This Is Not Over Part 27

He starts touching my c.l.i.t, delicately. I'm already wet, and that kind of tentative touch is going to dry me out. "Inside," I tell him. "Now."

He thrusts, and I moan. I've always liked his girth. He's the perfect size for me. See, we fit. Different worlds, but this is what matters.

I can feel that he's caught up, too, and he has to still himself for a second so that he won't come. I reach around, toward his a.s.s. "What the . . . ," he says, but I continue. He'll get into it. They always do.

"Stop," he commands, and with a wet reverse suction, he withdraws.

I spin around to face him. He's calling me a wh.o.r.e, with his eyes.

"Let's go to the bed," he says, like it's some sort of consolation prize.

Thad would have liked it. He would never have pulled out, not in a million years.

Rob takes my hand, and I let myself be led. I imagine what he must be thinking-This woman can't be the mother of my child-and while I've imagined it before, with fear and dread, this is the first time I think, Good.

44.

Miranda

Dear Dawn, You are a terrible young woman. To accept a refund but not an apology? That speaks to your profound lack of character. I will post on all the websites I can find and smear your name as you've smeared mine.

Yours, Miranda Delete.

She'll know I'm bluffing. I don't know websites where I can smear her name. I don't have a degree in advanced Internet hara.s.sment like she does.

Could I hire someone to do it for me? If so, it wouldn't have to be just in the virtual world. Someone could leave a dead animal in her apartment, a skunk, maybe? I just want to scare her, that's all. Scare her off for good. Make her feel what she's made me feel.

I like indulging in these kinds of angry thoughts. Fantasies, I suppose they are. I don't feel so frightened and lost when I do. I don't think about the fallout in my marriage now that I've overpowered Larry for the first time.

He went away to a last-minute conference in Palm Springs. Usually, he goes to conferences three to four times a year. It's a time for him to let loose with his fellow docs and learn a little something, too. Since he's already been to two and it's only May, I'd asked him to pa.s.s on this particular one. I suggested we could take a vacation together instead, wouldn't that be nice? He declined. I was hurt. What does he get out of those conferences that he can't get from time away with me? I fear that I know.

Now he's headed to Palm Springs anyway. "We could both use some s.p.a.ce, and some time to think," he said. Time for me to change my mind, that's what he really means.

I'm sure he's arrived by now, but he hasn't texted to tell me. Normally, he'd let me know that he'd checked in, with a little aside about the accommodations or his colleagues. So he's freezing me out. It's a threat, or the promise of what's to come if I don't see things his way.

Dawn, Delete the posts or I'll sue you for character defamation. Even if I lose, I'll drag it out for years. I have two multimillion-dollar houses. My funds are limitless. Meanwhile, you'll go bankrupt from the legal fees. How much do you think communications majors earn? I'll take every cent from you one way or another. I'll take your husband's store. Try me.

Miranda P.S. If anything else shows up broken, dead, or dirty at either of my homes, it'll be worse for you. I guarantee it.

It makes me smile a little, thinking of Dawn reading it, of her quaking with fear, forced to realize that ultimately money is more powerful than beauty.

"What do you think of that one, Mom?" I ask her after I've read it from my phone.

The smile leaves my face as I look at my mother, staring off into the garden as if I haven't spoken. See no evil, hear no evil. For a second, I envy her.

"Do you think it's too much? She started it." No response. "Remember when George and I were little and we used to point to each other and say that, and you'd tell us, 'Well, go finish it yourselves'?" I have an impulse to reach for her hand, though we never did that, not even when I was little. She was an excellent mother, but not a touchy-feely type. "Do you remember George and me as children?"

She glances over, and I think she's going to answer, but then her eyes go away. Back to nothing. She prefers nothing to me.

I don't know what I was thinking, telling her my problem. Maybe I hoped that some maternal instinct from days gone by would rea.s.sert itself. She'd see how much I still need my mommy, and she wouldn't be able to help herself. She would have to take care of me, so much so that it would override whatever's misfiring in her brain.

But it doesn't work that way, of course not, and I was foolish for ever thinking that it could. For thinking I wasn't alone.

"Bye, Mom," I tell her, and with anyone else, the suddenness would seem rude. But she just lifts a hand in a vague wavelike gesture, the remnant of social conventions from long ago.

As I get in my car, I tell myself that it's not so bad, having the house to myself for a few days, eating for one instead of cooking for two. Normally, it's like I cook for one, for Larry, since it's all about his preferences and tastes. That's become automatic, unquestioned. What he wants is what goes. Until now.

