This Is Not Over Part 6

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Job Duties & Responsibilities: * Coordinate events, meetings, and trade shows * Provide administrative support to each member of the marketing team * Maintain e-mail lists * Track customer complaints * a.s.sist in collating marketing materials Professor Myerson enters the cla.s.sroom, not a minute too soon. I was getting more and more discouraged with each job listing. If you subtract the stapling, somehow every job listing boils down to sell, sell, sell. Is that all communication is good for?

When I first enrolled at the college, I spoke with an academic adviser ("call me Mark"). I knew I wanted a degree, and to stop working in retail, but beyond that, it was all pretty fuzzy. Mark asked a lot of pertinent-sounding questions, listened carefully to my answers, stroked his patchy beard contemplatively, and then declared, with an appealing level of certainty, "You should be a communications major." He said it would give me the broadest base from which to find a career, and that it was an obvious match for my skills. Much later, I learned that he was Salina's adviser, too, and he'd told her exactly the same thing.

The irony is, he'd accidentally pegged me. I began to like school for the first time in my life. The Art of Communication, Argumentation and Debate, Persuasive Communication, Principles of Interviewing, Gender in the Media . . . it sounds cheesy, but I felt like I was finally finding a voice that people could respect. I got so caught up in learning that I managed to forget my real goal-to rise above where I'd been, to pa.s.s-and now here I am, b.u.mping up against the uncomfortable truth that life is ultimately mercenary.

I am, too. Because in theory, it'd be great to raise awareness for an organization whose mission I believed in, like a hospital, university, charity, or other nonprofit, but there's no money in that. The money is in the private sector, in helping companies brand themselves (pardon me, develop authentic narratives). If I ever want a house like Miranda's, do I have to sell, sell, sell . . . my soul?

It's probably not as stark as that, but I definitely need to decide what I really want, and fast. I don't have the time to flounder like a twenty-two-year-old. Whatever path I choose, it has to be right. I'm about to get my degree, which is supposed to be an achievement in itself, and I've never felt so behind the curve.

As Professor Myerson scribbles across the whiteboard, my mind returns once again to Miranda. She's become a welcome refuge from real life. It's harder than I would have imagined, not answering her last e-mail. I tell myself I'm taking the high road, and that she's left with nothing but her own petty nastiness. But even Rob said how full of herself she is. She's probably thinking that she's silenced me, put me in my place, and she believes that place is about ten rungs beneath her.

I shouldn't care what she thinks. She's the worst of the ent.i.tled rich. It's not a category I've had much contact with throughout my life, but we all know they exist. If reality television has taught us anything, it's that.

Let it go. If Frozen has taught us anything, it's that. The cold never bothered me anyway.

Not true. I mind the cold, and I mind hunger, and I've had enough of both in my life. Has Miranda experienced either? I know Rob hasn't, no matter how sound his advice is.

I can't focus during cla.s.s. That's aggravating, since it's my favorite one, Ethics and Law in Communication, and Professor Myerson is my favorite teacher. We pa.r.s.e case studies and learn the precepts of the profession but also look within ourselves to see how they jibe with our own morality and integrity. Somehow, it manages to be theoretical yet personal, all at once. Usually, when I'm in the cla.s.sroom, I'm so stimulated that I nearly tingle; I'm that engaged and alive.

Don't get me wrong. Professor Myerson does not turn me on. He's in his fifties, and you can tell he's never been what anyone would call handsome. While he might find me attractive in some objective sense, I don't feel like he's attracted to me either. (And I'm alert for that, because throughout my life, it's been my bread and b.u.t.ter. But I don't want to get by that way anymore.) "Dawn, stay behind a minute," Professor Myerson says. The rest of the cla.s.s files out. The whiteboard attests to the hyperkinetic nature of his teaching; arrows abound. "Were you bored by Baltimore Sun v. Ehrlich, or was it me?" Busted. But he smiles, his teeth the color of pale urine. The light is harsh in here. I instinctively wonder if the fluorescence is voiding my concealer.

"I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Final semester blues?"

