by A B Whelan
Closing and opening the tiny plastic bag between my fingers, I switch my eyes between the tablet screen on my lap and the remaining dose of cocaine, hoping a solution will come to me. Last night, I should have chained Skyler to the couch or grabbed her and forced her to drive here with me. Hell, I should have called 911 and asked the dispatcher to send a police unit over to take her statement while she was in my sight.
I slip the iPad back into my handbag, place the bag of cocaine on the dashboard, and turn over the engine. I have no time to lift my foot from the brake pedal as Peter calls. I turn my head around a few times, the cracking of my neck reminding me how stiff I am, before I answer.
“Any luck?” Peter says.
“Nope. I tried every place you gave me.”
A sigh, followed by tense silence. “You know, she left a message on my phone yesterday saying she thought about skipping town for a while.”
“Any idea where she might go?”
“She wouldn’t say, but where would you go if you had no money, no help, and no prospect of changing your situation?”
“Home,” I offer.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“I thought you said she cut the cord with her parents.”
“She did, but it’s the only place I can think of that we haven’t tried. Look, Ashley, I’m at court all day today. I only slipped outside to call you quickly, but I can drive down to Temecula tomorrow to see if she’s there.”
“Why don’t you just call them and ask?”
A mocking laugh echoes through the phone. “I’d rather drive.”
I stare at the plastic bag of white powder for a little longer before I bury it in the glove compartment, underneath the car owner’s manual and some napkins. “You know what, why don’t you give me the address. I’m already out and about. I’ll drive down there.”
No answer. Only heavy breathing indicates that Peter is still on the line.
“Peter?”
“I don’t know, Ashley. You might look at me differently after you’ve met Skyler’s parents.”
“Jesus, Peter. This isn’t about you. We need to find your cousin before something horrible happens to her.”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“And tell them what?”
“All right, I’ll text you the address. But please keep me in the loop, okay?”
“Of course.”
I Google the address to Skyler’s parents’ house. A couple acres of dirt enclosed by mountains on the east side of Temecula, in the middle of nowhere. A painful two-hour drive will get me there. If I leave now, there are only nine reported accidents along the way. I’ll need company on this road trip.
Betty
Wednesday
My silk blouse rests crisply on my chest, the ruffles ironed to perfection. A two-button black jacket is holding everything together from waist to bosom. When summer break ended, I invested in this perfect fall-catalog outfit to make a killer impression at work. The tightness in my chest and over my thighs indicates that instead of losing weight, I’ve gained a few pounds.
I spill out of my ragged and battered Ford Escape used to raise my small children. Despite my attempt to look professional, I must be painting a comical picture with my uncoordinated movements. The Schroeders will see through me like a glass house. But I can’t screw this up because we need the money. Mostly I can’t screw this up because I can’t face another year of failure.
I lock the car, pull down my pant legs, smooth out the wrinkles from the fabric, and make my way toward the single-story suburban home. The seamless lawn spreads out in front of me like an emerald sea; the scent of freshly cut grass still lingers in the air. An elegant, custom-made birdbath sculpture towers in the middle of the front yard and is filled with clean water. In style with the holidays, red and blue hummingbird feeders filled with amber liquid hang from the branches of a pepper tree. Christmas lights are tucked underneath the gutter—a professional finish for uncompromising customers. Underneath, a solar-powered light illuminates a statue of stone caroling figures. After our conversation on the phone, I had imagined Mrs. Schroeder as a kind yet authoritative woman. If I want to get this listing, then earning her approval must be my priority.
While my new pair of wedges—not brave enough for high heels—slam onto the concrete sidewalk, I search the windows on the house for spying faces. I got this. I will show Brad that I still possess the qualities needed to get business done.