I don't know if I can stay strong and hold the line with Larry. But better not to think about it. Better to drive to Whole Foods where I can buy for one, and talk back to Dawn in my head. The gall of that girl, telling me about consequences. She's going to be the one looking over her shoulder soon. I just have to figure out how to make that happen. Proactive, rather than reactive. Offense instead of defense.

At Whole Foods, I get a basket instead of a cart, which feels freeing in and of itself, and I actually start to have fun, browsing the refrigerated case and considering my true desires. Do I want the roasted golden beets and kale salad or do I just think that's what a woman of my age and midsection should eat? How about salmon cake? Or meat loaf? Green beans almondine or herb-roasted new potatoes? I imagine each bite pa.s.sing my lips and hitting my palate. I can have anything I want. I am limitless, just like I tell the Dawn in my head.

If I get fat, what's Larry going to do, divorce me? If he does, I get half his money. Of course, he could battle me for the Santa Monica house. It is a marital a.s.set, in a divorce proceeding. But until that time, if I stand firm, it's all mine. The decision to sell or not rests with me.

Larry's not going to divorce me. I arrange his life. I make things hum. This was the first trip he ever went on where I didn't pack for him. He's the one who's bluffing.

I have power. Over Dawn, over Larry. I. Have. Power.

I'm about to place the meat loaf in my basket when I hear my name. My good feeling evaporates instantly. I don't want to interact with anyone, to have to say how I'm doing, or worse, to answer any questions about my resignation from the board. For a few minutes, I'd managed to forget that my reputation's in shambles. Now I remember, like a splash of cold water to the face.

I force myself to smile. It's a woman from Nar-Anon, the one I recognized at the recent meeting, from the ones I attended years before. I can't recall her name, which is embarra.s.sing since she remembered mine.

"h.e.l.lo!" I say, with a cheer that sounds cringingly false and perhaps inappropriate, given our a.s.sociation.

"Gail," she says, pointing at her chest. She's dressed strangely for the warm spring weather-in a heavy gray sweater-coat that reaches her knees over black leggings and high black boots. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and her face is makeupless, revealing large brown swaths of sun damage. "I wouldn't expect you to remember my name. It's overwhelming, coming back to meetings."

"No, I remembered. You have a daughter about my son's age."

She shakes her head. I can't even get that right? "Not anymore."

"Oh." I look down, absurdly, at the transparent plastic cube in my hand, as I realize what she's just said. "I'm so sorry."

"It was last year. The group helps."

I didn't know that anyone continued to attend the group once their primary reason for attending had ceased to exist, once the fight had been lost. The drugs won. How do the others feel about her presence? She's a walking reminder of the worst-case scenario.

"Yvonne went to rehab for the third time," Gail says, "and for the first time, it seemed to be working. She was finally taking it in, all the lessons they were trying to teach her. She moved into a sober living house and was working the program. She called me every day. I thought I had my daughter back-the sweet one, the honest one. And then she relapsed. She didn't know how to gauge her tolerance anymore, it had been so long. She overdosed."

"I'm so sorry," I say again. It's as useless and as good as anything else. It adheres to the Hippocratic oath, and does no harm.

She nods, accepting my condolence. There are no tears, I notice. It makes me wonder if what I've suspected, in my darkest heart, is true: That some part of you is relieved that the whole b.l.o.o.d.y thing is over, and you're no longer imprisoned by love, hope, and fear. Now it's just loss, and humans are wired to handle that. What we're not equipped for is years and years of helpless uncertainty and baseless hope. Evolution didn't properly prepare us. Fight or flight is worthless in the face of a child's self-destruction.

"You should come back," Gail says. "It works if you work it."

"I've heard that somewhere." I don't mean it to be snotty, but I think that's how it comes out. I'm rusty in talking to people. My mother would be mortified, if she could still feel. She raised me to have social graces above all else. No, protect your family above all else, by any means necessary.

"The community is what's kept my head above water," Gail says. "I don't know what I would have done without them."

Involuntarily, I glance at her naked ring finger. "I appreciate what you're saying. I think I'm okay, for now."

"We're there if you need us." She smiles. "What helps me the most is that I have so much still to learn, and so much to teach."

This could be my fate. A dead child, a dead marriage, and desperate delusions. What is there to learn once your child is gone? What wisdom can you glean, or impart, once the worst has come to pa.s.s? The idea that Gail has anything to teach when she couldn't prevent her own child's death . . .