"Is that a thing?"

"It is now." He smiles again, with what I hope is an avuncular sort of kindness. "Today's cla.s.s notwithstanding, you're one of my best students. You're sharp, and you've got a real flair for a.n.a.lysis."

My heart sinks. I'm remembering that saying: Smart women want to be told they're beautiful; beautiful women want to be told they're smart. I push my hair back, deliberately bringing my encircled ring finger into prominence.

"I just wanted to see how the job hunt is going," he says, and I drop my hand, embarra.s.sed to have misjudged him.

"Lately," I say, "I've been feeling kind of lost."

"Lost in what way?"

"I don't know what I want to be when I grow up."

He laughs, then his face stills as he sees I wasn't making a joke. "You're what, twenty-five?"

"Thirty."

"Thirty's young. With the state of Social Security, you've got forty years of work ahead of you, easy. What's another six months? What's a year?"

"Or I could just pop out a baby or two."

This time, he doesn't laugh, though I might have been kidding, I'm not sure. "Stop by during office hours. We can kick around some ideas, see if I've got any contacts who might be able to help."

I thank him, but he must be able to see that I'm still worried.

He reaches out and pats my arm. His touch is awkward and refreshingly devoid of s.e.xual nuance. "You'll figure it out soon enough. You'll know where you're headed."

As I scuttle out of the room, I'm unsettled, and I don't know why. My favorite professor thinks highly of me; he's willing to brainstorm and maybe he'll even introduce me to some potential employers; and he's right, I have forty years of work before me. What is another six months? Or a year?

My heart thrums, and I run down the flight of stairs and out onto the concrete slab that is our quad. I just want to go home. But not to my boxy apartment, and certainly not back to Eureka, five hours north of here. Whatever happens, I'm never going back to that life. To those people (one of whom is the old me).

I should call Rob. He can always take a break and talk to me. That's one advantage of him being in a dying business with his father. Even if he has engraving to do, there's never much urgency. Oh, sure, sometimes people need things in time for their anniversary or their graduation, but mostly, there's plenty of time. Rob is a saunterer. I've never seen him run, I realize, not in the whole time I've known him.

But I'm running. I want to get away from Professor Myerson and his yellowing teeth and his rea.s.surances that there's more than enough time. That's the lie of all lies. There's never enough. Scarcity. That's what I understand better than anyone.

Meanwhile, Miranda has two houses. Two f.u.c.king houses! I bet that one in Santa Monica cost more than a million, so her real home must cost two million, maybe even three or four. She doesn't know s.h.i.t about going without, though as old as she is, she must know something about running out of time.

Is she actually old, though? She could have gone to boarding schools where they taught her to write like a hoity-toity b.i.t.c.h. Maybe she was raised with money, and then married money. Maybe she's young and gorgeous and gold digging, with some decrepit doctor husband.

I go into the student union with its semicircle corral of Chick-fil-A, Pizza Hut, Taco Bell, and Panda Express, a throng of lacquered tables in the center. I sit down and whip out my laptop.

The adrenaline is pumping, the anger is back, and I'm relieved by it, I really am. It's like an old, cherished friend, the kind who means well but still f.u.c.ks your boyfriend.

I sic her on Miranda. I know Miranda's last name, of course I do, she was my host. I Google Miranda Feldt, Santa Monica. Google helpfully puts a line through "Santa Monica," and I have my results. Miranda Feldt, wife of Lawrence Feldt, radiation oncologist at Beth Aaron Oncology Center, one of the most prestigious in the greater Los Angeles area. Their website is a glossy brochure, highlighting an impressive new gla.s.s building, state-of-the-art this and state-of-the-art that. They offer complementary therapies-ma.s.sage and meditation and "energy work" in what looks like a spa environment.

I stare at Lawrence's picture, and I have to admit, he looks like a guy who could kick cancer's a.s.s. He's not good-looking (his features manage to be bloated yet too defined, like he's a charcoal sketch come to life), but he drips confidence and competence. Nothing about him screams "d.i.c.k," exactly, except for his wife.

