by Maria Semple
Twenty feet below, splayed among the rocks, was the still body of little Dot, facedown, pigtails askew, wearing her beloved Spider-Man T-shirt and the frilly pants Violet had sewn for her just last week.
JEREMY entered his Sherman Oaks apartment. “Sally?” It had been twenty-nine hours since she had told him to get out. She never arrived in Houston, as he figured she would. She hadn’t called once.
He removed the pad of graph paper he kept in his jacket. After the wedding, Jeremy had begun to graph Sally’s moods. He entered the intensities and frequencies onto a basic Cartesian graph. He had intended, through Fourier analysis, to break the master waves into component waves and extend the graph out to predict Sally’s mood swings. But he could only realistically predict sixty-three percent. Although that may have been an impressive number for sports handicapping, it didn’t help when applied to the person you were married to. He then came up with the idea of inputting his own actions into the sine-cosine equation in an attempt to see if he was indeed responsible for his wife’s terrifying moods. She always said they were his fault, for being so selfish. But what was he so selfish about? Wanting to go to a restaurant he liked? Wanting to walk instead of drive? Wanting to read the papers every morning in silence? Why wouldn’t she be considered equally as selfish for wanting to go to the restaurants she liked? Or wanting to drive everywhere? Or blathering on about some television show while he was trying to read the paper? How did that make him selfish and not her?
Jeremy had tried to make this point many times, but how did you prove to someone that you felt as much as they did? All the feelings Sally was always accusing him of not feeling — love, anger, fear — he felt them. He just didn’t feel the need to talk about them. That was a feeling, too, not feeling like talking about your feelings. If all feelings were so great, why didn’t that one count? Besides, whenever he did try to talk about his feelings, she told him he was stupid to feel what he was feeling. In Jeremy’s opinion, the things Sally felt were stupid. Therefore, they should just cancel each other out.
But Jeremy had taken Sally as his wife. All he could do now was try to figure her out. Coin flipping, formulas, first-order discrete differential equations, propositions: all had proven to be dead ends. But Jeremy had noticed that, like his favorite number, the imaginary number i, Sally’s moods were cyclical. So he decided to graph them out.
Even though the graphs were ultimately of no use, entering data points and curve-fitting served to calm him. Over the last couple of days, he had recognized that Sally was nearing an instantaneous inflection point and he had braced himself for an outburst. But yesterday’s tirade was a true anomaly. He tried to input it, but the curve had gone parabolic!
He looked through the mail. Among the rectangles was a square. A pamphlet. He flipped it open and read:
Repetitive
Clumsy
Literal Minded
Socially Inept
Obsessive
On the last page, it said, “To learn more about Asperger’s syndrome, please call Nora Ross at . . .”
Jeremy picked up the phone and dialed the number.
VIOLET took a deep breath, then walked steadily toward the Ultra office, Dot on her hip. It was imperative that David sign the escrow papers in the next fifteen minutes, or they’d lose their $50,000 deposit. If pressed, Violet could attribute her shakiness to such a tight deadline. Before she opened the door, she ran through the story one last time.
I was meeting Gwen Gold at the George Harrison property when I discovered you forgot to sign page four. Dot wanted to chase butterflies. I let her, never being more than two steps away. All of a sudden, the ground gave way. She must have stepped into a gopher hole. The geology report talked about them, remember? Next thing I knew, Dot rolled down the hill. I was right there. There was a little blood, but she hardly cried. On my way over, I stopped by Dr. Naeby’s, just in case. He thought Dot needed a couple of stitches and offered to do it there. I tried calling you, but Kara said you couldn’t be disturbed.
It was a good story. The only collateral damage would be to Kara. David would demand to know why she hadn’t put Violet through when his daughter was getting stitches. Kara would claim no such thing had happened. Ultimately, it would come down to Violet’s word against the assistant’s. Kara was young; she’d find another job.
Violet entered the office.
“Mommy, down,” said a squirmy Dot. “Down, Mommy.”
“In a second, sweetie.”
Even though Dot’s CAT scan and neurological had been normal, the ER doctor had said it was imperative for Violet to monitor her for drowsiness, headache, balance issues, or vomiting. Any of these symptoms could indicate a hematoma and would require immediate surgery.
