This Is Not Over Part 20

How did she make you?

I don't think I got a hug from her until the day she sent me away to rehab.

Aw, poor little rich boy. Mommy never hugged him. She just gave him everything. But he hasn't yet told me that he was raised in Beverly Hills. He's still pretending to be a starving artist.

Did rehab work?

I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

Do you have a dad?

Sure. Did you?

It seems pointed, the past tense. I wonder if he Googled me, if he knows about my father dying. The one thing my mother paid for in all of this was an obituary. It was full of misspellings and falsehoods about what a great man he was, and a loving father ("survived by his beautiful daughter Dawn Thiebold").

No, I answer, I don't have a dad.

Sorry. Or not?

Not.

I'm telling him too much. Stay a woman of mystery, a trench coat disappearing into the mist, and you'll never get hurt. They'll never touch you.

That was my mistake with Rob. I became real.

32.

Miranda

Bengal Construction 62 reviews 1 STAR.

Make sure you do your homework before you hire a contractor, especially for foundation repair. Don't rely on the contractor to tell you what to do, especially when that contractor is Bengal.

We've had to file a formal complaint with the Better Business Bureau and the Contractors State License Board . . .

1 STAR.

I had three companies give me estimates. This was the only one who said I needed significant repairs, to the tune of $25K. These guys should be put out of business. No, they should be run out of town on a rail.

1 STAR.

Frank came to my house and said I needed a new foundation when other companies said I just needed some beams added for stability. I was quoted $60,000 for a job that ended up costing $9,000. Frank gave me an estimate after five minutes, and he was looking at something on his cell phone for half that time. No measurements, nothing. Wouldn't call them again, ever.

2 STARS.

They called me back fast, I'll give them that, and they were polite. The work, though, was a disaster. They were never on time, they left trash everywhere, and they did different work than in the contract! I wouldn't have known if I hadn't asked for pictures. Then I had to ask for a refund of the difference between what they said they'd do and what they did. They gave it to me, which is why I gave them that second star.

Sometimes people surprise you with their character and integrity. There you are, standing before them, begging to be ripped off, saying things like, "I just don't know anything about foundations! I don't even know where my crawl s.p.a.ce is!" and they refuse to take the bait.

And sometimes people disappoint you with their character and integrity. Frank from Bengal Construction has the face and mannerisms of a cla.s.sic shyster. I was sure that he would be the one to give me an extravagant estimate. But instead, he tells me, "Your foundation's pretty much fine, just a few spiderweb cracks. I can come back in a couple of years and check again, but for now, I'd say you've got no problems."

My eyes widen. I almost want to laugh-me, with no problems?-but something else must cross my face instead, and I must have surprised him right back, because his eyebrows hoist and he adds, "This is good news, missus."

He can't even remember my name, which was one of the knocks on him in the reviews I read. His company had the worst Yelps of any in the greater Los Angeles area, and that's saying something. In a metropolis as sprawling as this one, Frank and Bengal Construction have screwed people end to end, from East L.A. to Culver City.

I chose the three most disreputable companies I could find to give me estimates on foundation work. With the way my luck is going, the next two will have similar attacks of conscience.

I can't go home empty-handed. If I have to, I'll work my way down the list. Someone will be willing to screw me. This is Los Angeles, after all, home to Hollywood, land of a million rationalizations and creative interpretations. One man's spiderweb crack is another's gold mine.

It's been a disappointing day, all told. Earlier, I went to my mother's facility and met with Dr. Wallace. I need to keep moving, to keep busy, so I won't think about Thad's threat, and how close I'm dancing to the edge of my marriage, to the end of life as I know it.

I was just hoping for some good news, that I'd be told I can impact something (in this case, someone) in a positive way. Dr. Wallace gave me a gentle smile and said, "Your presence is enough. So many family members stop coming over time, but you're still so consistent. That's what she needs."

Dr. Wallace doesn't know how I've struggled to stay consistent, how many visits I've wanted to blow off since they don't seem to matter to my mother anyway. "I want to help bring her back," I said. I need to do something, doesn't anyone understand that? Progress instead of progression-that could be my slogan. I should float it at a Nar-Anon meeting and see if there are any takers.