So she didn't lie about her husband's position, and she didn't lie about her volunteer work either. She's on a bunch of boards, all so disparate that it's the equivalent of trying to look well-rounded on a college application.

I bet she is old, though. Because young women aren't on boards, are they? Plus, no photo is readily available. No social media profiles have popped up.

Next page of results: She's a big donor to Fielding Academy, a prep school with its own crest, of all ridiculous things. It's L.A., not London. Her son went there. Thaddeus Feldt. I'm not sure there's ever been a more pretentious name.

I see a picture of Miranda, Lawrence, and Thaddeus at his graduation from Fielding Academy. Miranda looks like she's in her forties, though I'd guess that a good rule of thumb for rich women in L.A. is that whatever age they look, add at least five years. The picture is from nine years ago.

She's in this little bolero jacket suit that is more obviously expensive than it is attractive, and that fits my overall impression of her. She's of average weight, with blond hair in a neat little bob and features that are nothing special. She's squinting into the sun as she smiles, making her eyes disappear completely. There's a pinched quality to her face and her posture, though it's presumably a happy day.

I think of what Rob said. Wait, did he say it, or is it just something I've heard him say so much that I'm transposing? Regardless, it's this: Her punishment is being her. Karma is not something that happens to us; it's who we are. It's having to live with ourselves.

But Miranda has it good, whether she realizes it or not. In fact, if she doesn't realize it, then it's even more bothersome. Her husband saves lives, just like she said. She can give her time to whatever causes she chooses. She can spend her days lunching and buying ugly well-made clothes.

Then there's Thaddeus, her strapping son. His arms are draped around his parents, and you can just tell how close-knit they are. They probably had family dinners every night and weekly game nights. He's tall and kind of hot, in a Joaquin Phoenix meets Justin Theroux way. The Fielding Academy site helpfully informs me that he was headed for UC Santa Barbara, a college that's way better than mine. By now, he's graduated. He's well on his way to being rich himself, or he's already there. He may have his own business, using his charisma and his parents' seed money.

I could Google and see if I'm right about that, but I feel like it might inflame me too much.

Besides, I already have enough here that I can use.

14.

Miranda

Rothko never painted like this. #artallnighter I saw Thad's tweet when I should have been deep in slumber, and then after seeing it, there was no way I could get to sleep. Despite what he told me yesterday, he's using again. Of course he is. He says it spurs his creativity, and I know it spurs both of our insomnia.

Didn't Rothko commit suicide?

Larry's sleeping peacefully beside me. He's the one who decided to cut Thad off completely, but he never seems worried about the consequences of that. Take action, never look back. That's his style. I wish it could become mine. It's his personality, reinforced by his chosen career. In his branch of medicine, you have to make decisions based on the information available at the time, and all your options may be substandard, and sometimes the patient dies. His approach to Thad seems no different.

I remember the day more than two years ago when he said it was time to take action. I asked him, "But what if Thad dies?" and was met with a stare that said, That's his prognosis, isn't it? Patients die. Addicts die.

We were at the kitchen table, hammering out the details. It was a Sunday morning, when we would normally have been having s.e.x, but Thad hadn't come home the previous night. He wasn't following any of the conditions of moving back into our house, he was clearly using meth, and he was stealing from me (though I didn't tell Larry that part).

"This is over," Larry told me. His eyes were hooded. He wasn't used to sleepless nights, and he was angry about it. Thad was keeping him from giving his all to the patients.

Lox and bagels were sitting in front of us, untouched. Larry had picked them up that morning as if this were a breakfast meeting. But we were both drinking coffee, copiously.

"We have to help him," I said, but my voice faltered. "Otherwise . . ."

"Otherwise what? He'll keep using? He's never stopped. We can't do anything for him. At this point, it's every man for himself."

"What does that mean?" I asked, fearfully.

"That we're cutting him loose. We're cutting him off. He can go to rehab, or not. I'm not making any more arrangements for him, getting him into any more facilities so that he can get kicked out or walk out. I'm not paying for one more thing. I don't care where the h.e.l.l he goes."