One minute I’m marching with my head held high. The next, my right ankle rolls under me and the imbalance sends me to the ground, twisted and mortified, and my hand smashes onto the wet grass. I don’t know what hit me. The pain is immediate, a pulsing rush of blood pushing through my veins and swelling around my ankle. No time for curling up in a ball to cry. I haul myself back to my feet. The lone pebble that tripped me still sits on the sidewalk like a planted landmine, waiting to sabotage me. My papers are scattered on the ground, and there are smudges of dirt on my left palm. It oozes with an unmistakable smell I refuse to acknowledge. I wipe my hand with a tissue, cursing the dog’s owner who left me this shitty present. But I won’t let a little poop faze me. I have three kids who managed to obliterate my sensitivity a long time ago.
The Schroeders’ home is spotless and museum-like. After seeing their front yard, it’s nothing less than I expected. Sitting around the table, Mr. and Mrs. Schroeder watch me reveal the secrets from my freshly purchased leather folder with shrunken eyes and sloping shoulders. From the corner of my eye, I can see them exchanging glances. Even these elderly people, with their diminished eyesight, can see through my charade. If I don’t get this listing, then it will mark my sixth unsuccessful month as a new realtor. Oh, Brad—he’ll be so disappointed in me.
I need to shake off my negative thoughts and show these clients how determined I am to work hard for them. I think of the posts and images of local realtors I follow on Facebook. They always seem to be smiling. Their backs are straight, shoulders wide, and chins up. I straighten up and smile at the Schroeders. The reflection of my round face in the mirror across the room steals my attention—my skin is red and blemished. I look comical. My chest cramps. My smile vanishes. I feel like I’m going to cry. Why am I such a failure?
I spend the next hour telling the Schroeders my sob life story. How I went from a high school sweetheart to a stay-at-home mom with three children, ages twelve, nine, and six, and with nothing but good memories in between. I try to appeal to their sense of compassion with the heartbreaking tale of my husband’s construction business going bankrupt in Los Angeles when the housing market bubble burst. We had barely enough savings to survive the months Brad was at the police academy. We also had to move to a more affordable area. That’s how we moved to Temecula—the city we love, I emphasize.
I don’t tell them how boxed-in I feel, how our lives have become overly organized, annoyingly regulated, and boringly comfortable. They don’t need to know that I want money to travel or do crazy stuff, like skydiving or climbing California’s highest summits, before the sticky claws of depression from my artificial happiness drag me down into the abyss. I feel sick to even think about it because it makes me feel ungrateful and spoiled. Half the earth’s population lives in poverty, and twenty thousand children die of hunger every year—I know because I frequently look it up online to keep my head on straight. I have no right to complain, but I do. And I can’t stop myself from doing it because to me, the cross I carry is the heaviest.
My appeal to the Schroeders’ sympathy works perfectly because they are old-school Catholics and wired to help those in need, to do right by God.
As I drive home, I’m not bathing in triumph, and I don’t feel like celebrating. No matter how hard I try to deceive myself, I can’t stop pointing out the elephant in the room. The Schroeders didn’t sign the contract because I’m the best person for the job. They did it because they pitied me. That’s what I am. An object of people’s pity. If I post a picture of
myself on Facebook—a rare occurrence—my online friends feel the urge to compliment me on how good I look because it’s obvious that I let myself go a while back—not with my weight but with my appearance. My hairdos are never quite right, and my outfits are outdated. So people pity me. I used to be more passionate about pretty much everything. The thought of going on a Netflix binge was something I despised. If I close my eyes, I’m still able to bring back the memories of Brad and me leaning over the railing on the boat off the coast of Newport Beach, watching the migrating whales. I can picture myself at the slot machines, gambling away a week’s worth of earnings. Then I open my eyes, and all I see are organic food stores, immense green parks, franchise restaurants, and weight-control businesses. The magic is gone.
My sister’s filthy Toyota Camry parks crookedly in our driveway, preventing my entry into the garage. The homeowners’ association sends us a letter almost every month ordering us to park our cars in the garage to keep the street pleasant-looking. This is suburbia. Nobody cares what you do inside your house—grow marijuana, cook meth, pimp out prostitutes—if your front lawn is mowed, your cars are washed, and your fence is painted.
