by Holly Brown
I want to know that she knows that. I want her to cry uncle. My gut is telling me that there is nothing innocent about this girl.
As with terrorists, I can’t let Dawn win, can’t let her have the perception of winning. I’ll accept only a complete and unconditional surrender: that review comes down before any payment is rendered.
She claims that I’ve shown myself to be untrustworthy—well, right back at her.
She’s giving me a way out, I have to focus on that. This is good. I need to see this as good.
What if she turns down the $200, what if she tries for more?
Then I can report her to Getaway.com. They’ll have to see her for what she is.
If she just turns me down, though, then she’s won. She’ll think she’s exposed me, and that I was lying about the stain the whole time.
Why does it matter what she thinks? I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me.
Yet I’ve come to hate her.
That’s crazy. I don’t hate people. I was raised by parents who told me that hate is for people who can’t find love, who can’t locate their compassion. I believe that.
Give her the money, get rid of the review, and return to my life. It’s a good life. I mean, look around. Look at this house.
I do, I look up at it. I don’t hate people, and I love this house. Part of why I break the ordinance in order to rent it only for short stays is because I have a fantasy of moving in here, for a little while at least. A trial period, even. I’ve mentioned to Larry that it wouldn’t be such a bad commute to the oncology center. But he says he would never be happy surrounded by what he calls, derisively, “the creative types.”
I like the creative types. I like the pace. I like that people walk here. I like the beach and the pier. When I need to clear my brain, I still like to ride the Ferris wheel, just like I did when I was little, a controlled spiral out over that expanse of ocean.
I love this house not just because it’s beautiful or close to the beach. I love it for what it meant to my father in his later years, how it transformed him, and my parents as a couple. My father was a workaholic, much like Larry, and in this house, he learned to relax. He became a Santa Monica man—with a favorite café where he’d read his newspaper, and a bicycle built for two that he’d ride with my mother along the path to Venice Beach, and the smoothies he’d make after long, meandering trips through the farmers’ market, discovering combinations like star fruit and jicama. He and my mother had always been companionable, with few conflicts, but in Santa Monica, they rediscovered each other. They would touch casually, effortlessly, thoughtlessly. His hand on her back, a stray kiss on the cheek. They had this whole new tactile vocabulary, and you could tell they enjoyed speaking it. Those last five years of his life, of their lives together, were glorious.
I have a fantasy that the house will have the same effect on Larry, that he and I will someday experience the same renaissance as my parents. But he doesn’t see what I see, not yet.
I wish I were a creative type myself, frankly. The closest I come to it is with the flowers that I arrange and bring into the house before each check-in. Dawn never commented on that, did she, on the explosion of lilies and snapdragons and one central rose in the foyer? No, of course not; I’m the condiment-withholding, deposit-stealing monster.
I pick up my latest bouquet and carry it toward the house. It’s a two-bedroom white-shingled Craftsman, with a white picket fence and a Meyer lemon tree in the front yard. There’s a large deck with an ocean view. There’s lots of light wood throughout—the floors, the kitchen island, and even the fireplace—creating an airy feeling that’s not hippie-beachy but is summery all the same. The master bedroom and the living room both have ocean views, too. The sofas are sky blue, the furniture white, and the throw rugs white edged with blue. This house was where my parents found joy in what could aptly be called their golden years, and I can still feel it, like a friendly haunting.
Ordinarily, that is. Today, I’m looking around critically. I see the little scuffs on doorframes and the floor, the marks left by my short-term tenants. This is my home, and they troop through, these ingrates, and they evaluate. Mostly favorably, but there have been others over the years who needed to be told that their reviews were inaccurate and inappropriate, that if their vacation experience failed to match the beauty of this house, it’s their fault, and not the home’s. Dawn is the first person to refuse to take down her review. Perhaps she’s not refusing at all, but inviting an opening bid.
If this were just about me, if it were only a matter of fewer shopping trips to Barneys, then I would ignore her altogether. But I have to think about Thad, same as I have every day for the past twenty-seven years. Once you’re a mother, it’s never just about you.
I fill a vase with water at the kitchen sink. Sunlight pours in through the large window, and between the beautiful purple flowers of the jacaranda, I can see the ocean just fine, thank you.
7
Dawn
We can agree to disagree. Remove your review, and I’ll refund your $200.
I’m surprised that Miranda is texting. I’d assumed she was one of those old people who used e-mail exclusively. So she does have my correct phone number after all. That means that I should have received the voicemail she supposedly left.
Liar.
What about pain and suffering? I text back.
One laser treatment and I can probably let all of this go. No matter what Miranda thinks, I am reasonable. And self-interested, like everyone else. The community will have to fend for itself. Besides, I’m sure that Miranda has learned her lesson, and she won’t mess with people’s security deposits without photographic evidence again.
I know that one laser treatment isn’t ideal, but it’s something. It’s a start.
What does that mean?
Now she’s going to play dumb.
I mean, $200 covers the sheets, but it doesn’t cover everything.
What’s everything?
