Been There, Married That (ARC)

by Gigi Levangie

  I forced myself to watch the judge as she responded to Anne. Nails clicking. Pink lips pursed. Bangles caught in the folds of her wrists.

  “Have the parties worked out custody arrangements?” the judge asked as Anne sat down, having performed sans banging and raging and poster boards.

  “We are close, Your Honor,” Anne said.

  “Close,” the judge said. “Sounds ominous.”

  “There’s been discussion over primary versus joint custody.”

  “In 99 percent of the cases in my courtroom,” the judge said, “I rule for joint.”

  “May I approach the bench?” Anne said. “I have a report from the therapist who worked with Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous during parenting classes.”

  “Please.”

  Anne stepped forward, handed the judge the file, then returned to her seat. We waited while the judge read over the report. I leaned back in my chair to catch Trevor’s eye, as if to say, What are we doing?

  I crossed my fingers and willed my knees to stop shaking.

  “Ms. Anonymous,” the judge said, looking up from her bench, “what are your plans for future living arrangements?”

  I was caught off guard. I looked at Anne.

  “I’m not asking your lawyer; I’m asking you,” she said.

  I stood up. “I haven’t exactly, um . . . I was planning to live in our home with our daughter until . . . my husband, until Trevor—”

  “Mr. Anonymous,” Ulger said.

  “Until Mr. Anonymous sold it.”

  “Your Honor, may I speak?” Ulger wanted to talk. This wasn’t good.

  “You may.”

  “Mr. Anonymous has an offer on the property,” he said.

  “Is he accepting it?”

  “He’ll very likely accept it,” Ulger said. “It’s a short escrow. Thirty days.”

  I closed my eyes. Trevor had done it. He’d sold our house. I flashed on Pep’s room, the colorful tiles in her bathroom. Her view of the hillside.

  “Ms. Anonymous,” the judge said. “Did you know this would happen?”

  “No, I mean, I didn’t think it would happen so quickly.”

  “But you knew the house was for sale.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you haven’t made other arrangements for you and your daughter.”

  “Not yet. I mean, I’ve been looking, but I wasn’t sure what my budget would be.”

  “Where could you move in the next three weeks?”

  “That depends,” I said. “On what I can pay.”

  “You don’t have any savings?”

  “I did,” I said. “I had saved up a lot. Then my sister kept getting arrested.”

  Anne kicked my ankle.

  “And I bought a house for my dad. I mean, he didn’t ask, but the drive was terrible.”

  Anne kicked my ankle again.

  The judge tilted her head at me, breathing heavily. I was tiring her out. My nonsensical babbling was her cardio that morning.

  “Where is your father’s house?”

  I blanked for a moment. “Venice, by the beach, it’s adorable. One of those old beach bungalows from the 1920s. I fixed it up; it looks great.”

  “Ms. Anonymous. How big is your father’s house?”

  Anne cut in. “Your Honor, may I ask why you’re posing these questions? Whatever size her father’s home is, it cannot compare to the house Mrs. Anonymous resides in currently.”

  The judge gazed at her, eyebrow arched, like an animated villain.

  And what happens in every animated Disney movie?

  The mom dies.

  “Counsel, I’m trying to determine if your client has arranged for adequate living space for her daughter.”

  “Your Honor, I appreciate that; however, I must object.”

  “On what basis?”

  “I could move in with my dad,” I said. “No problem. At least temporarily. Pep loves it there.”

  “How big is his place?”

  “It’s a one . . . and a half . . . bedrooms . . . ish.”

  “So your daughter will sleep on the floor.”

  “The couch is fine,” I said. “It’s a foldout. Plenty of room.”

  “Counsel,” she said. “I’ve reached my decision. The court gives temporary custody of minor child to Mr. Anonymous, subject to a hearing in three weeks when I can learn what Ms. Anonymous’s new and adequate living arrangements will be.”

  I felt my knees buckle.

  “Anne?” I turned. “Anne?”

