This Is Not Over Part 17

I think about him all the time.

All I do is cry.

I can't stay here.

Dawn, is your phone working?

Call me soon.

Text me, all right?

Can I see his body again?

You're not supposed to leave your widowed mother hanging, I know that. But her woe-is-me s.h.i.t is draining. Yes, she just lost her husband, but I lost my father, too. She hasn't once asked how I'm doing, or what it means to me.

Not that I want to discuss it with her, or with anyone, but that's not the point. The point is, my own mother hasn't asked. Instead, she's decided to make up for all the years of minimal (and then no) contact with a daily barrage of texts and phone calls, bemoaning her wretched state. Every hour, I text back: I know, Mom. I'm sorry. Despite Rob's hopeful take, there's no opportunity for rebuilding a relationship with her, since she still doesn't seem to realize I exist as a separate person; she only wants someone to look after her, same as always.

Rob thinks I should be doing more. He's stopped saying it, but I can see it in his eyes. He's right, I should want to do more. But I want to do less. I want to text back once a day, max, and tell her to pull herself up by her bootstraps and get the job she should have gotten years ago. It was pretty c.r.a.ppy of her not to have worked when she had a husband who couldn't keep the family above the poverty line, and a young daughter who couldn't always be sure there would be food on her plate and a roof over her head. Her failure to step up was a big part of the nightmare that was to follow when I was sixteen. But, as Miranda would say, that's neither here nor there.

Mom knows she can't see the body. We've been over this. Does Hallmark make a "He wasn't embalmed" card?

"Dawn, are you here?" Professor Myerson gives me a sympathetic smile. There's a bit of crust protruding from his nose. We're sitting closer than I'd like in his office, but that's because it's a tiny box. Probably not much bigger than Dad's casket.

"Sorry. I'm listening. It's just-my mom is kind of needy these days."

"That's understandable. How long were your parents together?"

"A long time." It's the last thing I want to talk about. Rob's been trying to get me to talk about my feelings, and when that doesn't work, he wants me to empathize with my mom. The harder he tries, the more I want to point out how self-absorbed she is. The buildup of these texts just proves it. If she thinks I'm going to invite her to live with me, after all she's done-no, all she hasn't done-over the years, then she hasn't just lost him, she's lost it.

You can tell Professor Myerson's age by how much paper is in this office. There are stacks piled high, nearly tipping, like Leaning Towers of Pisa. I don't know how he can stand the claustrophobia of the place.

Another ping. "Go ahead," he says. "Answer her."

There's no getting around it. I don't want Professor Myerson thinking I'm heartless.

I'm in a meeting. Call Aunt Tanya. Go to the grief group.

I found her a grief group that meets through the local hospice. It's pay-what-you-can-afford, which, in her case, means free.

"What was I saying?" he asks.

You were giving me a canned speech about how many different professions I could pursue with a communications degree. "I think you were talking about how I could go into teaching."

"Right, right. That's just one of many avenues. Really, it's limitless. What do you like doing?"

"I like writing. I'd like to be intellectually stimulated while doing some good in the world. I don't want to do direct sales or customer service, and nothing where they use the word 'branding.' I want to make decent money."

He screws up his face in concentration, and I realize that the combination might be as elusive as I'd feared. "So nonprofits are out. Sales and marketing jobs are out. No advertising." He taps his pencil. "This is a tough one, Dawn."

"I thought you said it was limitless."

"You've narrowed the parameters significantly, that's all. It can be done. All problems can be solved."

He gets an incoming call that he seems relieved to take. He steps into the hall, leaving me alone with my qualms and, a second later, with my mother.

I just don't think I can stay here much longer.

If she'd tried to reenter my life under other circ.u.mstances (or best of all, with no particular circ.u.mstances, just because she missed me), it would be different. But I can't hold my arms open to her, not like this.

I wish Rob was her son. He's just a way better person than I am. Since my dad died, I'm reminded of that all the time. Rob's responses are the right ones to have; mine are wrong, wrong, wrong. That makes sense, since his life experiences have been pure, and I was corrupted. But I just have to fake my way through and hope he doesn't find out.

After a while, it dawns on me that Professor Myerson isn't coming back. I feel a bit spurned, that he didn't even think to say good-bye, but maybe he had to go to cla.s.s. He could have finished his call and realized he was late. Or maybe I'm just asking too much of the world, and of him.

I haven't heard anything from the Oakland or the L.A. Police Departments, so I guess I'm in the clear. A small part of me hopes they show up at my door. Then I can make sure they know just what kind of woman Miranda is. After all, she's the one who committed a crime.

I debate whether to call the city attorney's office to follow up on my complaint, but if Miranda found out, could that be construed as hara.s.sment?