What she unwittingly teaches is that we are all powerless. While that is, in fact, the AA message, and the NA message, and the Nar-Anon message, it's one that I'm still not ready to embrace.

I have to cave. I have to sell the Santa Monica house. Because no matter what I do, even if I convince Thad to try rehab again, I may very well lose him, but I don't have to lose Larry, too. I can't find myself permanently alone, like Gail.

"I'll see you at a meeting soon," I say. It's the path of least resistance. Let Gail think she's converted me.

"See you soon." I can't tell if she believes me or not. But the conversation is over, and I abandon my basket by the sliding gla.s.s doors. I've lost my appet.i.te.

Once in my car, I start to hyperventilate. What if Thad's dead? I didn't even check his Twitter feed yesterday, and the day before that, there was nothing. He hasn't texted me for two days, and I was relieved. After that tweet about Mother's Day, I didn't want to have anything to do with him.

I'm the monster. No matter what he's done, a mother should never feel that way about her own child. He has a disease, but I'm the one who's really sick.

I'm sweating as I scroll through my phone. Nothing so far today.

Just thinking of you. It's been a while. Do you need any money?

It's the question that always gets a response.

As I wait, I turn the key in the ignition and put the AC on the highest setting. I take deep breaths and try to think of nothing but the artificial breeze on my face.

I'm not angry anymore, Thad. Just text back.

His synapses have been hijacked, his higher brain functioning corrupted. He's as much a victim as my mother is. Morality requires the highest brain function, which means that Thad's amoral right now, like a very small child. But just one year sober, and his brain can begin to reset. One year of one day at a time.

Larry and I can compromise. We sell the Santa Monica house, and I support Thad openly, with Larry's full knowledge. I could write this latest check to Thad out of the joint account. That would kill two birds with one stone. It would let Thad know he can't blackmail me, and let Larry know that I'm standing firm on the subject of Thad. It would say that I'm not under either of their thumbs.

I have a four-million-dollar bargaining chip. I'd even be willing to go with Kimberly Zhou. Maybe.

Yet every part of me is screaming in protest. I want to keep my ancestral home. That terminology might seem like a bit of a stretch to some people, but that's how it feels to me. It's been in my family for two generations-my parents' and mine-and I want it for Thad (if he's clean) and for his kids (if he has them). Before that, I want to live there with my husband. That doesn't seem like so much to ask.

Oh, please, G.o.d. Please, Thad. Can anyone hear me out there, up there? Or have I been forsaken?

45.

Dawn

* Career Objective: To add my abilities, creativity, and pa.s.sion for communication to a company that is actively making a difference in the world.

I'm remarkably relaxed. Sean Hayworth is a super-nice guy, and so easy to talk to. Somehow, I didn't expect that from a VP at Big Pharma. Maybe he's not that high up-there could be a million VPs-but he has a pretty big office on a high floor in downtown San Francisco. He doesn't look that much older than me and he was a communications major, too, from my university. "Professor Myerson was my favorite, too," he told me early on in the interview, which doesn't even feel like an interview. It just feels like a conversation, and a good one at that.

I didn't sleep last night, running over the most likely interview questions in my head as well as trying to commit all the relevant details about the company to memory. At the start of the interview, I'm sure my nerves showed. I wanted so much to pa.s.s. I need to be good enough, and cla.s.sy enough, for this building, this company, this office, Sean.

But Sean really wants to know who I am and what I want out of life. He's telling me those kinds of things about himself, which again, I didn't see coming, but it's disarming.

"I'm from up north, too," he says. "Fort Bragg."

"I always meant to go to the botanical garden there."

"That's pretty much all we've got. Well, that and coast."

"You can't knock the coast."

He grins. "Maybe not," he concedes. "What brought you to the Bay Area?"

"It was a long-standing obsession. I thought I'd go to San Francisco, but I could barely afford Oakland, let alone SF."

"What were you leaving behind? You have family up there?"

"Not much. Just my parents." He raises an eyebrow, like he thinks there's more to the story. "It wasn't the easiest childhood, that's all."

"The mean streets of Eureka?" He grins again.

"You'd be surprised." I'm surprised by what comes out of my mouth next. "After you've been hungry, you stay hungry."

He nods slowly, like he's taking it in. Rea.s.sessing me, maybe. For a second, I think that I revealed too much and, in doing so, undermined my whole goal, which was to pa.s.s. Be middle cla.s.s, be normal, be employable.

"I like that," he says. "You can't teach hunger."

He's wrong; it's practically the only thing my parents did teach me.

"Believe me," he says, "I didn't think I would end up in Big Pharma either."