  For the first time, Anne looked stunned. I turned back to the judge.

  “Wait. No. You can’t do that,” I said. “You don’t understand. She’s never been away from me. Except for that one time in rehab.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Why? Why do I have a problem keeping my truth vomit mouth shut?

  “Long story,” I said.

  “Your Honor,” Anne said as she gripped my arm. “If I could have a word with my client.”

  I wasn’t done. “Your Honor, please. I’m begging you. I know it doesn’t seem like a long time, but Pep’s never been away from me. Except overnight for faux rehab. Please.”

  “I’ve made my decision. I’ll see you back here in three weeks. I’m sure you will have figured out a proper living arrangement.”

  “No, no. I can’t. I can’t.”

  Anne had her hands on my waist. I pushed her away.

  “Next case!” The judge lowered her gavel.

  “No,” I said. “No, this isn’t right. I object!”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Anonymous,” the judge said.

  “Agnes, not now, please,” Anne said. “I know it seems unfair, but you can do this.”

  I stood and pointed at the judge. “You’re unfair!” I yelled. “This isn’t right!”

  “Damn straight,” someone piped up from the back. Fin.

  “You are out of order!” I yelled. “This isn’t right—none of this is right!”

  “Hell yeah! Fight the power!” Fin said, her fist in the air. “Get the man!”

  The judge banged the gavel until a barrette loosened from her hair and hopped off the bench. The bailiff jumped over the plaintiff’s table, chasing me down as I leaped to the other side.

  “You’re out of order!” I yelled as the bailiff caught me and pulled my hands behind my back. “This is a sham! Your courtroom’s a sham! I pay taxes for this!” People rose in spurts, clapping and cheering. Fin was still yelling. The judge was banging her gavel, her hair in her plump red face. And Anne, poor Anne, shaking her head, her hands on the table, holding her up.

  The last visual I caught as I was hauled away was Ulger shaking Trevor’s hand and patting him on the back, and Trevor’s eyes wide as disks, as though a flashlight were shining straight at his face.

  22: The Writer Gets a Sentence

  I hated being overdressed for the occasion, this occasion being Downtown LA Women’s Correctional Facility anteroom. I should’ve worn flats. “You’re going to break a toe,” a voice said as I kicked at the door of the tiny, puke-beige room; the door served as a trompe l’oeil of the courtroom, Ulger’s bloated face, Trevor’s hair, and the judge, her bear paws and those blood-soaked nails.

  I kicked and screamed and kicked.

  “They can’t hear you out there,” the man said, “but I’m in here getting a headache.”

  I turned. The bailiff was hunched in the corner, his mountainous form bogarting the room, chin docked in his baseball mitt hands.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I need to throw up.”

  “Sure.” He kicked a wastebasket toward me. I bent over and expelled Gabriela’s breakfast and the last of my pride.

  “Can I . . . I need to wipe my mouth.” My hands were cuffed behind me. I couldn’t remember when they’d slipped on the cuffs. A wave of embarrassment and nausea gripped my stomach. I threw up again.

  “Sure thing,” he said. He took a Kleenex out of his pocket. “It’s unused. I have allergies.”

  “Ca
n you undo me?”

  “You’re not a danger to yourself and others, correct?” he asked. I nodded, and he reached over to unlock the cuffs.

  “You’re no longer a danger to that door?” he asked, flashing a dimple. I could see why he never smiled in court; that dimple destroyed his credibility. On the other hand, that dimple could easily disarm any criminal.

  Like myself.

  “I’m a danger to common sense,” I said, wiping my mouth with the Kleenex, stained red with the lipstick I’d tried this morning. Maybe I could swallow this soiled ball of snot, vomit, and lipstick and suffocate myself.

  “I’ve seen a lot of people lose it in there,” he said. “Emotions run high in that courtroom. It’s what I call ‘emotionally charged,’ that room. Me, personally, I’m never getting divorced.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Easy. You’re going to cooperate with the judge,” he said. “You’re going to find yourself a place. A nice place for you and your daughter.”

