This Is Not Over Part 30

It's painfully coincidental. He goes silent, I'm forced to pay money to confirm his continued existence, and then he's got loads to say. He's excited about some woman, probably a fellow addict. The rapid-fire tweeting makes me suspicious. It could be infatuation, or it could be meth talk. I transfer money into his account, and he goes on a binge. I'm financing my son's addiction. If he overdoses, it's on my head.

Maybe Larry was right. Total cutoff, black and white-it's the only way to go. Then you don't have to spend the rest of your life second-guessing. You can say that those were all Thad's choices, you had nothing to do with any of them. He knew what he needed to do to reenter your life, and he chose drugs instead. You wash your hands of all decisions. You're free and clean.

Not that Larry should ever feel clean again after what he did to the Stanwyck family, and to Tom Englander. He's the anesthesiologist who turned in his license rather than face the investigation into Joshua's death. Now he's a stockbroker. He might even be happier, who knows. Larry could have done him a favor.

That's just what Larry probably tells himself. I need to stop thinking like him.

Poor Tom Englander has been living his life believing that he killed a seventeen-year-old boy, and Larry has walked away without so much as a demerit on his record or a scratch on his conscience. Because after that initial weeping, I never saw much evidence that he was haunted by what he had done, which is all the more disturbing now that I know the extent of his crimes.

He's off in Palm Springs, and I'm barricaded in my own home, with a chair beneath the doorjamb, and an alarm system that I keep checking. In my bones, I'm sure that Dawn is coming for me. So, woozy as I am, I won't let my guard down.

I take a sip of strong coffee. It's my third cup in as many hours. First I couldn't sleep for reliving those voicemails, and seeing the smiling picture of Joshua Stanwyck, frozen at age seventeen. Now I won't sleep because it's too dangerous.

The TV is off, because I need to be able to hear every noise. That buys me the most time to react; it gives me a fighting chance. If someone tried to bust into the house, I'd sound the alarm and call the police, but what if that's not enough? If he forces his way inside with a gun, he could kill me instantly and be gone before help could arrive. Officer Llewellyn would finally have to take me seriously, but fat load of good it would do me then.

If I buy my own gun, I have to learn not only how to aim and fire, but how to do it under pressure. It seems more likely I'd shoot off my own foot than I'd harm any intruder.

I'm on my own. Up s.h.i.t creek without a paddle would be a vast improvement. I'm on the ocean floor without an oxygen tank.

I remember that when Thad was about seven or eight months old, he stopped breathing. I didn't know infant CPR; I don't think they even offered the cla.s.ses. Mothers back then weren't as braced for disaster as they are now, living in terror of autism and peanuts. We used to think it would all turn out for the best somehow.

Thad wasn't choking, but he was in paroxysms. He was turning blue. Panicked, I called 911.

The dispatcher asked me a series of questions, and the one that seemed most inane is the one that comes back to me now. "Is he holding his breath?" she said.

What baby would do that? And how would I know?

"He needs me," I wailed, "and I don't know how to help him."

She had missed her infant CPR cla.s.s, too, apparently. She just kept telling me not to worry, the paramedics were almost there, and we'd stay on the phone until they arrived. I didn't touch Thad for fear that I'd make things worse. I'd impede his oxygen flow further. If I tried to pump his chest, I could break a rib. I could kill him with blunt force trauma.

Tears were streaming down my face, the dispatcher was reminding me to hang on, it would all be okay, and then the episode pa.s.sed. Whatever was happening stopped. Thad drew in a sharp breath, and then another. There was a pounding on the door. Help had arrived. The paramedics listened to Thad's heart and lungs and declared him a very lucky, healthy baby.

Through it all, even when he hadn't appeared to be breathing, Thad watched me, impa.s.sively. It was like he wanted to see my reaction. His was the pitiless gaze of a future serial killer, one who had nothing to be afraid of himself because life is nothing to lose.

I can see it so vividly, it's like I feel his eyes on me now, though I know that's crazy. He was eight months old. The alarm system is working. There's no one here but me.

I pick up the knife with trembling fingers, and I ask myself the essential question.

Was it then?

49.

Dawn

I know what you told Aunt Tanya.

I know you think you're so much better than me and your father.

Really? How are you different?

You live in a s.h.i.tty apartment.

You don't work.

You're headed for a fall, Dawnie, and when it happens, I'll be here for you, because I'm your mother.

What, you're too good to answer me?

