This Is Not Over Part 10

This last week, though, I've been a different kind of junkie, craving just one more hit, one more text. I want him to tell me about his art, the show that he's working toward, the all-nighter he's just pulled. I lap up his pipe-dreamy nonsense. Just keep talking-well, texting. Stay live, and real.

Last night, he signed off that he loves me. And today . . . radio silence.

The more I think about it, the more out of character (and ominous) it all seems. Was that him saying good-bye? Has all this correspondence been a prelude to his final act?

I toss my sponge in the sink and grab my phone, checking Twitter and Instagram. Nothing since yesterday.

Thad, please answer.

I'm getting worried.

Thad wouldn't kill himself. That's not who he is. He's overdosed before, but they've always been accidental.

Haven't they?

Yesterday afternoon, he seemed nearly jubilant. High on life, that's what I decided to think. He was so sure that his ship was coming in, that his new work was the best he'd ever done. He said a gallery owner was interested.

He could have been just plain high. Once he crashed . . .

Thad wouldn't commit suicide. He's not the type. As Larry once said, Thad's always had "curiously high self-regard for someone who's accomplished so little." But that's when Thad was much younger. What if it's finally caught up with him, the sense of failure?

I grab my phone and begin to text madly, a flurry of support: I love you.

I'm so proud of all the new work you're doing.

I'm sure it's wonderful.

He hasn't Instagrammed it, or sent me pictures. But that doesn't mean he hasn't been doing art. That doesn't mean he's been on something.

It's my fault. I should have asked him to send me a picture. Generally, I'm relieved not to see it. Because what I've seen makes no sense to me at all. It looks like graffiti, what you'd see on a wall and think that the neighborhood's gone to h.e.l.l. Strange, thuggish cartoon figures, and oversized letters spelling out words like "ghettology." He says he's "subverting the dominant paradigm." How am I supposed to respond to that?

He used to hate when I said I didn't quite get his art, that I'm not the target audience. He hated when I said I was sure it was good, if you like that sort of thing.

I shouldn't have sent that last text, the I'm sure it's wonderful. I can't afford any missteps. The truth is, as much as I've loved hearing from him these past days, it's been terrifying, too. I've been texting on eggsh.e.l.ls. If all I do is read his tweets, then I can't inflame him. I can't lose what I don't have.

He must be using again. He might have overdosed, accidentally or on purpose. I need to do something, I can't just sit here texting all day.

I hear Eva deactivating the alarm system from the foyer. When I appear in the living room, she looks up, surprised. I'm rarely home when she arrives. It makes me uncomfortable to be present while someone cleans my house; I feel lazy and critical all at once.

"I'm just leaving, Eva," I say, shoving the cell phone into my purse and pa.s.sing her on my way to the front door.

"Have a great day!" she calls after me.

Once in the car, I know just where to go.

As I drive, I tell myself that Thad will be okay, he always is. How many times have I made myself crazy, imagining him lying dead in some filthy drug lair, and then he Instagrams a picture of himself at a Burger King? This will be just like that.

I still don't know what I'm going to do after the final two rentals are done. I suppose I could go to management companies and see if they could get me a steady supply of thirty-day renters, though I despise the idea of them walking through my parents' house, with their beady appraising eyes. After they take their cut, what would be left for Thad?

Larry makes more than enough money to subsidize Thad. He could take care of ten grown children, if he wanted to, easily. But there's no way he would, and if lump sums began disappearing from our joint account, he would notice sooner or later. He'd follow the trail, and I'd be sunk. Our marriage would be over.

Miranda and Larry, engraved, embroidered, emblazoned, written in the sky (he did that for our twenty-fifth anniversary)-what would I be, solo? An aged divorcee, a castoff. I'd be wealthy, since there was no prenup, but it wouldn't matter, or rather, it would only matter to the lowest of the low, the bottom-feeders, the young men living off their cougars. You see them everywhere in this town, and the women often look proud, and I'm embarra.s.sed for them. They have no idea how the world views them. But then, to be that blind-maybe they're the lucky ones. If I had to start dating, it would be on my own merits, fair market value, and I shudder to think what that would be.

Besides, I love Larry. He's tender toward me, and I toward him. We still snuggle on the couch and eat popcorn while we watch movies. We might not go into tedious detail about our days, but the curiosity is there. The concern is there. It's never left.

Can I convince Larry that I never knew about the ordinance? Would I be able to lie right to his face? I don't trust my acting abilities, while I trust his discernment.

I push open my car door and stride up the steps to the police station. It's a small building, quaint, almost like a one-room schoolhouse. I tell myself they're going to be friendly inside.

At first, that's how it is. I sit across the desk from a pleasant uniformed officer in his early thirties. "Slow news day," I say with a smile, casting my eye around the room. He laughs generously. The acoustics of the room are somewhat intimidating, seeing as there are five desks nearby occupied by other officers, none of them with witnesses, or whatever it is I am.

