This Is Not Over Part 31

"I never used that terminology for Marissa's actions," I reply, "but yes, it is."

Another eye roll. "No, you were bullying her."

"That had crossed my mind as well," Professor Myerson says. "Though I don't believe that was Dawn's intent, I do think her actions could be construed as such. That could be why Marissa visited the police."

I feel a rush of heat to my cheeks. I could possibly have been a bit off base in my communications, but a cyberbully?

All my actions were justified when it came to Miranda. t.i.t for tat, action and reaction. She started it. And continued it. She raised the stakes at every turn. Were these people even listening? Can't they read?

"Did you receive this woman's permission to use her communications?" Professor Myerson says.

"No," I say tightly, "it wasn't required by any of the websites where I posted."

"Ethics isn't about mere legality. That's the first thing I taught you."

"There was a greater good. I was reminding her that other people have feelings, regardless of their income level. They need to be treated with respect. She learned her lesson. You said it yourself."

"Did she? Or was she just telling you what you wanted to hear because you'd bullied her into submission? Because she was frightened? You can't teach through fear, or humiliation."

Ironic, since he's humiliating me right now. I was humiliated at the interview when I realized what the job really was, when I saw what my favorite professor really thought of me.

"I think," he says slowly, "that you felt you were communicating one thing and what we're all hearing is something else. We're seeing that the Internet can be used as a tool to exact vengeance, and sometimes we call that vengeance 'justice.' Really, it's something else entirely." His face has turned sympathetic by the end, or perhaps it was sympathetic the whole time. "Knowing ourselves and our own motivations is the source of all ethical-and unethical-behavior. It can be surprisingly easy to conflate the two. To rationalize, and to legitimize, and to think we're angry with one thing or person when maybe it's something or someone else. We've all, at one time or another, suffered from misplaced aggression. We've all lost people we love."

His eyes on mine are full of compa.s.sion, but he's wrong. This could not have less to do with my father's death. It's about justice, and holding people accountable. It's about consequences.

"Thank you, Dawn," he says, "for ill.u.s.trating such an important point. For that reason, this was an extremely successful presentation." He begins a slow clap, and the roomful of bewildered students follow his example.

I make my shaky way to my seat. I've earned all my accolades since I started college here, except this one. This was pure pity.

Professor Myerson made me out to be misguided and vengeful. A cyberbully, of all things! No one's ever misunderstood me this badly, unless you count my husband.

Miranda was the bully. Stealing my money, belittling me, and then, when I used the Internet to call her on it, trying to manipulate me.

Is it really possible that I've been seeing this all wrong, that I've been the one bullying her? Professor Myerson is a smart man.

No. It's her. It's all her. She managed to trick them all, even Professor Myerson. Without even being here, she got them on her side. That's how good she is, how clever.

She'll get what's coming to her.

50.

Miranda

Easy to create when you're inspired by a good woman. #dawntbold Dawntbold = Dawn Thiebold = Dawn and Thad know each other. She's his inspiration, which can only mean one thing. Dawn and Thad sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes marriage . . .

Only she's already married.

What breaks my heart is that he has to know she has a husband. I raised the kind of man who wouldn't care.

He actually calls her a good woman. Like he'd recognize a good woman if she up and bit him. No, if she'd raised him.

How long has this been going on? Have they been in cahoots this whole time?

He always liked pet.i.te blondes. Not that he allowed me to meet his girlfriends, or (as he so charmingly called them) f- buddies. I caught a few of them leaving his room late at night when he was still in high school. All I could do was ground him, but it was after the fact. He'd already gotten what he wanted. His whole life, I've been playing catch-up. I wanted to get out in front of his problems but I was always trailing behind, mitigating the damage, cleaning up the messes, cutting my losses.

I could ask him how he met Dawn, but I'm fairly certain he wouldn't tell. Besides, I wouldn't believe any answer he gave.

I've been lying on my couch in the same clothes for two straight days, the knife and saw like extra appendages. I'm delirious from stress and lack of sleep, but I couldn't even make this stuff up: Thad and Dawn have formed some sort of unholy alliance.

I suppose I should be grateful. She's given him something to live for, the inspiration to create.

They deserve each other.

I'm shaking. In grief, and in rage.

No, they don't deserve each other. Dawn is a rotten person, and what she deserves is to be punished. She's come after me through Thad. Drugs have disabled his brain, and now she's using my handicapped son against me.

h.e.l.l hath no fury like a mother protecting her child.