David was behind glass at his desk, his back to them.
Kara was at hers, taping receipts to a sheet of paper. “Mrs. Parry, hi!” she said. “Finally, I get to meet Miss Dot. Hi there!” She gave Dot’s hand a squeeze. “Aren’t you beautiful? And isn’t that the cutest hat ever?”
“Mommy, what’s dat?” asked Dot with an impish smile. She pointed to a can of Coke on Kara’s desk.
“What do you think it is?” Violet said.
“Coca-Cola,” said Dot, in an unmistakable Spanish accent. “Want dat.”
“Just this once.” Violet put Dot down. Kara punched something into her computer and led Dot toward the kitchen. David switched to a wireless headset and walked over. Violet took a deep breath: this was it.
When Violet had reached the bottom of the hill, Dot was whimpering. Violet scooped her up. Dot’s mouth was full of blood; it flowed down her chin and onto Violet. Dot looked at her mother, indignant, as if to say, How dare you allow such a thing to happen to me? Violet wept with relief and cradled Dot’s head. Instantly, Violet’s hand became soaked. Blood flowed from a gash behind Dot’s ear. Violet pressed her fingers against the cut and ran to the Mercedes. On the drive down to UCLA, Violet had phoned their neighbor, the head of surgery there. By the time mother and daughter arrived at the emergency room, a team was mobilized and waiting on the curb. It reminded Violet of when she would arrive early for a party and there were too many valets.
David muted his headset and stuck his head out of the office. “What’s up?” he asked.
“I need you to sign page four in the next fifteen minutes and fax it back.” Violet handed him the papers.
“I’ll be right there.” He shut the door. Violet welcomed the chance to review her story one last time.
Dot tripped in a gopher hole. She didn’t cry. Only upon Dr. Naeby’s insistence did I let her get a couple of stitches. I tried to call, but Kara wouldn’t put me through. It was over before Dot even knew what happened.
Dot and Kara returned, Dot holding a can of Coke with both hands. Her balance, vision, and mental acuity all appeared perfect.
“Dot,” Kara said, “do you want to see pictures of my nephew? His name is Lucas. He was only four pounds when he was born, teeny tiny.” The screen saver on the assistant’s computer was of a curled newborn covered with monitoring devices. “I’m so excited,” Kara told Violet. “I get to go to Coachella this weekend. David said he’d let me stand on the stage for Hanging with Yoko. I’m going to totally wave to all my friends.”
“Come here, baby doll.” Violet adjusted Dot’s cashmere cap so it hid the inch-long tape protecting her stitches.
Kara said, “And next week is going to be crazy with drummer auditions.”
Violet thought of something. Coachella was this weekend, so David would probably spend at least two nights there. And with Yoko drummer auditions all week, his nights would be tied up. There was a good chance he wouldn’t be dropping by the house at all. Dot’s stitches were coming out in five days. If Violet could keep David from Dot, he might never know about the stitches. Violet’s new story was:
Dot fell into a gopher hole while we were walking around the George Harrison property and —
Actually, there was no reason t
o tell David any of it!
In the UCLA parking garage, Violet had changed into some yoga clothes she always kept in the trunk. She didn’t have clean clothes for Dot, so she had called Daniel at Hermès. Fifteen minutes later, he was standing on the curb with a six-hundred-dollar (!) ensemble for Dot. And hats for Violet, of course. Other than the tiny stitches that were hidden by the Hermès knit cap, Dot betrayed no evidence of the fall. David always went out of his way to avoid talking to the neighbors, so he wouldn’t find out about the accident from the surgeon. And if Violet brought cash to UCLA, she could pay the bill and there’d be no paper trail!
David was now off the phone.
One last time, Violet ran through the story — there was no story! And sweet Kara would be spared! If David confronted Violet about the stuff Kurt stole, she would say she’d gotten it for the RIE silent auction and figured a valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel had stolen it.
David opened his office door and handed Kara the papers. “Fax these immediately and get a time-stamped confirmation they were received. Thanks.”