All the aggravation. All the time I spent writing my review, and e-mailing back and forth with you. All the wasted energy.
Ditto.
I’m not the one who started it.
Yes, you did. You left the stain.
I DID NOT LEAVE THE STAIN!
Do not yell at me.
Are you wasting my time again?
I’m trying to resolve this. I’m trying to be the bigger person.
There it is. That’s the Miranda I’ve come to know and love.
Are you being sarcastic?
Obvi.
This is why I dislike texting.
Then why did you text?
What do you want from me, Dawn?
I want you to make things right.
That’s what I’m trying to do.
With $200? That’s what you think this is about?
What is it about then?
Apologize, sincerely. And change that first numeral.
You want more than $200?
I deserve more. I told you, pain and suffering. And an apology. Not the bullshit kind.
My apology was not bs.
“Sorry for the misunderstanding”?
That was sincere.
You’re sorry that I misunderstood you? That’s more like an accusation.
I’m sorry that I was not clearer. How’s that?
Now you’re being sarcastic.
No, I’m not. You don’t know me.
You don’t know me.
Let’s stop this. Right now.
Ball’s in your court.
I apologized.
For not being clearer.
Yes.
Not good enough.
I’m not giving you more than $200. That wouldn’t be fair.
Where’s the pic?
Of the sheets?
No, of the Sistine Chapel.
Enough sarcasm.
I’m not a child. Don’t correct me.
I didn’t take a photo. I’ve never needed one before.
So you’ve done this to other people before?
You’re taking my words out of context. I told you, I didn’t hear back from you. I thought you were okay with being charged for the damage, until I read the review.
Now you know I’m not okay. I want a refund.
I’m offering you a refund.
Of more than $200.
Then that’s not a refund. That’s blood money.
What the fuck are you talking about?
Classy.
I’m breathing heavily. If she were right in front of me, I might become the old Dawn, the one who had to scrap, who had to learn to protect herself because no one was going to do it for her.
I’m not that girl anymore. I’m not.
I’m Rob’s wife. He’s never seen that side of me. I extinguished it when I married him. Expunged that girl, like a story that should never have been written. It’s better this way. I am.
It feels dangerous, these exchanges with Miranda. It’s like a séance, summoning forth who I used to be, and I have to admit, sometimes I feel like I’ve missed her.
You think you’re so classy, I type, the doctor’s wife, stealing people’s money? I would never do that. NEVER.
I’ve never so much as shoplifted a lipstick, and I grew up without. I knew true temptation, and I resisted it, every time. What hardship has Miranda known? There’s nothing worse than someone who has so much but needs just a little bit more. There’s nothing uglier than greed.
This was a mistake. You’re completely unreasonable.
You’re a snotty bitch.
This is over.
This is not over.
8
Miranda
Owner’s response to “Beware of your ‘host’”:
I’m a reasonable person. Just ask any of the people who’ve previously stayed at my home. Please read all my other, glowing reviews. If this reviewer had contacted me directly instead of posting a review, everything could have been easily resolved.
The view from the kitchen window is spectacular. The only “obstruction” is a gorgeous purple flowering jacaranda tree. The kitchen is fully stocked. I’m not sure why the reviewer didn’t get mini-toiletries. They’re always provided, and they’re from Gilchrist & Soames. This may have been an oversight on the part of the house cleaner. I’ve already mentioned it to her. The light switches are all in working order. There are plenty of extra lightbulbs in the pantry. I’m sorry that the reviewer had to change her own. Again, it must have been an oversight.
I’m also sorry that the reviewer didn’t notice the stain she’d left. I don’t know what it was, or why it didn’t come out after bleaching. I did have to buy new sheets (600 thread count Perielle, with a retail value that Getaway.com will not allow me to state but you can find out easily enough). I subtracted the amount I paid from the damage deposit. I informed the reviewer by voicemail that I was going to do so. Because I never heard back, I assumed that she was okay with paying for her damage. I’m sorry she never received the message.
I’ve apologized repeatedly to the reviewer for any miscommunication but have only received hostility in return. I try to be a good host, and generally, I succeed. Again, please see all my other reviews.
Some people want to find fault; they want to hate. That seems to be the case here. (Please see D.T.’s other reviews, like the one where she complains about the Mendocino weather, as if the host could have controlled that variable.) Unfortunately, some people can’t be pleased.
I heave a sigh of relief as I press the Save button.
Dawn’s had her say, I’ve had mine. Let the renters decide who’s more credible.
I’m late for my visit with my mother. I know she won’t actually remember the time I told her I’d be there, but I don’t like to be late for anything. I respect other people’s time, just as she did.
She was always five minutes early, while my father was chronically late, his face blotchy and red (with embarrassment, I’m sure). But she never shamed him. She stood up for him. She wouldn’t let George or myself say a bad word about our father, even if he failed to show up for a school play or a family dinner. “He’s the hardest worker you’ll ever meet,” she told us, and if anyone felt shame then, it was George and me. She’s a class act, my mother. She’s taught me everything I know.