Dawn T. Bold, you're going to learn your lesson. I will see to that.

51.

Dawn

"Hi, Mr. Callahan. This is Dawn Thiebold. Sean said I'd be hearing from you to schedule dinner or a drink. I'm really excited to be a part of your team. I'll make myself available any time. Look forward to hearing from you!"

"Hi, Sean. This is Dawn Thiebold. Since I didn't hear from you, I decided to go ahead and leave a message for Mr. Callahan-for Artie-to schedule that drink but haven't heard back yet. I'm just wondering how everything's moving along in terms of my hiring? Please shoot me a text or an e-mail, whatever works. Thanks so much! I'm so excited about this opportunity!"

Maybe Sean got busy and never talked to Artie; maybe Artie's just having a hectic week. Or is it possible that Sean changed his mind? Or that Professor Myerson conveyed to Sean what I really thought of the job?

No, he wouldn't have done that. But just to cover my bases . . .

"Hi, Professor Myerson. It's Dawn. I've been thinking a lot, and I've realized how much I really do want that job. We can't have everything we want in life, but that job's a great start. I really appreciate you setting it all in motion. Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something to thank you? If you hear from Sean, please let him know how interested I am. I already left him a few voicemails but he must be in meetings or something. Thanks again! See you soon!"

I have to accept this job, and accept reality: I chose the broadest major but now I have fairly narrow prospects. What I can do is sell. Might as well sell myself to the highest bidder. That's if Big Pharma will still have me.

Rob said as much. He didn't even ask how I really felt, though I'm sure my reservations were written all over my face. I wanted him to say I was too good for that job, and that I should hold out for something better. Instead, he told me, "You've got to start somewhere, right? Pharmaceutical sales is lucrative, and it's compet.i.tive. And that VP wants you." He raised his gla.s.s in a toast. "Now you can support me for a while."

My mother's right. I thought I'd come so far, but I'm nowhere. My husband's a lousy provider, same as hers was. He doesn't care how I really feel, deep down, same as hers. But unlike her, I'm going to make my own opportunities.

Call back, Artie. Call back, Sean.

f.u.c.king men. As soon as they can have you, they don't want you anymore.

Misplaced anger, that's what Professor Myerson said. That this hasn't been about Miranda at all, but about . . . ?

I orchestrated my whole life to avoid feeling powerless, dirty, and disposable, and here it is again. I'm back here, again.

I was sixteen, and yes, I'd had a lot of s.e.x, but Planned Parenthood set me on a different path. I was rehabilitated. Then my father came home and told me he had a "business opportunity." Those were big words for him. He'd been working his temporary jobs through Manpower, a couple of days a week if we were lucky, and he sat on my bed and said, "Things are going to change around here."

He generally only spoke to me if it was absolutely necessary, and he never came into my room, so I knew something significant was under way. My mom was stressed out all the time, losing weight, with her hair coming out in clumps. When my father said that he was on the verge of a regular job, full-time, with good pay and benefits, I thought of her first.

"That's great, Dad," I said. "I'm proud of you."

"Don't jump the gun," he warned. "I don't have the job yet."

Then I asked the question that would haunt me for years: "What do you have to do to get it?"

"Do you remember Gary?" I shook my head. "He was over here last week. We were drinking beer on the front steps. You walked by in that white skirt."

I tried never to look at my father and his friends. They were a nasty bunch, and they'd been ogling me since I first filled out. "What about him?"

"Gary's a general contractor and he's looking for someone to work on houses with him full-time. Remodeling kitchens and bathrooms."

"Do you know how to do that?"

He made a face that told me he wanted out of this conversation ASAP. Which made me wonder why he'd ever gotten into it to begin with, but I was about to learn. He never said it directly but he made it clear that Gary was going to be over at the house the next day, and my mother would be out, and my father would take off for a little while, too, and then Gary just wanted to hang out with me, talk for a bit. "This job would change everything," my father concluded.

I wanted to think my dad didn't really know what he was asking of me, but neither of us could be that ignorant. Maybe he thought I was still giving it away for free all the time and what's one more, for the betterment of the family?

"I promise you, Dawn, I will not screw this job up. I'll treat your mom like she deserves to be treated."

That was what sealed the deal. I could turn things around for my whole family, but my mom needed it the most. She was the most fragile. And sure, I wasn't a s.l.u.t anymore by then, but this wasn't like the other guys. I wasn't doing it to feel just a little better about myself; I was doing it for all of us.