I pull to the curb in front of my own house like a visitor and get out of my car. My blouse has sweat marks on the front where my creased stomach wedged the fabric together. I feel my depression rising. I’m happy. I’m successful. I’m beautiful. I repeat this in my head as I balance grocery bags while walking through the garage, where I meet my second obstacle. The pile of folded clothes I left on top of the dryer fell onto the laundry room floor, blocking the door from opening on the inside. It’s not the first time that I’ve kicked the door open. Proof is marked on the door at ankle height.
I’m happy. I’m successful. I’m beautiful. What a load of shit!
My husband, a brave officer for the San Diego City Police Department, is in the living room, cracking up while watching Karl Pilkington’s An Idiot Abroad TV show.
“Did you grab my beer?” he yells over the sound of stomping feet and screaming children that echoes from upstairs.
I pop a bottle open for him and, walking on a carpet of Cheetos and Lego pieces, deliver it to him. I’m happy. I’m successful. I’m beautiful.
“I got my first listing today,” I announce, lowering myself onto the couch covered with greasy handprints.
Brad takes a deep swig of the chilled liquid—his Adam’s apple no longer visible beneath his thick skin. He sets his beer on his perfectly round, bulging belly, holding it loosely with his sausage fingers. “Congratulations, honey! I hope you sell it faster than it took you to list it.” Always the optimist, my supportive, super-sweet hubby has spoken.
I throw vegetables halfheartedly into a pot with beef. I don’t bother peeling the carrots. I pour myself a glass of wine, telling myself that if an accident happens with the kids tonight, I will call an ambulance instead of driving. I usually wait to start drinking until the kids’ bedtime, but some nights are tougher to handle than others. I’m not looking for a solution at the bottom of the glass. I only need something that takes the edge off.
A stampede of feet beats its way down the tile staircase, and a moment later an army of kids bursts into the kitchen. The refrigerator door slams open, drawers smash against kneecaps, and bags rattle in hands.
“I’m making dinner. Stop eating junk, guys!”
“I’m freaking starving,” grunts my sister’s oldest, a snot-nosed, know-it-all brat.
It’s not that I hate my nephews, but they sure make it difficult for me to love them.
My sister—a soul-searching, fun-loving millennial—broke up with the father of her youngest in a spur-of-the-moment decision with no backup plan. After a lengthy and tear-soaked persuasive argument filled with promises of my eternal servitude to him, Brad agreed to open our home to my sister and her two children. I knew it was a wrong decision from the beginning, not just because we weren’t doing so hot ourselves but because I know my sister too well. She asked for a place to crash for a month or two until she could get back on her feet. That was eight months and five days ago, but who’s counting.
The first few weeks were fun. We dined together. The kids played together. It was me who ruined it all—Brad made it clear to me. I catered to them as if I were their servant, yet I did it willingly, and all that comfort turned them into slobs. They stopped cleaning up after themselves, making or buying their own food, or treating us with respect. Brad says I brought this down on myself and on the whole family because I’m a sucker. He couldn’t be more accurate.
Ignoring the kids who obey no god or human, I finish my second glass of wine and drag myself upstairs between abandoned pieces of dirty underwear and empty candy wrappers. I can’t bring myself to pick them up. My sister is out at a bar with friends, and the upstairs is alluringly vacant. Maybe I should have put on a violent, gory movie for the kids to keep them downstairs longer. I no longer dream about a life of grandeur. Peace and quiet are my most desired commodities.