I took another long drink of coffee. "I care."

"Well, you'll need to work on that. On detaching."

"If we give him an ultimatum, he'll say no. You know how he is."

"I'm not talking about ultimatums. It's different this time. I've divested myself from the outcome," he said. "Here's what we do. We tell him that we're cutting him off. He's fully responsible for himself now. If he decides to go to rehab, he finds one himself and he finds a way to pay for it himself, and while he completes it, we're going to have no contact with him. Zero. From rehab, he goes to a sober living house. Once he's been there for six months, clean, with the negative drug tests to prove it, we'll consider allowing him back into our lives."

"You want him to do all that with no guarantee that we're ever going to let him back into our lives?" I was stunned. I thought that Larry would insist on rehab again, but I never thought . . .

"This is over," he repeated. "As far as I'm concerned, Thad is dead to me. Whether he can be resurrected, that's up to him."

Neither of us spoke for long, fraught minutes. "This seems cruel," I said.

"Cruel is what he's done to himself, the ways he's squandered his life and all the advantages we've given him. Cruel is what he's done to us. Turnabout is fair play."

"It's not fair play. He's our son. He's got a disease."

The look in his eyes told me he wasn't buying that old line. "The only reason I've put up with this s.h.i.t as long as I have is because he was my son."

"He's not anymore?"

Larry didn't need to answer.

"He's not dead to me," I said.

"Suit yourself. Feel what you want. But we need to present a united front. No contact until he's done rehab and then sober living."

"I can't be united in that."

"What do you want to do? The same old thing we've been doing? I'm tired of this merry-go-round. Aren't you?"

Of course I was. But I couldn't kill my son off, not in my own mind, not even for self-preservation, which is what I'm convinced Larry was doing. Thad's addiction was destroying Larry in ways that he wouldn't speak out loud, and I'd stopped talking about the ways it was destroying me.

"Okay," I finally said, "but you can't say that to him about being dead to you. You keep that to yourself. We stick to the facts: rehab, and then sober living for six months, and then we talk again."

"Rehab, then sober living for six months, and then we'll see."

It went as I knew it would: the three of us in the living room that night, Larry calmly explaining what was going to happen, me standing by silently, and Thad furious, with me more than Larry. "You're really cutting me off?" Thad spat out, glaring at me. "When I haven't even been using, I just stayed out with friends?"

"We have no choice," I said. "We hope that you'll use this as a catalyst to-"

He turned on his heel, picking up the trash bags full of his possessions that Larry and I had gathered. He was headed out the front door, to who knew where. But I cared. Larry might not have, but I'm no Larry.

"Keys," Larry said, approaching Thad, hand outstretched. I tensed, fearing some sort of physical confrontation, but Thad didn't even look directly at Larry, he just pulled the keys from the ring. Then he was gone.

I tried to hold the line. I really did. I knew all the reasons I should, with all the supporting lingo: the enabling had to stop, and the tough love needed to begin. Everyone at Nar-Anon said Larry's approach was the best.

But then I got a call from the hospital. Thad had overdosed, again. "It's more of Thad's manipulation," Larry said. He took my phone and texted Thad: Now are you ready to get help? The answer: No rehab. I'll go to meetings on my own. And I need rent. It was the only time I ever saw Larry out of control physically. He threw the phone across the room.

Larry thought Thad needed to hit bottom. I thought-I continue to think-that for Thad, the only bottom is death. It's not a chance I can take.

At the time, my father had recently died. I couldn't lose another family member; I wouldn't. And the Santa Monica plan-it was like it came from Dad himself, like he was my guardian angel. The house, an income stream, just fell into my lap, at the time I most needed it. Larry agreed that it made sense to buy George out, and there I was, in business.

It was almost too easy. The Santa Monica house was mine to oversee, and Larry never asked questions. So after I told him what I was charging per night, which was $150 less than the real price, I never had to lie to his face again. It stopped seeming like a betrayal at all. Larry had his job, and I had mine. Two of them: the rental and Thad. They're both my business, one scaffolding the other.