So the next day, my father left me alone with Gary. He was about thirty and completely repugnant. He had one of those weird skin tags right between his eyebrows, and he made small talk while he chugged half a six-pack. I drank the other half just to get through. I insisted on a condom and he grumbled but agreed. I was grateful that he was doing it from behind so that I didn't have to kiss him and he couldn't see me choking back the bile. I was taking an hour-long shower when my father came back. He never said anything, not even thank you, but then, a thank-you might have made it all the grosser.

Days pa.s.sed, and he still wasn't talking. Finally, I asked him when he was starting the job. He didn't want to meet my eyes and I couldn't tell if he was ashamed of himself or of me. He didn't even stop walking as he said, "It fell through."

So I wasn't the family protector; I was just a wh.o.r.e again. My father looked at me even less after that, if that's possible. I was so ashamed. s.e.x with me wasn't worth anything at all; it literally had no value. If I'd been better, my father would have gotten that job, and our lives would have turned around.

At first, I thought my father had been tricked, too, but a month later, he was sitting on the front steps drinking beer with Gary. They both acted like nothing had happened.

Then came the anger. At being duped, and used, and my father's complicity in it. He was the one who thought I had no value, right alongside Gary. I wanted to put them both in jail. But I didn't want the humiliation of going to the police and having to answer questions, and more than that, I didn't want my mother to know about any of it. She wasn't strong enough to handle it. She'd kept her head in the sand for years, and that's where it needed to stay.

I sometimes wondered if any of it was true, what he said to me. Had Gary really promised my father a job, or was that just a lie to get me to do what I would never have done otherwise? Was it a bet, or a debt between them? And if he had gotten that job, would he have kept his promise and worked hard and treated my mother right? Probably not. But while I was protecting my mother, she was gambling with my body and my sanity. I always knew my father didn't much care what happened to me, but I thought my mother was a different story, and not part of this one.

I get up and start making dinner. My mind continues to whir, but by the time Rob gets home, I'm not about to share my thoughts.

All I tell him is that I've made calls to take the pharmaceutical job. I'm rewarded with an approving smile.

I used to think he accepted me unconditionally. But now I have no way of knowing what he really thinks about me unless I eavesdrop on the next "family" dinner.

After a pro forma kiss on the cheek, he says, "It's been an exhausting day. I'm going to lie down. Just call me when dinner's ready, okay?"

I have to fight not to snort with derision. He had an exhausting day. There were probably ten customers, max, over eight hours.

I'm quiet all night, and if Rob remembers that today was my final project, he gives no indication. The fact that he doesn't even know the topic, hasn't even asked, speaks volumes.

Once we've climbed into bed, I'm all the way on my side, and he's all the way on his. It's been that way since I fingered his a.s.shole. Sue me, I wanted to pleasure the guy. We did follow through on some missionary s.e.x in our bed that night, as if he wanted to rea.s.sert our utter conventionality. I didn't come, and he didn't seem to care, which was pretty out of character. Or maybe it's evidence of the defective character that he's been concealing from me. They say cheaters are incredibly paranoid about being cheated on, so maybe it's the people most worried about normalcy who are the most deviant.

Rob says, without turning to me, "We have to start trying to have kids." It's in a tone I've never heard from him before-so absolute, so firm, that it's nearly mean. He's brooking no dissent.

I have to remind myself that I married him so I could have a normal family. So I could be a part of his normal family.

This isn't normal, though, this dictate of his. This is not how a couple decides to procreate, not in any world I want to inhabit, and when you think about it, marriage is really just an attempt to create your own world.

"n.o.body has to have kids," I say, my back still to his.

He sits upright with such velocity and torque that the whole bed jerks. His anger is palpable in the room.

I don't move. I literally can't face this right now.

I'm not sure what provoked his sudden insistence. Maybe he's trying to rush the kid thing so that he doesn't change his mind about me. He won't have time to discover anything else that makes him so uncomfortable he'll have no choice but to walk away. A child would be an insurance policy against his own better judgment.

I could be flattered. He loves me that much. Or he really, really hates to be wrong.

He shakes my shoulder roughly. "I know you're not asleep. Talk to me."

"I don't want to."

"Don't act like a child. You're not your mother."

He's spoiling for a fight. I'm not going to give it to him.