I won't contact the city attorney or Miranda again. I don't need to. There are other ways to get to someone. For one thing, I have her address. And then there's Thad.

He texted me hours ago, though I have no idea how he got my cell number. All he said was Hey, beautiful.

I start with Twitter; he goes to Facebook. I friend him; now he's texting on my cell. This is a guy who ups the ante, a real boundary breacher.

I should tell him to lose my number. No, I shouldn't respond at all.

But no one's pursued me in so long. It's been ages since anyone plucked this particular string inside of me. I can feel its tw.a.n.g, all through my body.

What IS a Thad, anyway?

28.

Miranda

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"Can I get you anything? Some more tea?" The waitress is young and blond, exuding immense good health if not actual beauty.

She's caught me rubbing my eyes as I take a break from the reading on my phone. I find a smile for her. "Thank you. More tea would be lovely."

I'm not a tourist, but I've always liked this hotel bar with its deep beige-and-brown-upholstered chairs and the view overlooking the pier. Today, though, I'm preoccupied. Thad hasn't texted me but he has been tweeting incessantly, nonsensically. He's using again, I know it.

But I need to ignore my heavy heart and decide what to do with the Santa Monica house. Maybe it's time to make a radical case to Larry. That house was so good for my parents' marriage; it might be able to work its magic on ours, too. We're not broken, but that doesn't mean we couldn't use a renovation. Larry just turned sixty-one. He could start reducing his hours in antic.i.p.ation of retirement. We could even split our time between the two houses.

I haven't heard from Dawn since I sent her that warning from the police. She finally heard me. It's over. So what happened with her was a blessing in disguise, a wake-up call, an opportunity.

Hi, Mom.

See? Everything's looking up. My natural optimism has been tested through all the years of Thad's addiction, but it's never been extinguished. G.o.d doesn't give you more than you can handle; it's always darkest just before the- I'll have to scratch that expression from my lexicon.

I'm so glad to hear from you, Thad!

The exclamation point was genuine that time.

I have to tell you something, and you're not going to like it.

He's using my words against me. My newly buoyant heart plummets again.

I don't think it's fair that you just cut me off.

We've been over this.

You said your circ.u.mstances changed, and the funds dried up. Is that still true?

Now my heart is racing. I could tell him I don't know; I could say that there might be some money, somewhere. But he's been using, and I need to stop enabling. I need to hold the line.

Yes, it's still true.

Does Dad know?

Know what?

That you're cutting me off.

Larry thinks I cut him off years ago. Thad knows that. This is going nowhere good.

Yes, he knows.

I'm going to text him to confirm.

I thought the worst he would do was ignore me.

I'm going to tell him what you're doing to me. That you've been paying my rent, and now, when I'm on the verge of something big, you're s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g me.

He's using, that's the only explanation. Otherwise, there's no way he would make this kind of a threat.

Are you sure your circ.u.mstances have changed?

This is Thad, lucid. This is extortion.

My son's a terrorist. There's no other word for it, really. I never admitted it before, but he's been my terrorist for years. Terrorists control through fear; they narrow your life choices; they are merciless.

In this case, he wins. My shoulders sag as I text back: They might not have changed. What do you want?

Two months of rent and a works.p.a.ce. Art supplies, too, that'd be good.

Two months, and that's it. No more.

Two months is all I need. I'll get that show, and then I'll be set. Thanks, Mom. You won't be sorry. You'll see.

I can't even manage a response.

I want you to come to the show. It'll sell out, I know it will, and I'll fly you out to see it.

Is he lying? Is he deluded? Does he really want me there, or is he trying to put a balm over blackmail? I don't know what's just happened. My mind is reeling. He's a monster, and he might not even know it.

I love you, Mom. We'll talk soon.

For the first time, I hope not.

29.

Dawn

If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?

A fascinating hypothetical, Thaddeus, but the answer will have to wait.

I know where I wouldn't be, though: dinner with the in-laws.

Even though I call Rob's parents Mom and Dad, at their insistence, none of us are fooled. Someday I might really feel like a Thiebold, but I'm reminded, every time I see them, that it's not today.

Their home is in Elmwood, just a few blocks over from the engraving store on College Avenue, and typical of the neighborhood, it's a large brown-shingled Craftsman. Some people have replaced the brown shingles with white stucco or other facades. There are some A-frames and Mission styles and Victorians interspersed, but regardless of make and model, all the houses are uniformly well-maintained (these are not my mother's Victorians). Every other car is a Prius. While these houses are worth millions now, "Mom" and "Dad" bought theirs more than forty years ago. This is the family's primary a.s.set, especially since the store is shedding value fast.