  “I don’t know if I can find a nice place.”

  “Of course you can,” he said.

  “How can you be sure?” I asked.

  “You’re white,” he said. “You’re wearing expensive shoes that you can afford to ruin on that door. You’re way ahead of the game.”

  “I see your point,” I said as I slunk to the floor. “That judge. She’s horrible.”

  “She’s tough but fair,” he said. “You know how I know? Everyone hates her.”

  I shook my head, swallowing bile.

  “Mr. Anonymous loves her, I’m sure. I’m sure he wants to buy her lunch, produce her life story,” I said. “How did I ever marry that motherfucker? How? All he cares about is winning. He doesn’t give a shit about our child. He doesn’t want to raise her. He can’t. He has to be raised himself!”

  The bailiff leaned back, his eyebrow cocked. His shoes reflected the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling.

  “You chose him, my dear,” he said, weary. I got the feeling he’d had this conversation many times.

  “I sure did,” I said. “My fucking mistake. For which I’ll be paying the rest of my life.”

  “I know one thing, for sure,” he said, leaning forward, his hands on his knees. He looked me in the eye. “Heroes don’t marry zeros.”

  Holy ouch, Batman.

  “That hurt,” I said. “Hey, maybe we should meet weekly.”

  * * *

  A long time passed until the door cracked opened. Anne, her shoulders slumped forward, appeared in the doorway; I finally saw her age, which made me feel guilty, of course. The weariness etched on her face was my handiwork.

  “Well, that was interesting,” she said. “I got the sentence down.”

  The expanse of time between Anne’s statement and my next question lasted hours. Days. A year.

  “What sentence?” Blood rushed in my ear.

  “You’re sentenced to two days downtown,” Anne said as she sat beside me and placed her briefcase at her feet.

  “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Contempt of court,” she said.

  “It could’ve been weeks,” the bailiff said. “Seen it. Told you she was fair.”

  My eyes bounced from the bailiff back to Anne. They shared the expression of someone who’d warned the dog not to pee on the living room rug.

  “Your bail is set at fifty grand,” she said. “Can you post bail?”

  “What? That’s more than Fin’s bail,” I said. “And she’s an actual felon, according to the California penal code. I’m the good sister! I’ve never broken a law in my life! I didn’t even ditch school!”

  “She’s been like this the whole time,” the bailiff said to Anne.

  “Do you have the money?” Anne asked, again.

  I thought about the sheets and towels money. Thank you, Pratesi. Half of it was already gone to the Triplets, Pep’s school, a bit thrown Anne’s way.

  “Do you know anyone who could help?” Anne had already heard my answer in my expression.

  “Trevor, ha ha ha,” I said. “My friend Liz. But I don’t want to ask.”

  Anne pushed a lock of blond-gray hair from her eyes.

  “I’m a good mother. I’m not good at a lot of things,” I said. “Like games that involve balls . . . and Sudoku. And breaking down doors.”

  Beat. They waited.

  “But I am good at being Pep’s mommy. I don’t deserve this.”

  Anne sat down next to me and put her arm around my shoulder. She smelled like vanilla and fresh schnauzer. I wanted to ask if I could move in with her.

  “I stayed with my husband for twenty-five years,” she said. “I waited until the last boy was out of the house. I drove that boy to college, drove back, packed my bags, and left. All so I could avoid exactly what you’re going through.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the helpful parable you want it to be.”

  “It was a choice.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “No,” she said. “The boys had their mother full-time. But that mom was unhappy. Numb. Closed off. ‘Emotionally unavailable’ is what my middle child calls it now. I was there, but I wasn’t there. I was a ghost mom.”

  I sniffed and nodded and found myself crying. The bailiff handed me another tissue.

  “I sacrificed my happiness for theirs, that’s what I told myself. But truthfully, I wasn’t there for them. They never saw their mom fully happy.”

