This Is Not Over Part 32

"Get up, Dawn! This is our marriage here!"

I hug my pillow. "Then let's talk about it in the morning, when we're calm and rested."

"You can't control everything."

"I'm not trying to."

"You always do. Where we go for vacation, when we have a baby." I can tell he's struggling to find another example. "When we can have which conversation."

"I'm tired. You're tired. We both had long days. It's safer to just shut up."

For the moment, he prefers to live dangerously. "I need to know what you've got going on that's more important than being a mother," he says, ice dripping from each word, and I wonder if he finally knows about Thad. I told Thad to take down the tweet that mentioned me, and he did. But could Rob have already seen it by then?

No, Rob's not on Twitter. He and his dad talked about activating their social media presence, but I'm pretty sure it hasn't happened yet.

Could Rob have been checking my phone secretly?

"What are you saying?" I ask. "Don't speak in code. Come out with it."

"I want to know why you don't want to have our child. Is that clear and concise enough for you?"

"I want to have our child someday." When we're our old selves, the couple I thought we were.

"Which day? I want a date." I feel him bouncing up and down, full of furious energy. "Tell me the date when you'll get your IUD out."

"Or what?" I say softly.

"I just want a date."

"And if I can't give you one?"

He gets out of bed and walks over to my side, kneeling down so that we're eye level. "Do not f.u.c.k with me, Dawn."

I stare him down. "Or what?" I repeat.

He storms away and starts to get dressed. I'm supposed to ask him where he's going-no, I'm supposed to ask him not to go, but I don't have that in me. Instead, I lie motionless as he leaves the room, and then the apartment, with a ferocious door slam.

I clutch the pillow to me for a while, squeezing my eyes shut and willing sleep to come. I wish I were a little girl again, a different little girl, one whose mother held her and whispered, "Shh, it'll all be okay," instead of the other way around.

I reach my arm out for my phone and cradle it close. When he answers, all I can do is cry.

"Dawn? Dawn, what is it? What happened?"

"Everything is s.h.i.+t," I choke out. "The whole world is s.h.i.+t." People say they want you, but that's only when they don't know you, and when you don't need them. Life is desertion. Love is the big lie.

"I know that feeling. But I don't have it anymore. You know why? Because of you, Dawn T. Bold. Because you're-what's the opposite of s.h.i.+t?"

Despite everything, I have to laugh. "p.i.s.s?"

"No. You're gold. And I'm coming for you."

"No," I say weakly.

"You don't have to promise me anything. I'm going to promise you something, though. I'm going to take care of you. You won't cry on my watch. Okay?"

I nod.

"Okay?"

Oh, right, he can't see me. But it feels like he's right here. His voice is a caress.

"Okay," I tell him. I glance at the clock. If he left now from L.A., he'd be here at five A.M. Rob doesn't leave for work until eight. "You're still in L.A., right?"

"In Santa Monica."

Something's coming into focus. "Where in Santa Monica?"

"The best part. Right off the beach. My parents own a house."

"Do they know you stay there?"

"h.e.l.l no. I squat at the house between guests. It used to be easier when I could just check the Getaway.com availability calendar. Now I have to be more stealthy. I have a key that I copied years ago. She never changed the locks. Now I'm here more or less full-time, though I've had a few close calls. A Realtor's been sniffing around, so, you know, all good things must come to an end."

"Did you ever stay at the house after guests left, but before the cleaning crew got there?"

"That's a weird question."

"So I'm weird. Did you?"

"A few times."

Holy s.h.i.+t. It's all making sense now. "So you slept on someone else's sheets."

"The people who rent this house are top-notch. I'd rather sleep on their dirty sheets than the clean ones at some s.h.i.+tty motel."

Thad stained the sheets. Miranda didn't make it up after all.

I start to laugh and cry at the same time. Because it doesn't matter how it all started, not anymore. All that matters is what it's become-a tornado razing everything in its path. Miranda's lost her rental, and her son, and I'm losing my marriage, and my self-respect.

