This Is Not Over

by Holly Brown

  This is not the time to be petty and it’s certainly not the place, but Dawn keeps intruding on my thoughts. She’s like Thad, like all of her generation—unable to slow down and take another’s perspective, unwilling to say she’s wrong and reverse course. Life is all about reversing course based on new information. But Thad hasn’t had to learn that, has he? He’s been too busy teaching me.

  I will not tell Larry about Dawn. I will not dignify her with that. Her name will not pass my husband’s lips, because she is not worthy.

  If she’s not worthy of my husband’s breath, why is she worthy of my brain waves? I don’t like thinking of the answer to that question. I don’t like admitting that I have the available bandwidth and he doesn’t.

  It’s more than that, though. Dawn really could hurt me with that review and, by extension, she could hurt Thad. I’m a mama bear. No matter how old he is, he’s still my cub.

  Then there’s that tone of hers. That supercilious, hyperprofessional tone, as if she, Dawn, were the reasonable one, instead of the person who’s defending her untenable position. She thinks she should be able to evade responsibility for the damage she’s wrought. Well, I have news for her. We all have to pay.

  I shouldn’t respond to her last sally. I shouldn’t waste another second, another keystroke, on her.

  Yet I can’t help but worry that people won’t see through her. Her little shtick about wanting to do her civic duty to protect the community (from me!) could persuade some people. There are plenty of other rentals to choose from in Santa Monica, despite the fact that, technically, the city ordinance only allows long-term rentals of thirty days or more. It’s a crowded marketplace, and I’ve never had any trouble standing out, in the best way. With Dawn’s review, I could be standing out for all the wrong reasons. I haven’t had any queries about availability since it’s been up.

  If Dawn won’t remove it, then I’ll have to write a response on the site. We’ll go head to head, and I’ll have to convince potential renters that of the two of us, I’m the one to be trusted. That shouldn’t be too hard, since I’m the one with all those five-star reviews. I’ve been vetted.

  Maybe I should try just one more e-mail to Dawn to see if common sense can prevail? Not just common sense, but common decency. Dawn and her husband did the damage, now they need to suck it up, instead of doing more damage, this time to my business.

  That’s a good line, I might want to use that.

  It’s not like it’s just about me. Dawn could not be more wrong about that. As if to prove my point, just then I get a text from Thad saying, Got the money, thanks.

  I don’t want Larry to see it, and thankfully, he doesn’t even cast a glance.

  He made his position clear more than two years ago. He won’t even consider contact with Thad until Thad’s gone to a rehab and then a sober living environment for at least six months, and if there is contact, it will have to be entirely facilitated by professionals to, in Larry’s words, “minimize the possibility of manipulation.”

  Larry is not a cold man. He’s become that way where Thad is concerned. I don’t possess that ability. I’m a mother, and a woman, and it’s not sexist to say that matters. I’ve tried plenty of Nar-Anon meetings to stop what they call the enabling, but I can’t change my most fundamental aspects. I’ve failed Nar-Anon like Thad’s failed Narcotics Anonymous. What mother isn’t, on some level, addicted to a child in trouble?

  Still, I know I shouldn’t have given him that money, not without placing some conditions. Clean drug tests through a reputable facility, for example. Is there such a facility in Tucson? Why is he even in Tucson? He won’t answer me directly about much, and that’s no exception. I can only try to deduce his motivations from his Twitter feed. He has hard-partying friends there. Artists, he calls them; “tweakers,” in common vernacular. I never thought the word “tweaker” would be a regular part of my vocabulary, but nasty surprises are part of life.

  Reversing course; it’s what we all need to do sometimes. I’m doing Dawn a favor to teach her that now, while she’s still young.

  5

  Dawn

  Dawn,

  I apologize for the misunderstanding. Apparently, you didn’t understand in my previous e-mails that you owed money for the sheets. I did leave a voicemail, but that’s neither here nor there. I also should have taken a photo. As I mentioned, I’ve never been in a situation like this before, and it didn’t occur to me that my integrity would be in question. It never has been before.