"How can I help you, Mrs. Feldt?" Officer Llewellyn says. He's almost handsome, in an army regulation sort of way, but with a long, slightly crooked nose. I see by the picture on his desk that he's a family man, with a sunny wife and three kids. He makes good eye contact, seems sincere and interested and sympathetic. This is going well already.

"My son is in Tucson, and he might be in trouble. I'd like the local police to do a welfare check."

"Is he of age?"

"Yes, he's twenty-seven."

"Have you called the Tucson police already?"

"No. I don't have my son's address."

Officer Llewellyn c.o.c.ks his head, almost imperceptibly. I feel myself flush, a mother not knowing her own son's address.

"I thought that if I just called them, they'd say they couldn't help me without an address. But if the LAPD asked them, they would manage to do something more. Maybe they could track him by the GPS on his phone?"

I smile in my most maternal, trustworthy way. I could be this officer's mother. He needs to remember that. How would he want his own mother treated in a situation like this?

"When did you last hear from your son?"

"Last night." I see the look in his eyes: You don't have your son's address yet you're alarmed that you haven't heard from him in twelve hours? But I won't be deterred. "I need a welfare check. I've had them done before." I remember how angry Thad was to have the police sniffing around. He yelled, "Do you want to get me arrested?" Then as now, better arrested than dead.

Officer Llewellyn asks, "Under what circ.u.mstances did you get the other welfare checks done?"

"When I was concerned for his welfare."

"Because . . . ?"

I flush more deeply. "Because he's a drug addict who's overdosed three times before." I haven't said those words aloud in so long, yet the shame feels like yesterday. This man must be thinking that it's my fault, in some way, shape, or form, and I agree with him.

"You know a welfare check is just a knock on the door and a walk around the premises if there's no answer?" It's my turn to nod. "If he's inside and he's overdosed, I don't imagine he'd answer the door." I notice that one of the other officers at a nearby desk is glancing over, as if he wants to catch Officer Llewellyn's eye. But my officer is fixed firmly on me. He doesn't think I'm a joke, just nave. Or maybe pathetic. The junkie's well-dressed mother prevailing on police resources might be an old story.

"Maybe if they really pounded on the door, it could wake him up," I say, but he's shaking his head. There's kindness in it, as if he doesn't want me to embarra.s.s myself further.

"It's not something I can do. I call other police departments when it's a serious matter, and I'm sorry, but this doesn't qualify. I'd advise you to call them yourself, on the nonemergency line."

My eyes fill with tears. Crying in public . . . my mother would be horrified. He hands me a tissue from the box on his desk. "He hasn't answered my texts all day."

"I imagine that's very frightening, given his history."

"We've been talking more lately, and last night, he told me he loves me." I'm nearly whispering by the end.

"Sounds like a good talk."

A last talk. "Are you sure there's nothing you can do?" If I'm going to cry, I might as well try to get mileage out of it.

"The odds are, he's fine."

"He says he's been clean."

"Maybe he has been. Maybe he is. Maybe his phone died. Maybe a lot of things. Don't leap ahead, that's my advice to you."

As an officer, he's probably seen a lot of things himself. It's good advice, the same advice they would give me at Nar-Anon. Often good advice is the hardest to follow.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

I'm sure he doesn't expect me to answer that. It's a polite kiss-off. But since I'm here . . .

"Actually," I say, "you might be able to help me with this one."

"Yeah?" He smiles, like he's delighted to have the opportunity. His mother raised him well.

"There's a woman named Dawn Thiebold," I begin. As I describe her behavior-including the last e-mail where she called me the C-word and basically threatened me-I feel more confident that Thad is fine, and that I was meant to come here to talk about Dawn. To stop her.

I'm sure I'm not her first victim. Women as relentless and as cunning as she is, women unable to take responsibility for their own actions and pay the price, they must strike again and again. Yes, that's what it is. She's a bully, and everyone knows that if you stand up to a bully, they back down. They find another target.

Not that I want her finding another target. I want to shut her down, same as she shut down my rental. That means scaring her, and the best way to do that is with the law, which must be on my side in a case like this. After all, hara.s.sment is a crime.

Officer Llewellyn listens with patience and concern as I explain it all, right up to Dawn sabotaging me with the Homeowners a.s.sociation.

"How did she do that?" he asks. It's the first time he's interrupted my recitation.

I have to tread lightly. I hadn't thought this through, and now I hope that the officers here don't know or care about Santa Monica ordinances. The last thing I need is for this complaint to expose my own violation, minor as it is. I didn't hara.s.s or threaten anyone; no one's been harmed by my actions. On the contrary, I've given people a beautiful place to spend a few days or a week. I've been a good host to many, even to Dawn herself.

"She made those same false accusations to the a.s.sociation," I say, thinking on my feet.

"About you keeping her deposit when she claims that she didn't actually stain your sheets?" Several officers look over, and this time, it's less oblique, more overt. There's no question what they think of me. They're glad that Llewellyn got the crazy old broad. Is this a police station or a frat house?