Dot galloped into David’s office and jumped up and down upon seeing all the pictures of her. “Dot!” she exclaimed. Dot’s favorite subject was Dot. She was like a miniature rapper, always referring to herself in the third person.
“I have lots of pictures of my girls here,” David said.
“Daddy?” Dot held up a framed picture. “Dat man eating nuts?”
“No, that’s Dada.”
“Dat man eating nuts,” Dot insisted.
David studied the picture, then laughed. “How about that?” It was the photograph of them at Lake Tahoe, the one where Violet looked so incomprehensibly happy.
They had flown up to ski and had watched the Super Bowl while playing Texas Hold ’Em at a casino. Violet was up two grand at one point, then gave it all back and more. David won a monster pot early and cashed out. Violet’s style was to raise and bluff, even when she knew she’d been beat. At halftime, when her stack had started to dwindle, David had come by and whispered, “Learn the thrill of a smart lay-down.”
“Do you see that?” David asked Violet. “In the corner. See that man eating a Mr. Goodbar?” He turned to Dot. “You’re just a little smartie, aren’t you?” David swept up his daughter and emitted a roar of love. “God, I love this little girl. I’m never going to let anything bad happen to you.”
Back in the hospital examining room, Violet had held her bloody daughter. Their neighbor Dr. Driscoll entered. A highly decorated Vietnam vet, the surgeon commanded fear from the orderlies. “Thank you so much for coming, Dr. Driscoll,” she said. “I really appreciate it.” “What’s going on?” he asked. “It’s right above her ear. A cut.” Dot’s hair obscured the injury. Violet lifted it, but the blood had dried, sticking strands of hair to the wound. “Owww!” howled Dot. The surgeon shot a withering look at the nurse and growled, “Will someone get me a sponge with some warm water?” The nurse did, and Violet pressed it against Dot’s head. “How did it happen?” asked Dr. Driscoll. “We were walking on a hill and she fell — I was right there.” “With kids,” the surgeon said, “the worst ones happen when you’re right there. Jonah fell off the changing table when he was three months. I swear, I had my hand on him!” He smiled at the recollection, then looked at the cut and frowned. “I’m going to have to sew this shut.” Violet trembled as the nurse prepped the forceps, needle, and syringe. “Relax, Mom,” laughed the doctor. “I’ll have her looking like she went to a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.” The nurse popped her head into the bustling hallway. “I’m going to need all hands,” she called. “We’ve got a baby.” It required four nurses, as well as Violet, to hold Dot down for the lidocaine shot and the stitches. Violet repeatedly telling her daughter, “It’s okay, Dot. Mommy’s here.” Then whispering: “I’m sorry I didn’t want to be with you. I’m sorry you weren’t enough.” It was the only time during the ordeal Violet had cried. Once the final suture was in, Dot’s shrieks abruptly turned into strange high-pitched barks, “Oof! Oof!” Violet panicked that her daughter’s brain had been damaged. “What, Dot?” Violet looked desperately into her daughter’s eyes. Dot pointed to a wall where a calendar of West Highland terriers hung. “Doggies. Oof! Oof!”
Violet watched Dot now, sitting in her Dada’s lap, playing with his headset.
“Mine,” Dot said.
“Mine,” David teased back.
Dot grabbed the grass bracelet around David’s wrist. “Mine,” she said.
“Mine,” David parroted back.
Dot yanked the bracelet, and it came off in her hand. “Mine!” She squealed with delight.
David looked up at Violet. His eyes, always so sad and incongruous with his temper, finally looked like they belonged on his face.
And Violet knew it was over.
She walked to her husband and daughter, then even closer so that all three touched. God, she loved her little family. And Dot, what a scrapper! She had barely cried when she was born. She came out eyes open, as if not wanting to miss any opportunity to drink in life. David had said if there was a thought bubble over Dot’s head those first moments, it would have been, What else ya got? He also said he would entirely trust Violet’s instincts when it came to raising Dot. All he asked in return was that Violet keep her safe.
Violet fell to her knees. Dot cupped her mother’s cheeks with her small hands. Violet closed her eyes. Dot’s impossibly soft skin on her face, it felt like being held by little whispers.