  Maybe it wasn’t you who stained the sheets. Maybe it was your husband, and you didn’t know. Sometimes we overlook things. Life is busy, you were in a rush to check out. I believe that you honestly did not know about the damage.

  But now that you do know, I’d ask that you stop doing further damage, to my business. Your review is based on miscommunication and inaccuracies. It is tantamount to character assassination, as it paints me as someone who would steal a security deposit.

  My husband is a doctor. I do volunteer work. I have almost all five-star reviews on my property because I treat people well. That is my life.

  This is your chance to treat people well, because now that you know better, you cannot in good conscience leave your review up.

  Please call if you’d like to discuss this further. Then we can hear each other’s tones, and that will reduce the possibility of additional miscommunication. I still feel we can come to some workable solution, and that you can at least amend the review.

  Thank you for reading, for being reasonable, and for staying at my house,

  Miranda

  We all have our reasons, and our justifications. When she thanks me for being reasonable, she’s really saying that I should come over to her side. We were just talking in class about implied judgment and the authorial voice, so I know what I’m talking about.

  She’s a terrible communicator. She’s not in control of her message at all. I could almost feel bad for her, if she wasn’t such a self-righteous, condescending bitch.

  I apologize for the misunderstanding.

  It’s pretty much like saying she’s sorry I feel that way. I see through her. I read through her. But I need to stop replaying her words in my head. Let her go, Dawn.

  “Are you listening?” Salina asks as we tromp across campus. I nod; I got the gist. She was dumped again. No, “dumped” would mean there was some commitment to begin with, and that’s not really the case when you meet through Tinder. When your love life is orchestrated by GPS, you only get a certain latitude for complaining.

  “I know, it sucks.”

  “He didn’t even spell my name right.”

  “No one spells your name right.”

  She tilts her head slightly in acknowledgment. “True.” Her hair gleams auburn in the sunlight. I’ve always thought Salina is way prettier than she—or the world—gives her credit for, but then, I tend to overestimate the attractiveness of people with perfect skin. It’s celestial, that skin of hers.

  “Sorry,” a scrawny undergrad says, after he accidentally sideswipes me. I don’t know what it is with twenty-year-olds, why they can’t navigate around moving obstacles, i.e., people. He probably thinks the campus is a video game and he’s lost his control paddle. Or whatever they use for video games. I wouldn’t know. I’m a sentient being, inhabiting the actual world.

  Miranda’s making me irritable. It’s my last semester. I have a ton to do, and a future to worry about. I don’t have time for her bullshit.

  Salina stops at the fountain, balancing one leg on its circular lip. It’s turned off (budget cuts, most likely). She leans over and adjusts her complicated gladiator-style sandals. She’s in a spaghetti-strap dress with no bra. “I just don’t get it,” she says.

  “It could be your vibe.” I’m trying to phrase it as delicately as I can.

  “My vibe?” One eyebrow lifts, as if in warning.

  “You want to be taken seriously, right?”

  She looks horrified. “Hell, no!”
She’s twenty-four. Sometimes I feel that six-year gulf in our ages acutely. But it’s not just age; it’s lifestyle. She’s out partying and hooking up; she shows up for class in last night’s eye makeup and an oversized hoodie belonging to a man whose name she may or may not remember, one who definitely can’t spell hers.

  My husband is a doctor.

  Shut up, Miranda.

  Salina and I sit down on the fountain and survey the campus. It’s concrete, utilitarian, and aggressively geometric: circular fountain, square quad, rectangular buildings. No climbing ivy or hallowed halls at this state school branch. The only nod to aesthetics is this fountain, with its central brass mermaid holding a pile of books, water burbling out of her mouth like a blow job gone wrong. It’s surrounded by the campus’s only expanse of lawn. Students are sunning themselves in the grass. There’s a mix of youngest (straight from high school), young (transfers from other community colleges, like Salina), and older (returning students, like me). I could have gotten my degree online, but Rob said I should have the “full college experience.” He loved Pepperdine. Yet this is a far cry from the cliffs of Malibu.