Does Rob know you're a wh.o.r.e and not a very good one?

All this time, she knew.

I'm so stupid. That never once occurred to me. I thought I had to protect her from everything, even that knowledge, but of course, she was in on it.

This is why you should turn your phone off during cla.s.s.

"Dawn," I hear Professor Myerson saying, from about a million miles away, "you're up."

My knees are shaking. With anger, hurt, and maybe the recognition of truth-that on some level, I've always thought I was a wh.o.r.e headed for a fall. I just didn't think my own mother would push me off the cliff.

I need to get through this presentation. It's the last one of the semester, and it's only fifteen minutes long. I'm good at public speaking. It must be my intangible quality.

So why hasn't Sean called me back about that job? I'm ready to wh.o.r.e myself, and now he doesn't want me?

"Dawn, are you ready?" Professor Myerson says, sounding concerned. He's in the back row, I'm in the front.

I force myself to my feet. It's not such a long distance to travel to the podium, and my first PowerPoint slide is on the screen behind me.

HOW TO RIGHT A WRONG: THE INTERNET AS AN ETHICAL EQUALIZER.

A Final Project by Dawn Thiebold I stand ramrod straight. In my public speaking cla.s.s, I learned that with the right posture, confidence will follow.

Any second now, my confidence will kick in.

Any.

Second.

Now.

Professor Myerson has his face arranged in his usual mild listening expression. You wouldn't know that we'd had our confrontation just yesterday, though my damp armpits are well aware. I know what he thinks of me.

The rest of the cla.s.s is watching me, the male students more avidly. I remind myself that oral presentations are my strength.

Don't think about Mom. She doesn't actually know anything about me. She never bothered to learn.

But she knew more than I ever guessed.

Some students are restless; others look more curious about my unraveling. I can't afford to wait for my confidence at this point. I just need to start talking. Get through it. Get out of here. But I don't even know where I'm headed anymore.

"There's an Adrienne Rich quote," I say, my voice trembling, "about how the political is personal, so I've decided to bring something personal into my final project. A few months back, I stayed in a house rental that I found on Getaway.com." I click the b.u.t.ton in my hand, and the screen behind me changes. I wanted to show them Miranda's original listing, but of course, that's not available anymore. Instead, I exhibit a similar sample house. "Beautiful, right? Luxurious. It was a splurge for my husband and me, for sure, one of our only vacations this year."

I'm not going to tell them the haunted part, how it affected Rob and me, how it affects us still. The political is not that personal.

But my self-righteous fury is coming back to me. That's powered me through a lot in my life, and of late, it's what I look to Miranda for. It's going to get me through this.

I click again, and now the screen shows Miranda's e-mail, though today she'll be known as Marissa. "Then I receive this communication from the 'host,' Marissa." I can't resist the air quotes.

Please note: It is April 23, 2014. You'll have your deposit within seven business days, just like it says on Getaway.com. I've put through a refund to your credit card for the full amount, minus $200 to replace the sheets. I couldn't get the stain out despite professional laundering and bleaching . . .

"You'll notice that there's no 'Dear Dawn.' Or 'I'm sorry you had to contact me repeatedly to get your deposit.' There's also no photographic evidence to support her contention of a stain. Quite clearly, there was no stain. The authoritative tone, the lack of personal touches-it's all intended to make me feel that she has the power in our exchange. This is a prime example of unethical communication."

My voice is stronger now. I see that my audience looks a little more engaged. Everyone loves a narrative thread instead of a dry presentation of an article, like the ones we've sat through so far today.

I click, and now it's my review from Getaway.com.

Beware of your "host"

THREE STARS.

I wouldn't have left a review at all, if I didn't feel it was my civic duty to warn others . . .

I let them read the meat themselves, and finish with "This is an example of persuasive communication. I distinguish myself-an ethical consumer of goods and services-from Marissa. I demonstrate that I'm a trustworthy person and she is not. Then the site's users can draw their own conclusions." I glance at Professor Myerson. He's inscrutable. I look down at my notes, composing myself. Then I look up and smile. Somehow, against all odds, against my mother's prophecy, I'm pulling this off. I'm standing straight, and I won't let myself fall. f.u.c.k her. And f.u.c.k Miranda. I click.

I'm shocked that you didn't address your issue with me first but instead chose to post a scathing review. Now people will be worried about their security deposit when they don't need to be. Look at my other reviews. No one else has had any problem with me. On the contrary, they rave about my hospitality . . .