"Lewy body dementia is a little different than Alzheimer's or Parkinson's," Dr. Wallace replied. "Stop me if you've heard this before. Her short-term memory is not as affected as it would be if she had Alzheimer's. But her fluctuations in attention, concentration, and awareness-well, you know how those can happen suddenly. It seems like you're going to have a good visit, and then she's agitated. There are the hallucinations, and the delusions. She talks to your father often, as if he's right there."

I was startled. I've never seen that, and no one has mentioned it before. "Does she ever talk to me when I'm not here?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. You could ask the nurses."

As if I need to expose myself to further humiliation.

"My point is, she's unpredictable. The photo alb.u.ms could be agitating to her, or soothing, but it can turn on a dime. They could trigger a delusion or a hallucination. Then we'd have to medicate her further. We want to keep her calm without having to resort to neuroleptics because those can have all sorts of unpleasant side effects for someone with LBD."

LBD. Little black dress. Or a warpath deterioration that robs you of all that you were and all that you loved.

"The best thing you can do is keep coming. And take her on walks, as much as she's willing."

"She's not very willing."

"Then just keep coming. You're doing all you can."

She meant this to be comforting. But being told that you're powerless is never actually a comfort. I never could embrace Step One. Neither could Thad.

When it comes to him, I truly am powerless. I have to submit to his tyranny, and meanwhile, he sends me texts about the paintings he's working on, as if all is normal. I respond, through gritted teeth, fearing that if I don't, he'll retaliate through Larry, or he'll use more drugs. He'll harm me or he'll harm himself. He's holding me hostage.

Something's changed inside of me since the blackmail. I can tell myself that this isn't the real Thad, it's his addiction. I can say it's not about me, it's about the drugs. But I can no longer manage to believe. Not every addict would blackmail his own mother. I never heard a story like this at Nar-Anon.

This isn't only about drugs. It's about who Thad is, and who I am, and what he feels about me, all of which is devastating and angering in equal measure. I'm used to dealing with devastation where Thad is concerned, but the anger . . . I don't know what to do with that. It's an electric current running through me all the time now.

Just keep moving, it's all I can do. Keep busy, like the officer said.

"Thanks, Frank," I say, reaching out to shake his hand. "I appreciate your time."

He starts to walk away, and then seems to think better of it. "A word to the wise," he says. "You need to Google yourself."

"What?"

"You seem like a nice lady to me, someone I'd like to do business with, but what I read on the way over here . . ." He shakes his head, like it's not to be spoken out loud. "Google yourself, you'll see what I'm talking about."

Wait a minute. He wouldn't want to work with me? Frank of Bengal Construction with its D- grade from the Better Business Bureau and innumerable one-star Yelp reviews was scared off by my Google results. Whatever he found was so bad that he decided to swindle someone else.

"What did it say, on the Web?" I ask.

"It's about your rental."

Of course. Dawn. Just because she hasn't contacted me, that doesn't mean I'm safe. I should have known she'd see through my baseless police threat, that someone like her would simply find other means to torture me.

Oh my G.o.d. The lights I didn't remember leaving on outside, the mouse in my pool. No, not a mouse. A rat. Brownish-gray, the same color as the stain she left on my sheets. Dawn was in my house, or someone else was, at her behest. A woman as beautiful as her could easily have henchmen.

No, it can't be. No one would do that. It was just bad luck, for the mouse and for me. It was a random act of G.o.d.

Since Frank's being honest and happens to be standing in front of me, I go ahead and ask him. "Do you know if Beverly Hills has a rat problem?"

Frank thinks I'm nuts, that's plain to see. He's probably reconsidering his original estimate of zero. A woman this insane would have replaced her whole house, subbas.e.m.e.nt to roof.

