This Is Not Over Part 33

She shakes her head. "He's a no-good alcoholic, just like your father."

"Thad isn't an alcoholic. He's a drug addict."

"Not Thad. Thad is a good boy. I'm talking about your husband. Your husband's just like your father."

"You're confused. Dad wasn't an alcoholic."

She purses her lips and shakes her head again stubbornly. That look says I know what I know.

"You're confused," I say again.

More head shaking. She's blocking me out. She's done with me.

"Do you even know who I am?" I'm on my feet. She needs to see me, all of me. "I'm your daughter! I'm here, asking for your help! Your advice! I need you! Do you get that? Do you get what I need? I come here all the time! I bring you flowers! Do you want me to go to Oakland? Just answer that! Should I go to Oakland?!"

I want her to be as agitated as I am. She needs to react to me. Your bond with your children is stronger than any other; it's the true for-better-or-for-worse. If she remembers my father the alcoholic, she should remember her own child.

Not that my father was an alcoholic. He was a workaholic. She's confusing her -holics.

She's escaped into her catatonia, and all I can do is yell for her to come back, come back.

The next thing I know, there's a nurse at my side, one I've never seen before, with fire-engine hair and equally clownish makeup. "You need to leave!" she says sternly. "Now."

A large orderly appears, and I figure out his role. He's supposed to escort me out, if necessary. I'm being kicked out of my mother's facility.

"You're upsetting your mother," the nurse says.

"You're wrong about that." I gesture toward my mother, who is stock-still. "She couldn't care less."

"Please leave."

Is there any lower moment than being kicked out of my mother's facility and returning to my car with its trunk full of weapons and a GPS set for an engraving store in Oakland?

I haven't got a thing left to lose.

53.

Dawn

I'm in front of your house.

Thad and I stare at each other across the threshold, boldly, nakedly, mutually . . . disappointed. That's the best word for it.

It was inevitable. Buildup leads to letdown. Also, we're two people who are better looking in selfies than in the flesh.

I've always been photogenic, and I know how to tilt my head to camouflage my flaws. My skin is a certified disaster area right now, with all the stress. War and Peace is written across my forehead, cheeks, and chin in Braille. Then there are the dark parabolas beneath my eyes. My body looks good, in a tight black tank top and jeans, but he may have been expecting someone taller. In pictures, I can give the impression of height.

As for Thad, he's no Justin Theroux or Joaquin Phoenix, unless one of them was cast to play a junkie. His teeth appear shadowed, and not well fixed in his mouth. It seems like one good chomp on an almond could send them hurtling in my direction. I never noticed before that all his selfies involve s.e.xy half smiles, with a closed mouth. He's sickly-skinny. His clothes are ill-fitting and threadbare, thrift store rather than vintage. My consolation is that he only looks homeless, rather than smelling it.

He wasn't playing an addict on Twitter; he clearly is one, in real life.

What have I gotten myself into?

He reaches out and grabs me somewhat roughly into an embrace. He says into my hair, "It's good to finally meet you, in person." He holds on, too long. Maybe my first impression was wrong, and he's not disappointed at all.

What have I gotten myself into?

There's no way around inviting him in. He drove here from Southern California, knocking on the door fifteen minutes after Rob left for work. He was sitting out front. For some reason, the thought that he knows what my husband looks like unnerves me.

He could be dangerous. Miranda obviously thinks he is. She's been paying him a monthly stipend to keep him from breaking into people's houses, and who knows what else. This is her son. She must have insider information.

What would she think if I texted her and said, I have your son in my house, come and pick him up? If I said, Thad's here, how do I get rid of him? It's almost comical.

Almost.

No one knows he's here. No one knows we're linked. He could do anything to me. He's a liar who let me think he was in Arizona rather than six hours away. He's a bad seed who'd blackmail his own parents.

"Come in," I say. The sooner he comes in, the sooner I can get him out. I hope.

He follows me inside. As he glances around, I can see what he's thinking: This is a s.h.i.thole. I feel like punching him. Yes, he was raised in Beverly Hills, but still. He's a junkie squatter.

"Do you have anything to drink?" he asks.

I walk into the kitchen. It's the room closest to the street, with the window open. People would hear me if I screamed. "Water. Orange juice."

"Put some vodka in the OJ and you made a sale."

"It's not even nine A.M." I'm facing away as I reach into the refrigerator. That's probably a mistake. I shouldn't turn my back on him.

"It's not like you have anywhere to be, right? You're playing hooky today."

I pivot back, the juice in my hand. He's lounging in a chair at my kitchen table, his spindly arachnid legs stretched out in front of him. I have to step over them to get to the cupboard for gla.s.ses. I'm repulsed.

But he's given me an out. "I have a cla.s.s in an hour, actually."

"That you're going to miss." He has an insouciance that would have captivated me years ago. Nice to realize that I'm all grown up now.

"I shouldn't skip this close to the end of the semester. I don't want to blow it now."

"Come here." He gives me a smile. Those teeth-it's like he's permanently leering. "Sit with me."

I put two gla.s.ses on the table and take the seat across from him, the farthest possible diametric distance. "Did you want some juice?"

"So no vodka, that's what you're saying?"

"I'm saying it's eight thirty in the morning."

He laughs like I'm full of charming peccadilloes. "Okay, Dawn, you win. OJ at the kitchen table it is." So he's picking up on my vibe, after all. What's creepy is that it doesn't seem to faze him at all.