“Ultra?” David was calling her name. “Ultra?”
The door opened. Someone entered.
“Kara?” he said. “Could you take Dot?”
“Of course.”
The door closed.
“Violet? Ultra?”
Violet looked up. “David,” she said. “I have something to tell you.”
“I know you do.” His eyes swelled with understanding.
“I’m scared.”
“I know you are.” He took her hands in his.
“I got really off track, baby.”
“I know you did.”
And she told David the story.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Surprise Me Thank You Surprise!
Reyes, T. Genotype Two
FOR THE PAST SIX MONTHS, SALLY HADN’T MUSTERED THE COURAGE TO RAISE her hand. But last week, out of nowhere, Flicka, the eighties runway model who ran the group, approached Sally and asked if she would “tell her story.”
The eight double-spaced pages quivered so in Sally’s hands that the words darted about in a game of catch-me-if-you-can. In an attempt to steady them, Sally dug her elbows into her sides. Don’t look up, she reminded herself.
“I was born in Denver. And I had a happy childhood. I loved ballet and I had diabetes and I collected horses.” Sally stopped, realizing how that sounded. “Not real horses. Those plastic Breyer ones. You know what ones I’m talking about.” She looked up. The dozen or so people in the room, most of them familiar, appeared baffled and bored. Flicka winced. Sally quickly dropped her eyes, but had lost her spot on the page. She vamped as she tried to find it. “Horses . . . diabetes . . . ballet . . . Everything was great. . . . I was happy.” She turned the paper over. “I’m sorry. I’m new at this.”
None of the others had ever written out their speeches, but most of them were seasoned AA people and seemed perfectly at ease with offering up the most humiliating version of themselves to complete strangers.
Sally still couldn’t find her place, and now all the pages were out of sequence — she’d have to do without. She quickly fixed her gaze on a smoke alarm above the sea of eyes.
“Like I was saying, I had a happy childhood and everything was great. Even the diabetes wasn’t so bad. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have it. And if you think like a pancreas, you’ll be fine. And I was. I had friends, a job teaching ballet, a husband.”
Sally’s eyes drifted down. Flicka picked at a thread on her jeans. A man stood at the co
ffeemaker, and several people waved to him to get them some coffee, too. Most other eyes were on a baby a lady bounced on her lap.
In one breath, she looked at the audience and said the dreaded words, “I’m Sally and I have hep C.”
Everyone swung their attention to her. Instantly, their faces were filled with that combination of curiosity and sympathy that had kept Sally coming back to this little church basement in the valley.
“I found out I had the virus six months ago,” she said, “during a routine blood test when I was pregnant. I don’t even know why they tested for EIA, but I guess they test for everything these days. And I tested positive. And then I retested positive. And then I reretested positive. Because, you see, if it wasn’t for my denial, my life would have been crap.”
Sally heard a guffaw that was unmistakably Simon’s. She stole a peek at the Irish motorcycle mechanic who was covered in tattoos and got infected, like almost everyone here, from sharing needles. He was the only one to make small talk with Sally at that first meeting, the one Violet had dragged her to, the day of her diagnosis. Simon had asked Sally if she was new and given her his phone number, right in front of his hot girlfriend, Petra, who, like Simon, was also HIV positive. Sally hesitated before touching the piece of paper, which only seemed to endear her more to the couple.
“So, I went to a hepatologist and I tested positive for EIA, CIA, and RIBA. Luckily, my viral load was low. My ALT levels were normal.” Sally scrunched her shoulders to her ears and spoke in a small voice. “And please don’t hate me, you guys, but I’m genotype two.”
The vast majority of those infected with hep C were genotype one, which responded poorly to interferon treatment. Only fourteen percent were genotype two, which had an eighty-one percent cure rate.
“Listen to me,” Sally said. “I feel guilty because I have the less deadly form of hep C!” If there was one thing she had learned from the denizens of this room, it was gallows humor. “I started the twenty-four-week course of Pegasys and ribavirin. I went in last week and . . .” Sally paused. She hadn’t included this part in her written speech, for fear of seeming cruel. “I tested clear.”