This Is Not Over Part 3

What does that mean?

Now she's going to play dumb.

I mean, $200 covers the sheets, but it doesn't cover everything.

What's everything?

All the aggravation. All the time I spent writing my review, and e-mailing back and forth with you. All the wasted energy.

Ditto.

I'm not the one who started it.

Yes, you did. You left the stain.

I DID NOT LEAVE THE STAIN!.

Do not yell at me.

Are you wasting my time again?

I'm trying to resolve this. I'm trying to be the bigger person.

There it is. That's the Miranda I've come to know and love.

Are you being sarcastic?

Obvi.

This is why I dislike texting.

Then why did you text?

What do you want from me, Dawn?

I want you to make things right.

That's what I'm trying to do.

With $200? That's what you think this is about?

What is it about then?

Apologize, sincerely. And change that first numeral.

You want more than $200?

I deserve more. I told you, pain and suffering. And an apology. Not the bulls.h.i.+t kind.

My apology was not bs.

"Sorry for the misunderstanding"?

That was sincere.

You're sorry that I misunderstood you? That's more like an accusation.

I'm sorry that I was not clearer. How's that?

Now you're being sarcastic.

No, I'm not. You don't know me.

You don't know me.

Let's stop this. Right now.

Ball's in your court.

I apologized.

For not being clearer.

Yes.

Not good enough.

I'm not giving you more than $200. That wouldn't be fair.

Where's the pic?

Of the sheets?

No, of the Sistine Chapel.

Enough sarcasm.

I'm not a child. Don't correct me.

I didn't take a photo. I've never needed one before.

So you've done this to other people before?

You're taking my words out of context. I told you, I didn't hear back from you. I thought you were okay with being charged for the damage, until I read the review.

Now you know I'm not okay. I want a refund.

I'm offering you a refund.

Of more than $200.

Then that's not a refund. That's blood money.

What the f.u.c.k are you talking about?

Cla.s.sy.

I'm breathing heavily. If she were right in front of me, I might become the old Dawn, the one who had to sc.r.a.p, who had to learn to protect herself because no one was going to do it for her.

I'm not that girl anymore. I'm not.

I'm Rob's wife. He's never seen that side of me. I extinguished it when I married him. Expunged that girl, like a story that should never have been written. It's better this way. I am.

It feels dangerous, these exchanges with Miranda. It's like a seance, summoning forth who I used to be, and I have to admit, sometimes I feel like I've missed her.

You think you're so cla.s.sy, I type, the doctor's wife, stealing people's money? I would never do that. NEVER.

I've never so much as shoplifted a lipstick, and I grew up without. I knew true temptation, and I resisted it, every time. What hards.h.i.+p has Miranda known? There's nothing worse than someone who has so much but needs just a little bit more. There's nothing uglier than greed.

This was a mistake. You're completely unreasonable.

You're a snotty b.i.t.c.h.

This is over.

This is not over.

8.

Miranda

Owner's response to "Beware of your 'host'": I'm a reasonable person. Just ask any of the people who've previously stayed at my home. Please read all my other, glowing reviews. If this reviewer had contacted me directly instead of posting a review, everything could have been easily resolved.

The view from the kitchen window is spectacular. The only "obstruction" is a gorgeous purple flowering jacaranda tree. The kitchen is fully stocked. I'm not sure why the reviewer didn't get mini-toiletries. They're always provided, and they're from Gilchrist & Soames. This may have been an oversight on the part of the house cleaner. I've already mentioned it to her. The light switches are all in working order. There are plenty of extra lightbulbs in the pantry. I'm sorry that the reviewer had to change her own. Again, it must have been an oversight.

I'm also sorry that the reviewer didn't notice the stain she'd left. I don't know what it was, or why it didn't come out after bleaching. I did have to buy new sheets (600 thread count Perielle, with a retail value that Getaway.com will not allow me to state but you can find out easily enough). I subtracted the amount I paid from the damage deposit. I informed the reviewer by voicemail that I was going to do so. Because I never heard back, I a.s.sumed that she was okay with paying for her damage. I'm sorry she never received the message.

I've apologized repeatedly to the reviewer for any miscommunication but have only received hostility in return. I try to be a good host, and generally, I succeed. Again, please see all my other reviews.

Some people want to find fault; they want to hate. That seems to be the case here. (Please see D.T.'s other reviews, like the one where she complains about the Mendocino weather, as if the host could have controlled that variable.) Unfortunately, some people can't be pleased.

I heave a sigh of relief as I press the Save b.u.t.ton.

Dawn's had her say, I've had mine. Let the renters decide who's more credible.

I'm late for my visit with my mother. I know she won't actually remember the time I told her I'd be there, but I don't like to be late for anything. I respect other people's time, just as she did.

She was always five minutes early, while my father was chronically late, his face blotchy and red (with embarra.s.sment, I'm sure). But she never shamed him. She stood up for him. She wouldn't let George or myself say a bad word about our father, even if he failed to show up for a school play or a family dinner. "He's the hardest worker you'll ever meet," she told us, and if anyone felt shame then, it was George and me. She's a cla.s.s act, my mother. She's taught me everything I know.

Grat.i.tude is better than judgment, every time. Forgiveness above all else, that was our family motto. We s.h.i.+eld those we love, fiercely, and by whatever means necessary.

9.

Dawn

Don't forget to talk to the doc, OK?

Love you.

So much.

"You'll feel a slight pinch," Dr. Kroy says. I breathe in sharply; it was more than slight. But equal to her pinch is the pressure of Rob's trio of texts. "You okay up there?"

"Fine," I say. I've always had a hard time with pelvic exams. I have a ridiculously sensitive cervix, and even when they use the smallest speculum they've got, it still hurts. Rob wonders if it's in my mind, a psychosomatic thing. It rankles, that word, "psycho."

Dr. Kroy pulls off her plastic gloves as she emerges from between my legs. It's always funny, that moment when the gynecologist pops up, like you've just given birth to her. I sit up on the table and huddle protectively beneath my pink paper gown. Always pink. Now that's retrograde.

The counters of the exam room are v.u.l.v.a pink, and the light is less than flattering. I always feel self-conscious about my skin in rooms like this, though I know Dr. Kroy sees real cysts, on ovaries and cervixes; she's not going to be freaked out by the ones on my face.

Besides, she's a sweet person. A motherly type, even though I'd guess she's not that much older than me. She's probably in her early forties, with clear (if a little crepey) skin and curly brown hair caught up in a bun. I bet growing up, she tucked all her dolls into bed and knew, without question, that she'd have babies someday. Me, I thought no way. Until I hit twenty-five. Then I couldn't settle fast enough.

No, that's not the right way to put it. Rob's a catch.

Some people can't be pleased.