  Salina sighs. “I just keep thinking, what’s the point?”

  “The point of what?”

  “Of it all.”

  Pseudo-existential thoughts inspired by Tinder—was that what Rob meant about the college experience?

  This is your chance to treat people well, because now that you know better, you cannot in good conscience leave your review up.

  She’s so myopic that she thinks the only good I can do is the good I can do for her. As if I’d actually call and hear her brandish her presumed superiority in real time.

  There’s no workable solution here, Miranda.

  It occurs to me—and I allow myself a private smile at the thought—that I’ve gotten under her skin as much as she’s gotten under mine. (My cyst has been throbbing intermittently throughout the day, pulsing like a beating heart.) Otherwise, she wouldn’t have written again, asking me to reconsider.

  So the rich can have their gated communities, but thanks to social media, thanks to Getaway.com, they can’t be protected entirely from the proletariat. We can get at them.

  “I’ve got to go in a few minutes,” Salina says. “I’m late for the dermatologist.”

  “You go to a dermatologist?” I can’t conceal my surprise. I thought skin like hers was born, not made.

  “A cosmetic dermatologist. I get lasered.” Her tone is matter-of-fact.

  “What’s your skin like when it’s not lasered?”

  “More like yours.” That same matter-of-fact tone, but I feel myself blushing. “You know, not too bad, but not like this.” She gestures to her own visage.

  I’ve stopped visiting dermatologists on my insurance plan. They all overdo or underdo; they prescribe oral antibiotics for life, or some stupid topical cream that does nothing. But cosmetic dermatologists and lasers—that sounds like heaven. “How much is it?” I ask.

  “Five hundred dollars a treatment. It works best in a series of six. Then you get them every six months as maintenance. I’m in debt for about three grand but it’s totally worth it.”

  I try in vain to find a single pore on her face. Just one. It can’t be done. I practically moan with yearning. But $500 a treatment? A series of six, plus maintenance?

  There’s no way I can afford things like out-of-pocket dermatology, not when I’m in school and Rob’s supporting me. Not when he’s working with his dad at the store he’ll someday inherit, but shouldn’t. I’ve hinted that engraving is perched on the ledge of obsolescence. It is most definitely not a growth industry. You can’t upsell. You can’t get someone to buy two engraved watches, or silver platters, or whatever. He should be in sales. He could make a fortune, with his looks and personality.

  But I don’t get to push him, not when he’s been so good to me, not when he’s told me no, no, you can’t get a part-time job, focus on your degree. I wanted to contribute to the household, maybe move into a nicer apartment, but Rob insisted. I’ve never felt so taken care of, not even when I was a kid, especially not then. My father was such a lousy provider, financially, emotionally, you name it, and my mother needed me to buffer her from his indifference and his affairs. She needed me to look after her. I never climbed into her bed when I was afraid or crying; she crawled into mine, seeking comfort. I never felt safe, or secure. The next eviction was always looming. Neither of my parents had really wanted a child, though you could argue that my mother made the best of it: she took what she could. Eventually, my dad joined her.

  But Rob is a giver. He’s the one who planned our first getaway, a surprise rental in Napa. It was a magical weekend, so much more than I thought I deserved, and I told him that we couldn’t repeat it, we couldn’t afford to. He must have seen how much I love a getaway, the chance to be someone else for a while, my future self, and he said as long as we only do it a few times a year, it’s okay. He says I’m worth it. No one’s ever thought so before.

  With him paying for everything, I’ve gotten the best grades of my life. I work hard, because it’s for both of us. Yet here I am, in my last semester, with no clear idea of a career. I’m afraid I’ll let him down, that I’ll prove to be a bad investment, and the fear completely overshadows any sense of pride or accomplishment.