You suggest in your review that I'm a liar. I can a.s.sure you I am not . . .

"Notice the condescending tone. And nothing suggests 'liar' like protesting that you're not a liar." I hear a few snickers. Professor Myerson is giving me nothing, but that's okay. I don't need a father anymore.

The fact that there are no other three-star reviews doesn't mean everyone has had positive dealings with you. . . . Maybe you're just in the habit of trying to bully people into taking their reviews down, and making them question their reality. Sorry it hasn't worked this time.

"Communications-and ethics-is about refusing to back down in the face of tyranny." I don't see any nods, so I clarify. "Just because one person has money and an expensive house doesn't mean they can force another person to do what they want."

Dawn, Your review is based on miscommunication and inaccuracies. It is tantamount to character a.s.sa.s.sination, as it paints me as someone who would steal a security deposit.

My husband is a doctor. I do volunteer work. I have almost all five-star reviews on my property because I treat people well. That is my life.

Please call if you'd like to discuss this further . . .

"Would you call this woman?" A few people laugh. "Exactly. She could have responded with anything in this e-mail. She could have empathized with me. Instead, she chose to talk about her husband being a doctor, and her volunteer work. She tried to make me feel like she's better than me to get me to take down an honest review. It's poor communication, as well as unethical.

"Her only recourse-since I wouldn't take down the review-was to post a response on the website."

I've apologized repeatedly to the reviewer for any miscommunication but have only received hostility in return . . .

Some people want to find fault; they want to hate. That seems to be the case here. Unfortunately, some people can't be pleased.

"Who's engaging in character a.s.sa.s.sination now?" I look around the room. They're just not getting it, they don't know why this is so utterly enraging. Do they have no sense of fairness, justice, and self-respect? Do young people today care about anything at all?

Professor Myerson seems slightly dyspeptic, like he's stifling a burp. I hadn't realized until just then how much I wanted them to get it, to see Miranda like I see her, and to see me like I need to see myself.

But I continue, because I have to.

I tell them about the Santa Monica ordinance and show my e-mail reporting Miranda to the city attorney. "While I never got a satisfactory response from them-they just told me they were 'looking into the matter'-the listing disappeared from Getaway.com. I had, effectively, put her out of business. And for someone like Miran-Marissa, who's used to getting what she wants by virtue of her money and status, this was too much to take. She had to up the ante." I've got their attention again as I click.

The police have advised me to block you. All further communications should cease.

"I followed her instructions. I ceased communicating with her. But that didn't stop me from communicating about her." This is the true heart of my presentation. I point out how I used the Internet to my full advantage, turning her own words against her by reposting our exchanges on multiple websites. The Bewarethisrental.com review is on the screen behind me. "This became her new Internet footprint. And as a result, I received this e-mail."

It's supposed to prove that I won. After all, Miranda begged for my forgiveness, pretended to be reformed, and refunded me double, while I did nothing for her. This should be my triumph.

"Notice the manipulative communication. There's the fake deference, the phony apology, the false flattery about me being a better writer than her, and her trying to buy me off for four hundred dollars."

I don't know how to interpret the look on Professor Myerson's face. It seems almost-pitying. He feels for me. He may even care for me. But he doesn't respect me. If he did, he would never have sent me on that interview.

"Needless to say, I'm not for sale, and I haven't deleted anything online. That, in conclusion, is how to right a wrong."

There's a round of halfhearted applause, though none of the other presentations so far have garnered anything more than that. Still, I didn't think it would be hard to top them. I have a sinking feeling in my chest as Professor Myerson clears his throat.

"Let me play devil's advocate," he says. "What if it's not manipulation? What if she had a sincere conversion?"

"Then why does she ask me to take everything down? She has an ulterior motive."

"Is it possible that both can be true? She can sincerely see your point of view, realize she's done wrong, but also want you to stop humiliating her?"

He's telling me to take her point of view, and it's not until that moment that I realize I never really have. Now I'm standing in front of a cla.s.s and they can all see it. I was so obsessed that I forgot Communications 101: try on the other person's position; walk in their shoes.

On the screen behind me is the final image.

Thanks for the refund. Better late than never, I guess. And while I appreciate your epiphany, I'm standing by my reviews. You did what you did, and you can't undo it now. We all have to sit with the consequences of our actions.

"Cla.s.s, do you have any questions?" Professor Myerson says.

"Isn't this actually an example of cyberbullying?" a girl asks from the front row. She's a chronic eye-roller.