’t need his permission to get a job. You don’t need his permission for anything! My advice is that you should speak to a divorce lawyer.’”
I remember the column well. I don’t often tell women to leave their husbands, believe me. I’m not a licensed therapist, and I certainly can’t offer that kind of advice based on the tiny snippet presented to me in letters from readers. At least half of the women write in with complaints about their husbands, and I can never tell them what I really think, although I’m always itching to do so. But what that woman was describing was so egregious, I couldn’t help myself.
“Yes,” I say. “The financial abuse guy.”
“Well, she left him.”
I nod, pleased. “Good.”
“Not good.” Garrett looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Debbie, what were you thinking? You can’t tell complete strangers to leave their husbands.”
“Isn’t my job to give advice?”
“Right, about gardening or getting stains out of shirts.” His voice is completely exasperated. “You can’t tell a woman you’ve never even met to get a divorce!”
“I can if he’s so clearly abusive!”
“You don’t know that…”
“He wouldn’t let her have her own credit card.” I tick off the man’s sins on my hands. “He put her on an allowance even though she’s a grown woman. He wouldn’t let her get a job of her own. What sort of decent husband treats his wife that way? Would you treat your wife that way?”