  “Robot mom,” I said. “Robo-Mom.” I moved my hands around like a robot. “Billy, would you like scrambled eggs?” I asked in robot voice.

  “You can be divorced and be the best role model for your kid. Once you get over the guilt and sadness.”

  “Please tell me you’re happy now,” I said. “I’m not going to be able to make it through the day unless I think there’s something to look forward to.”

  “I am. I’m really happy now,” she said. “Believe it or not, someday, you will be, too. Especially if you adopt a schnauzer.”

  “English bulldog,” the bailiff said.

  “I don’t want a dog; I want my daughter,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I don’t think I’ll make it through the weekend.”

  “You’re going to make it. You have to. She’s counting on you.”

  “Don’t let Pep down,” the bailiff urged. “She needs you.”

  “We’re coming back,” Anne said. “This isn’t over. The judge said this is temporary. It’s a temporary edict. We’ll come back, and we’ll fight.”

  I shook my head.

  “No, I don’t want to fight anymore,” I said, staring at my hands, my chipped nails, my empty ring finger. “I’m done.”

  “Hey,” the bailiff said, snapping his fingers. “I know where I’ve seen you before.”

  We looked at him.

  “That pee-pee video,” he said. “Oh, boy, I’m glad you didn’t do that in here. Hey, would you sign a book for me? I mean, when you get out?”

  “You . . . bought my book?”

  “Everybody’s buying that damned book,” he said.

  * * *

  Fin was right. Jail wasn’t so bad. I’d endured more discomfort at catered events. Hijacked in a large venue, watching a cross-eyed late-night talk show host kiss the ass of a guy who fired half the studio before lunch—that was suffering. Jail was like high school with orange uniforms. My cell was cold, my bed was hard. My towel was scratchy, the pillow flat. The sheet wasn’t exactly Pratesi.

  I felt like I could write here.

  I slept like a baby.

  The next morning, the warden tapped on the cell bars.

  * * *

  Fin was outside the holding area, wrestling the grin on her face.

  “I can’t believe it! I had to bail you out!” Fin said.

  “How did you do it?” I asked, “You don’t have any money.”

  “Anyone can get money,” she said. “It’s not that hard
.”

  “Translation: I don’t want to know,” I said.

  “No, you don’t,” she said and punched me in the arm.

  Fin ripped down the 10, then up the 405 on the way to the dead zone, which would be gone in less than thirty days. I had to pack.

  “Have you heard anything from Pep? What happened yesterday? Is she okay? Who picked her up? Did Trevor come back to the house?”

  “Hold up,” Fin said, rapping her rings on the steering wheel. “First of all, Pep is fine. I talked to her. I laid it all out. I told her you lost your mind in court but only because you love her so much. I told her to call me anytime, day or night. I’m on call, Auntie at your service, 24-7. I said to view this time like it’s a vacation with Daddy. She might turn out to be a Daddy’s girl, like us.”

  “Do not ever say that again,” I said. “Did Trevor pick her up, or did he have assistant number one, two, or three do the honors?”

  “Actually. Trevor,” she said. “I made it known that if anything happened to Pep, I’d be up his ass with a hammer.”

  “That should play well at my next court date.”

  Fin exited off Sunset.

  “Just so you know, Trevor called me fifteen times last night. Pep sneezed and he thought he’d catch a cold, and his movie’s falling apart.”

  “Poor Trevor,” I said. “Poor him.”

  “Yeah, he didn’t sound too stable,” she said. “I told him not to worry about Pep; it’s probably just salamander flu. He’ll only have to be quarantined for a week.”

  “What’s the salamander flu?”

  “There is no salamander flu.”

  Houses went by, a blur of white clapboards and ivy. “Waverly told me things were going to get worse for me. How did she know?”

  “It’s obvious,” Fin said. “You’re divorcing a powerful guy. They hate that, even if it’s their idea. Come on!”

  I looked at her. “She said George Treadwell was the key to this divorce. That somehow, he’d make things right.”

  “The actor dude?”