I actually feel a strange kins.h.i.+p with Miranda. Neither of us is cut out for motherhood. Is it better to try and fail than never to have tried at all?

My campaign against Miranda-whatever its true root cause, aggression that's misplaced or displaced or simply placed-is officially over.

I know that Miranda's life isn't perfect, and she knows it isn't perfect (Thad certainly reminds her of that), and isn't that what I was trying to establish all along? That money doesn't solve all your problems, or breed happiness? That we all bleed red?

Such deep revelations. I could have just read a book.

Thad must be thinking that I've truly lost it, but all that's left is to laugh and laugh and laugh.

52.

Miranda

A stun gun is a device that is used or intended to be used as either an offensive or defensive weapon, which is capable of temporarily immobilizing a person by inflicting an electrical charge. (Ca. Pen. Code 17230, 16780.) In California, most people may purchase, possess, or use a stun gun, and they do not have to obtain a permit. However, you may not purchase, possess, or use a stun gun if you are: * a convicted felon, someone convicted of an a.s.sault under federal or any state's laws or the laws of any country, or have a prior conviction for misusing a stun gun under Cal. Pen. Code 244.5, or * addicted to any narcotic drug.

There really ought to be a weapons store. Of course I realize there are gun stores, but time is of the essence and I need something I can operate immediately. Besides, I don't trust myself with a gun right now. Dawn and Thad sitting in a tree rings in my head. I have to stop this before it goes any further. I have to stop her.

A self-defense store, that's what it should be called. Shelves full of Tasers, stun guns, knives, pepper sprays, and what have you. It'd be a haven for people like me, those who've been pushed too far, who've been forced into the conclusion that the only defense is a good offense.

Dawn's got more than twenty years on me, at least, but I work out. I have a strong core, and no health issues, and the element of surprise. She probably expects me to be some sitting duck. She wouldn't think some old lady from Beverly Hills would come for her.

It's not that I intend for things to get physical. I simply have no idea what to expect. This is uncharted territory. But I'll come prepared.

I haven't set foot in a Walmart since I don't know when. But for "personal security" on a moment's notice, it's my superstore.

The Walmart employee is so baby-faced that I suspect he doesn't yet have to shave. He looks surprised by my various requests, but he dutifully looks up each. "We don't carry Taser brand merchandise in-store, ma'am," he says. "It's online only. Here in the store, it's just the holster."

"What would I do with a holster and no Taser?"

He shrugs, managing to convey both apology and indifference. "We've got pepper spray and a stun gun in stock. Taser is just a kind of stun gun."

"Show me what you have, please."

"It's part of Home Improvement," he says, and leads me there. I never would have noticed on my own that near the lightbulbs and wall sconces, there are two different pepper sprays and one type of Mace. And-I almost laugh out loud-a pink stun gun/flashlight combo disguised as a lipstick.

"That's the only one?" I ask, pointing to it.

"Yep." He grins back uneasily.

"I guess I'll have to get the matching pink pepper spray, the one that supports breast cancer awareness." There really is a pink ribbon on that package. What will they think of next? I would never normally carry anything in candy pink, it's so decla.s.se, but I'll make it work.

"Do you need anything else?"

"You carry axes, right?" It would be a last resort, but an ax with a good swinging radius could potentially come in handy. The Dawn I know is capable of anything, and I won't be the one surprised anymore.

His eyes widen.

By the time I leave, loaded down with my purchases, I am, genuinely, feeling a greater sense of personal security. Thank you, Walmart.

After days of cowering in my house, I'm walking straight and tall. It's good to feel something other than fear. I'm coasting on pure venomous rage. Larry has been trying to get ahold of me, but he's irrelevant right now. This is about Thad and Dawn. Thad, most of all. He's always needed to be saved from himself.

With my weapons locked in the trunk of my car, I drive to see my mother.