"I know it sounds ridiculous," I say, lowering my voice. "It is ridiculous, and petty. She's trying to ruin my life over something that she did." I reach into my purse for my phone. "I have all her e-mails, and the texts, too. It might take me a minute to find them all, but I can show you, I can prove-"

"I'm just trying to clarify so I can see if it meets the definition of civil hara.s.sment. If it qualifies as stalking, or abuse, or a credible threat of violence. Is that the case here, do you think?" His tone is neutral, but his intent is clear. He thinks the answer is no. He wants me to be the one to say it, to disqualify myself.

I stop scrolling on my cell. I have the sinking feeling that he's not interested anyway. I thought that if he couldn't help me with Thad, the very least he could do was help with Dawn. Together, we could have turned this visit to the station into something useful. I feel a surge of disappointment. I misjudged Officer Llewellyn. "She's contacted me repeatedly," I say, looking down. "She's trying to scare me." I feel like I'm going to cry again, and I know it won't do any good. I've been humiliated enough, to no purpose.

"Show me the e-mails," he says, like he's taking pity on me. "If she makes any sort of direct threat, I'll see what I can do."

"She's too smart to be direct! But it's in her tone. Here." I slide him the phone after finding the most recent e-mail. I wanted to delete that filth immediately, but I knew, on some level, that I shouldn't. It could be evidence.

He scans the lines. "It's definitely hostile, I'll give you that." I brighten slightly. Maybe this hasn't been a waste after all. "You said she lives hours away. Has she come anywhere near you, or threatened to?"

I lean in, needing him to look into my eyes. His mother's eyes. This is a good boy. He's the son that I should have had. He wants to help me. He just thinks his hands are tied. "You're talking about a subjective standard. I find her texts and e-mails abusive and threatening. I offered to refund her $200. What more does she want? Why is she still in contact with me? Why is she baiting me with that text about the fleece sheets, ha ha? Wouldn't you find it unnerving?"

"She needs a hobby, that's for sure." He looks at his desk. He hasn't looked at the other officers, not once, no matter how they try to catch his eye. He wants to do the right thing here. "You need to give me more, okay? This is the most aggressive of the e-mails, correct?" He holds up the phone, and I nod. "She writes to you, what, once a day?"

"No, not that often."

"The kind of hara.s.sment we see-sometimes we're talking about a hundred contacts a day. We're talking about explicit threats. Often we're talking about women whose husbands were beating on them for years, who have reason to fear for their safety. They need protection."

He's lecturing me, I realize. He's telling me that I'm wasting his valuable time. Well, I happen to think he's been wasting mine. I s.n.a.t.c.h my phone back.

"Based on what you've got here," he says in summation, "it doesn't qualify for a restraining order, especially with the distance, and that's the first step in hara.s.sment cases. Establishing the restraining order, and then when they violate it, they can be prosecuted."

"There should be some consequence for this behavior. She goes to buy a house, or apply for a job, and they see what kind of person she is. I want this to touch her in some way."

"That's not how it works. You don't get to put black spots on her record. This isn't about retaliation." His face has changed; he thinks he misjudged me.

"It's about my personal safety."

He shakes his head slowly, a little sadly. "She'll have her own side of this, you realize. The e-mails and texts you sent her are going to be part of it, too. You haven't shown me any of those."

"I have nothing to hide. You can see everything."

He shakes his head again, like he doesn't want me incriminating myself. "I don't understand why the Homeowners a.s.sociation took her seriously enough to throw you out."

"I wasn't thrown out. I was asked to resign. It was a courtesy."

Does he know about the ordinance? Is this entrapment?

No, he wouldn't do that.

He's not trying to figure me out anymore; he believes me. I've been trying to get him to see me as his mother, but instead, he thinks I'm my mother, that I'm losing my faculties.

"In Santa Monica," he says gently, "rentals are for thirty days or longer." I feel my face growing hot. "You're going to be okay. Things like this, people like Dawn-they flare up, and they flare out. She's going to forget about you soon. Geography is your best protection. She might be trying to scare you, but she's not going to hurt you."

He can't know that, any more than I can.

"Just between us, I've always thought it's a stupid ordinance." He smiles at me. "All you need to do is mark that woman as 'spam.' Everything she sends you goes straight to spam. Don't let her take up any more of your thoughts, okay?" When I don't answer, he says, "I can show you how to block her on your phone. That should take care of your problem."

I feel like crying (for the third time, this isn't me at all), and he can see it. He doesn't want to make his mother cry. So he keeps talking. "Just don't engage her anymore. She gets nothing back from you, there's nothing to fuel her fire. She burns out, like I said. So where are you headed after this? Do you have a friend you can call?"

He's a good man, and he's telling me that Dawn gets to take away my income and my reputation and my peace of mind, and there will be no retribution. There will be no protection. The law will do nothing unless she crosses more lines. I'm a sitting duck.

That's with a sympathetic officer. Imagine what I would have gotten with that oaf at the next desk.

"Do you work?" Officer Llewellyn asks me. I shake my head. "Volunteer?"

"A little."