"I'm no expert," he disclaims, and then he goes on to tell me how it's common knowledge that rats have been living it up in Beverly Hills since the drought of the late nineties sent them scrambling. He distinguishes between black rats, which live in attics and trees and move like ballerinas, and Norwegian rats, which are grayish-brown, big and lumpy and slow. He tells me that I don't need to be worried about them carrying disease, that's for crowded urban s.p.a.ces like tenements; no, in Beverly Hills it's about chomping through power lines, and if that hasn't happened, if my electricity is still humming, then I've got no problems. He loves that phrase, it seems.

So a Norwegian rat decided to take a dip in my pool, that's all. Beverly Hills is apparently teeming with them, though I've never seen one before. It's merely poor timing that I'm having my first sighting now. It wasn't Dawn or one of her henchmen. It wasn't someone sending me a message. It was a fluke, that's all.

I thank Frank again. Maybe I'll even give him his first good Yelp review.

He smiles as he tips his head to one side, a gesture of false modesty. See, cla.s.sic shyster. But even shysters can come through for you sometimes.

I don't have time to Google myself because the next estimator is pulling up in his truck right now, DUNLEAVY CONSTRUCTION emblazoned on the side.

Even if she had nothing to do with that rat, Dawn's soiled so much more than just my sheets. She's tainted the Santa Monica house. This place felt inviolate to me, which sounds odd given that I was opening it up to strangers. But I'd never had a real issue before Dawn, and in fact, all the e-mails from satisfied customers, the positive reviews, and the praise had validated my sense that the last home my parents ever shared was a truly wonderful place.

I miss checking my e-mail for inquiries about the house. I liked reading the palpable desire of strangers, and after their stays, their effusive words. Now, I just keep hearing Dawn's nastiness in my head, and her petty complaints. I can't help but think of the partially obstructed view from the kitchen. I look at the bed and I can still see that stain, which is presently morphing into the dead Norwegian rat.

Wait a minute . . .

In my original e-mail, I called it a cat-shaped stain. She's correcting me, telling me it's the shape of a large rat. Even if rats are now indigenous to Beverly Hills, there's no way it was a coincidence.

As I wait for Dunleavy to emerge from the crawl s.p.a.ce, I leave a voicemail for Officer Llewellyn. I explain the cat/rat shape. He'll have to take me seriously now. I wish I'd thought to save the corpse. It just hadn't occurred to me that vermin would be evidence.

Should I Google myself now? I've never thought to do it before. I have limited social media presence. That's for young people, people like Thad, not for women my age. It just seems desperate to me when sixty-year-olds are posting selfies. Just that word, "selfie," makes me cringe. You take pictures of people you love, and you with them; you don't just photograph yourself. We used to call behavior like that narcissism.

Dunleavy emerges, and he says that it's not just a matter of repair work; we're looking at total foundation replacement. He tells me to brace myself, and then gives me the estimate I'd been hoping for: $35K. Now all I need is to convince Larry that we can't sell the house this way, any home inspector would tell the potential buyer and it would queer the deal, so we'll need to repair it. Besides, we can't sell it anyway because I'm too sentimentally attached. No, because we can recoup the $35K and far more if we just hang on to the house longer. Another five years, and during that time, I would detach. I would work toward letting go. I would become more rational, more like Larry.

Thirty-five thousand will buy me at least a year of helping Thad. During that time, I can try to convince him to give rehab another go. He can be magically transformed into a better person. He'll do regular drug tests, and if they come back clean, he can rebuild his relationship with Larry. We could pay for art school, and Thad could parlay that into a job. He could give up this long-standing myth of exceptionalism and hunker down and work. It'll buy me a year, and that's as far out as I can afford to fantasize.

A year is a long time. Anything could happen. This isn't over yet.

33.

Dawn

Hi. What should we do for dinner tonight?

I can cook.

Are you sure? We could go out.

I'll cook. You don't need to spend your money.

Okay, see you soon.

See you.

Hey, Thad. Where were we?

You were about to tell me something about your mom.

Oh, yeah. She keeps bugging me.

I know that drill.

Since my dad died, she keeps hinting that she should move in with me.

I bet your husband loves that idea.

He likes it a lot better than I do.