I feel transformed in some way that should be visible, but as I check in with the staff, I'm greeted in the usual way. No one gives me a second's pause. I should be glad I'm not setting off any alarm bells. Yet I want to be seen. For better or worse, let me register, with someone.

Let it be her. My mother. She's walking toward me now, neatly dressed and hair brushed, with the same erect posture I've inherited. No shuffling gait here. She doesn't set off any alarm bells either, until you sit and talk with her. Then you're treated to blank stares, non sequiturs and rambles, confusion, memory failures, and, on rare occasions, screaming, arm-wheeling agitation.

"Let's go to the garden," I say, as usual.

"That sounds lovely," she replies, as if it's a delightful idea that has never occurred to her. She's in hostess mode. She doesn't remember me; she's just been briefed on who I am. I wonder if she's been talking to my father today.

"Has Dad been in to see you?" I ask her. I'm trying something new.

"My husband?" She smiles. "He comes every day. He brings smoothies."

She lets me take her arm and lead her outside. She generally starts out pliable. She's a people pleaser by nature, and LBD can't steal that away entirely. The conditioning remains. It occurs to me that the same would be true of me, if I were to suffer from LBD someday. Everything would be stripped away but my basic desire to be what everyone else wants.

We take our seats at a table among the purple and white of the lavender, daisies, and hydrangea. "Tell me how Dad's doing," I say.

She casts me a quick uncertain glance, as if it might be a trick question. She doesn't trust me, and I have no idea why. Who does she take me for? "Well, you know your father." It's the light response of a born hostess.

"Some days it's hard for me to remember him," I say.

"Why is that?" This, for her, is an incredibly lucid, responsive state. It's the longest conversation we've had in months, an actual duet.

"I think I'm losing myself. Do you know what that's like?"

"No, I don't." She stares out at the garden. It's never before occurred to me that she wills the blankness into being, that she wants to escape her time with a person she's been told is her daughter. Catatonia might be her preferred state.

Well, I'm not going to let her go. Not this time. "I have to tell you something that no one else knows."

She glances at me, then straight ahead. She's not gone yet.

"I'm about to take a little trip. To Oakland. Do you know where that is?" I think I see her shake her head no, so slight it could be a pa.s.sing palsy. "Remember that woman I told you about, the one who's been hara.s.sing me?" No headshake. She's drifting. "Dawn Thiebold. Dawn Thiebold. Dawn Thiebold. You have to remember that name, okay? Are you listening?" Nothing. "Dawn has made my life h.e.l.l. She's taken away an important source of income, the rental income from the Santa Monica house. You do remember the Santa Monica house? You and Dad spent your last years there together. They were happy years. Your happiest. It's where he makes smoothies." My mother blinks rapidly. She's back, almost. "You and Dad left that house to me, so I could make my own happy memories there, and Dawn's ruining it for me, Mom. She's hurt my reputation. Her lies are all over the Internet. I had to resign from the board. She left a rat in my pool, and muddy footprints in my house. She's got someone skulking around, threatening my safety.

"But that's not the worst of it, Mom. The worst is that she's a married woman, and she's having some sort of relations.h.i.+p with Thad. An affair." I see the bafflement in my mother's face. "Thad, Mom. Thad's my son."

"Your son," she echoes.

"Yes, my son!" I feel excited. She's never before spoken when she's in this state. Once I've lost her, it's over for the day. But to be able to bring her back . . . My eyes fill with tears. "So I have a choice. I can go to Oakland and I can tell this woman's husband who she really is. I can confront her. Or I can stay here and hope that she leaves me alone. I can hope that it all blows over. Thad's relations.h.i.+ps never last long."

I study her face. She's listening, I'm almost sure of it. She's raised me to turn the other cheek, to never behave rashly. If she loves me at all, she'll stop me. I can carry my new lipstick/stun gun/flashlight in my purse for self-protection, and go about my business.

"He's not a good boy," she says.

"You remember Thad?"