Gratitude is better than judgment, every time. Forgiveness above all else, that was our family motto. We shield those we love, fiercely, and by whatever means necessary.
9
Dawn
Don’t forget to talk to the doc, OK?
Love you.
So much.
“You’ll feel a slight pinch,” Dr. Kroy says. I breathe in sharply; it was more than slight. But equal to her pinch is the pressure of Rob’s trio of texts. “You okay up there?”
“Fine,” I say. I’ve always had a hard time with pelvic exams. I have a ridiculously sensitive cervix, and even when they use the smallest speculum they’ve got, it still hurts. Rob wonders if it’s in my mind, a psychosomatic thing. It rankles, that word, “psycho.”
Dr. Kroy pulls off her plastic gloves as she emerges from between my legs. It’s always funny, that moment when the gynecologist pops up, like you’ve just given birth to her. I sit up on the table and huddle protectively beneath my pink paper gown. Always pink. Now that’s retrograde.
The counters of the exam room are vulva pink, and the light is less than flattering. I always feel self-conscious about my skin in rooms like this, though I know Dr. Kroy sees real cysts, on ovaries and cervixes; she’s not going to be freaked out by the ones on my face.
Besides, she’s a sweet person. A motherly type, even though I’d guess she’s not that much older than me. She’s probably in her early forties, with clear (if a little crepey) skin and curly brown hair caught up in a bun. I bet growing up, she tucked all her dolls into bed and knew, without question, that she’d have babies someday. Me, I thought no way. Until I hit twenty-five. Then I couldn’t settle fast enough.
No, that’s not the right way to put it. Rob’s a catch.
Some people can’t be pleased.
Fuck Miranda. Referencing my Mendocino review was just low. I didn’t blame the owners for the bad weather, but Miranda made it sound like I had, and what are the odds anyone will do any cross-referencing?
“So now that the fun stuff is out of the way,” Dr. Kroy says with a smile, “what else did you want to talk to me about?” She gestures toward the form I filled out upon check-in, where I indicated I had questions and/or concerns. Then she perches on the pink rolling stool, which signals we’re in for a heart-to-heart.
“Rob and I might want to start trying soon,” I say. It seems unnecessary to add “for a baby” but it also seems weird not to add it. I mean, why is it a given that “trying” means “baby”? There’s a lot in life worth trying for.
Dr. Kroy’s smile broadens. I guess the only trying anyone ever talks to her about is of the procreative variety.
If you try, you can fail. That’s the risk. Everyone will know it’s me. Isn’t it always the woman’s fault? It would be too fitting, me being barren.
Even if I succeed at getting pregnant, I could miscarry. That would be failing to carry the baby to term. Or I could fail at parenthood. It happens. Just look at all the wreckage out there.
“Are there any tests we should run first?” I ask. “To make sure I’m ready physically?” From my hopeful tone, you’d think I want my OB to put the kibosh on my fertility plans.
She shakes her head. “Nope. We’d just take your Mirena out and you’re good to go.”
“What about the herpes?”
“Herpes wouldn’t stop you from conceiving or increase the odds of miscarriage. Once you are pregnant, we’d put you on acyclovir a few weeks before you’re due to make sure there are no lesions when the baby’s exiting the birth canal. But herpes doesn’t put you at higher risk for any complications. Odds are you’d have an entirely normal pregnancy and an entirely he
althy baby.”
“Odds are,” I echo weakly. I wish I could smile as easily as she’s doing. I wish she’d been my mother. If I’d received this kind of reassurance throughout my life, I’d know how to metabolize it now. “I won’t have a mom in the delivery room with me.”
Don’t know where that came from.
Her expression turns sympathetic. “Did your mom pass away?”
I shake my head, but I don’t elaborate.
“It can activate old wounds,” she says. “When you’re thinking about having a baby, you start thinking about being a baby. What it’s like to be a parent, what it’s like to be a child. It’s scary stuff.”
“But you think I can do it?”
“You’re in good health. You’re thin. You don’t smoke.”
That wasn’t what I meant, but okay.
“Are there infertility issues in your family?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Any history of miscarriages?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old was your mother when she had you?”
I’ve been trying to fake the middle class for so long, but it’s the little things that out me. “Fifteen.” My mother is forty-five now. She might even be younger than Dr. Kroy. “How long do you think it would take for me to conceive?”
“That’s hard to say. Some people get pregnant the same month they take the IUD out; for others, their cycle has to regulate.”
“On average, how long would it take for someone with my health history?”
She cocks her head. “Are you asking because you want it to be sooner, or later?”
“Rob wants sooner.”
“So you need to figure out what you want.” She’s still wearing that sympathetic expression, which is a little annoying, because this is a happy conversation. This is about what I want, and what I can have, because I’m thin and I don’t smoke and I have a husband who loves me. It’s not like when I got diagnosed with herpes and I had to go back into the past. Who did I sleep with, who did I infect, who infected me. This is about the future. My happy future. “It’s a ten-minute appointment to get the IUD out. Why don’t you keep it in for now, and just call me when you’re ready?”