Is it because he doesn't care what I want? Because he's going to take what he needs?

I'm getting ahead of myself. This guy could be completely harmless. I've had the upper hand since we met.

Or he's allowed me to think so.

"It's time for us to really get to know each other," he says.

My stomach drops, though I'm not going to show fear. "We already know plenty."

"I've told you my secrets. Now I want to know yours. I figure you're the kind of woman who has to be face-to-face. You have to see what you're dealing with before you give it up. I can respect that." He leans forward slightly. "I respect you, Dawn. I might even love you." Then he sits back, satisfied with his almost-declaration.

Does he know he's scaring me? Is that the point?

Miranda could have been behind this the whole time. She sent her son to do her dirty work.

No, that's ridiculous. I'm just freaking myself out here. He's harmless. A harmless thieving, blackmailing junkie. You know, one of those.

"I was a mess last night," I say carefully. "I thought I needed someone other than my husband. But it turns out, I don't." I'm sitting as far back as I possibly can, the chair digging into my spinal column. "I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have wasted your time. I shouldn't have let you come here."

"Let me? You were begging me."

"I don't think you're remembering right. Were you on something last night, when we talked?"

"On something?" His tone is mocking. "What something do you mean?"

"Meth? Pills? I don't know, just something that would make you remember differently."

"You mean make me remember wrong. Sorry, Dawn, I was stone-cold sober. You're the one who's confused. You've been begging me to come here for months."

"Wrong again."

He moves his chair closer to mine, with a loud sc.r.a.ping sound. Both the sound and his nearness make me want to flinch, but I know better than to show fear. He grabs my hand. "I'm here now, Dawn. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

"You can't stay. You know that, right?"

"I'm not staying. You're leaving with me."

Either he's nuts or I've been leading him on way more than I ever realized. "No one's hurting me. Rob is a good husband. I need to be a better wife."

He laughs. "Is this the 1950s?" He releases my hand, and it pulses with grat.i.tude. "I'm not saying you have to be an artist like me, but you've got to be free, Dawn. You're not some hausfrau in the hood."

"This isn't a hood. Temescal is-"

"I don't know what Temescal even is. I don't care. You belong in L.A., with me."

"Squatting in your mother's house until she sells it?"

"I'm about to get a show. Do you know how much money you can make in one night at a good gallery?" He's so confident, I could almost believe him. "Besides, I'm not going to take care of you in terms of money. That might be how you and your husband do it, but you and me, we're going to be fifty-fifty. True partners, in love and work. You'll have your degree soon, and then you'll get a job in L.A. I'll bring you home to meet my parents, and they'll love you. They'll see I've finally got it together. Beautiful woman, art show, a house in Los Feliz or maybe Silver Lake."

I can't keep the bemus.e.m.e.nt from my face at the idea of him bringing me home to meet Miranda. We've crossed over into total lunacy.

He grins. "You like me. I know you do. Let's have that drink, Dawn. What do you say?"

54.

Miranda

20% off all commemorative items. #engravingisthenewblack Under other circ.u.mstances, I would really enjoy walking around this neighborhood. There's an old-time movie theater, al fresco dining at bistros, boutiques, ice cream and gelato shops, chocolatiers, even an apothecary that makes its own personalized fragrances.

But Thiebold's Engraving doesn't really belong. Where the other places have a self-aware retro quality, Thiebold's just feels dated. I don't see any dust on the shelves, but there should be. Pocket watches and silver trays behind gla.s.s, and figurines in curio cabinets-who would shop here? No one, based on the tumbleweed blowing along the worn taupe carpeting, stained in some spots, actually threadbare in others.

I recognize Dawn's husband, Rob, from the Internet. He's behind the counter, and he doesn't belong here either. He's a handsome man, with a plaid b.u.t.ton-down tucked in neatly, sleeves rolled up, oozing affability. Good things could happen to him, if he weren't saddled with this dying cow of a business. But maybe he's the type who can't actually make good things happen; he takes what comes. That could be how he wound up with Dawn for a wife. She bowled him over.

"What's the event?" he asks with an easy smile. "Anniversary? Graduation? It's that time of year."

"It is." I smile back. My social graces rea.s.sert themselves in the face of his. If the stars had aligned differently, correctly, this would be my son. I feel a sudden ache keeping time alongside the anger that has ticked inside me all day, a constant companion during the six-hour drive. I was speeding along with my internal metronome. I never speed.

I'd be lying if I said there wasn't some exhilaration as I hurtled toward Oakland, coasting on fury, throwing off the yoke I've experienced my whole life. I'm almost sixty years old, and I've remained a good little girl, my mother's daughter. But she doesn't remember who I am, so what am I trying to prove? Maybe all these years, I've been no one at all, just a voiceless automaton, going through the motions, pretending to be a good mother.

Thad could tell, though, couldn't he?

I'm not a good little girl anymore, I'm an angry old woman. To h.e.l.l with all of them.

"So? What can I do for you?" Rob leans on his forearms across the gla.s.s case, an acceptable form of flirting between younger and elder. "We have some rings over here. Gold. Platinum." He gestures toward a different case. He's going to try to upsell me, and I can't blame him. This should be peak time, with all the graduations and anniversaries, and yet, here we are, just the two of us. But he's barking up the wrong tree.