  Maybe I am having the true college experience, because I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to be thrust out into the real world.

  “Rob wouldn’t let you spend money on your face?” Salina asks. She’s trying to sound sympathetic but I hear it: the implied judgment, the authorial voice. She likes Rob, because you can’t help but like Rob, but she’s been a little suspicious of him ever since I told her that he wanted me to take some time off right after college and get pregnant. He does make a compelling argument: If I have our kids first, then I won’t be established yet in my career; I won’t have to step away when I’m gaining some momentum. I could just start fresh when the kid is, say, two or three.

  Salina called that “retrograde.” She’s got that amorphous Beyoncé-flavored feminism (“Woman on top, bitches!”) that has no clear tenets. In my case, it neglects one crucial fact: At the rate I’m going, I could use another two or three years to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

  Yet somehow, my IUD is still firmly in place.

  “I don’t need Rob’s permission,” I say, “for anything.” That’s not how we work. “It just wouldn’t be responsible, that’s all. Three thousand dollars for my face, when he’s the one working. When we might start trying to get pregnant soon.”

  “Responsible? That’s about as sexy as being taken seriously.”

  “Our sex life is fine.” At the look that crosses her face, I amend. “It’s good. It’s hot.”

  She doesn’t try to contain her incredulity as she swings her bag over her shoulder. “I should get to my appointment. See you.”

  As she sashays off, I flash back to Miranda. I hear her accusing me of character assassination and exhorting me to be reasonable. Has anything truly great ever happened to a reasonable woman? I think not.

  6

  Miranda

  Dear Miranda,

  I’ve chosen not to call you because I didn’t want to be condescended to live. It’s bad enough by e-mail.

  I’m standing by my review. The only amending I would do is to add an additional warning: Future guests should beware that if they put up an unbiased review, they’ll be hounded by their former “host.”

  You still haven’t given me a genuine apology, or attempted to address my grievance by any financial means (for example, a partial or full refund). It seems we’re at an impasse.

  Dawn

  An impasse that can be solved by a cash infusion, if I’m reading her correctly?

  I underestimated this girl. This is a shakedown, pure and simple. I don’t know why I didn’t recognize it sooner. I suppose it’s because I try to see the best in people, and I assume they do the same. Call i
t my Anne Frank streak. It’s why it never occurred to me to take a picture of that stain.

  I’ve been sitting in my car in front of the Santa Monica house for the past fifteen minutes, mulling and fuming. I need to calm down and weigh out my options. Anger is not among them.

  I could report her to Getaway.com. Maybe I could get her review removed that way. They wouldn’t want to sanction blackmail, after all. I’m a long-standing, valued member of their community. I’ve been posting my rental on their site practically since its inception.

  But as I reread the e-mail, I see that it’s brilliantly constructed, with built-in plausible deniability. There’s no direct threat, no quid pro quo offered; it says right there that she’s not going to change her review in my favor. “Miranda just inferred that she could buy me off,” she could tell them. “I’m not for sale!”

  See, brilliant.

  Or I’m giving her entirely too much credit.

  Let’s say it’s not a ransom note. Let’s say she composed this in a minute flat, and it never crossed her mind that she was opening the door to a cash offer. Let’s say she’s innocent. I could give her the $200 back. I could say that she doesn’t feel she did the damage and that I don’t have photographic proof, so she can have her money and we’ll call it even. All I ask is that she amend the review to show I’m an honest and reasonable person. Or better yet, delete it altogether.

  It would be a draw. No, a win-win.

  It’s only $200. That’s a good value, for losing that review. I still haven’t had any inquiries since it’s been up. It’s not unheard of for me to go three days without a booking, but not even a single question? She’s definitely hurting my business, and I can’t afford a dry spell. I need continuous cash flow.

  One could argue that if she accepts the money, I’m the winner. I’ll have proven that she’s not about protecting the unsuspecting community from a rapacious landlord but about avoiding responsibility.