I prop a few pillows up on the headboard of my bed and make myself comfortable with my laptop. I open the property folder to start working on a sales plan. I’ll have to arrange a photo shoot—which I forgot to do when I met with the homeowners earlier. I grab a pen to make a to-do list, when a Facebook notification pops up on my screen. For the rest of the night, I am lost in a majestic and enviable world created by my friends’ travel pictures. When I get bored of liking everyone’s posts, I turn to Netflix. My new favorite psychological thriller show, The Killing, gives me my daily dose of excitement. There is always tomorrow. I’ve done enough for one day.
I’m dreading the day because I didn’t get a good night’s sleep. The stupid caffeinated drink I picked up at Starbucks kept me awake longer than I expected. I’ll skip my run this morning, like most mornings lately.
My back is killing me, and my head feels like a bucket full of rolling balls that slam around with every move I make. The burnt smell of last night’s pot roast still sits heavy in the air. It makes me nauseous on top of being dizzy. I swear I’ll never drink again.
Brad is sleeping with his back turned to me, or he’s pretending to sleep so that he doesn’t have to talk to me. The hair on his neck is peeking out from underneath his shirt, fueling an urgent desire in me to pluck them out one by one. That’s what our relationship has come to: we are each other’s walking conscience and critic in one.
Instead of fulfilling my duties as a cook in the kitchen, I draw myself a hot bath and slip underneath the lavender-scented bubbles. But I can’t relax because I’m on Facebook again. It’s like an addiction. Every time I find myself lying still, a pressing and overwhelming need rises inside of me, urging me to occupy my hands and eyes with colorful pictures, with information, with clutter. It’s like a curse, and the worst thing about it is that I know this obsessive behavior isn’t healthy, yet I don’t do anything to stop myself falling for it.
A call comes in, startling me, and replaces my cousin’s adventure photos in Alaska with the glaring name of an old friend: Ashley Hayes. My abrupt jump pushes some bubbled water onto the bathroom floor. I haven’t heard from Ashley since the aftermath of our infamous Vegas trip. As if a bucket of ice water has been dumped on me, I feel a teeth-chattering shiver shoot through my body. I let the call go to voice mail because I’m too mortified to answer it.
Olivia
Wednesday
As I sip my strawberry-acai refresher and listen to Ashley animating her last session with Skyler while driving on Interstate 15 toward Temecula, I find my mind slipping away again.
Ashley snaps her fingers at me. “Are you with me?” The sound makes me shudder. My father used to snap his fingers at me when he expected a quick response from me. “What is this? Eighty-nine percent? Huh? Huh?” Snap. Snap. “Are you slipping? You want to end up like your mother? A good-for-nothing dumb bitch? Huh? Huh?” Snap. Snap.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. There’s a lot on my mind.” I turn toward Ashley and then fold my han
ds on my lap. “Where are we?”
“We’re coming up on the hill before Temecula. Should I call Betty again?”
The last time we saw Betty was on our way home from Vegas. Even then, neither of us was in the mood to talk. After that weekend, we only sent her money so that she could pay the guy who was blackmailing her. Once her problem was permanently solved, there was nothing left to talk about.
“You left her two messages. If she wanted to help us, she would have called you back, don’t you think?”
Ashley’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I touch her arm. “Stop, Ashley. Don’t rile yourself up about this. We got this. We don’t need her.”
“Why, you know another cop somewhere?”
She knows I don’t, so there’s no reason to answer.
“You know her mishap cost me ten grand. I’d expect a little more gratitude from her.”
I say the words before I think them through. “Well, you hired those Chippendales.”
She removes her foot from the gas pedal in the fast lane. A dark SUV honks the horn at us as it passes us on the right. “Are you saying it was my fault?”
“I paid for my share too. It’s over. I don’t want to talk about it.”
If only Ashley knew that I didn’t have access to cash and that I had to sell a few pieces of jewelry and clothes without Richard’s knowledge or consent to come up with the money. One night. That was the longest I spent away from home, ever. One night when Richard was away on a business trip and I could finally give in to Ashley and join her and her childhood friend to have some fun in Vegas. One freaking night Richard doesn’t even know about.