This Is Not Over

by Holly Brown

  “My son is in Tucson, and he might be in trouble. I’d like the local police to do a welfare check.”

  “Is he of age?”

  “Yes, he’s twenty-seven.”

  “Have you called the Tucson police already?”

  “No. I don’t have my son’s address.”

  Officer Llewellyn cocks his head, almost imperceptibly. I feel myself flush, a mother not knowing her own son’s address.

  “I thought that if I just called them, they’d say they couldn’t help me without an address. But if the LAPD asked them, they would manage to do something more. Maybe they could track him by the GPS on his phone?”

  I smile in my most maternal, trustworthy way. I could be this officer’s mother. He needs to remember that. How would he want his own mother treated in a situation like this?

  “When did you last hear from your son?”

  “Last night.” I see the look in his eyes: You don’t have your son’s address yet you’re alarmed that you haven’t heard from him in twelve hours? But I won’t be deterred. “I need a welfare check. I’ve had them done before.” I remember how angry Thad was to have the police sniffing around. He yelled, “Do you want to get me arrested?” Then as now, better arrested than dead.

  Officer Llewellyn asks, “Under what circumstances did you get the other welfare checks done?”

  “When I was concerned for his welfare.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  I flush more deeply. “Because he’s a drug addict who’s overdosed three times before.” I haven’t said those words aloud in so long, yet the shame feels like yesterday. This man must be thinking that it’s my fault, in some way, shape, or form, and I agree with him.

  “You know a welfare check is just a knock on the door and a walk around the premises if there’s no answer?” It’s my turn to nod. “If he’s inside and he’s overdosed, I don’t imagine he’d answer the door.” I notice that one of the other officers at a nearby desk is glancing over, as if he wants to catch Officer Llewellyn’s eye. But my officer is fixed firmly on me. He doesn’t think I’m a joke, just naïve. Or maybe pathetic. The junkie’s well-dressed mother prevailing on police resources might be an old story.

  “Maybe if they really pounded on the door, it could wake him up,” I say, but he’s shaking his head. There’s kindness in it, as if he doesn’t want me to embarrass myself further.

  “It’s not something I can do. I call other police departments when it’s a serious matter, and I’m sorry, but this doesn’t qualify. I’d advise you to call them yourself, on the nonemergency line.”

  My eyes fill with tears. Crying in public . . . my mother would be horrified. He hands me a tissue from the box on his desk. “He hasn’t answered my texts all day.”

  “I imagine that’s very frightening, given his history.”

  “We’ve been talking more lately, and last night, he told me he loves me.” I’m nearly whispering by the end.

  “Sounds like a good talk.”

  A last talk. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?” If I’m going to cry, I might as well try to get mileage out of it.

  “The odds are, he’s fine.”

  “He says he’s been clean.”

  “Maybe he has been. Maybe he is. Maybe his phone died. Maybe a lot of things. Don’t leap ahead, that’s my advice to you.”

  As an officer, he’s probably seen a lot of things himself. It’s good advice, the same advice they would give me at Nar-Anon. Often good advice is the hardest to follow.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  I’m sure he doesn’t expect me to answer that. It’s a polite kiss-off. But since I’m here . . .

  “Actually,” I say, “you might be able to help me with this one.”

  “Yeah?” He smiles, like he’s delighted to have the opportunity. His mother raised him well.

  “There’s a woman named Dawn Thiebold,” I begin. As I describe her behavior—including the last e-mail where she called me the C-word and basically threatened me—I feel more confident that Thad is fine, and that I was meant to come here to talk about Dawn. To stop her.

  I’m sure I’m not her first victim. Women as relentless and as cunning as she is, women unable to take responsibility for their own actions and pay the price, they must strike again and again. Yes, that’s what it is. She’s a bully, and everyone knows that if you stand up to a bully, they back down. They find another target.

  Not that I want her finding another target. I want to shut her down, same as she shut down my rental. That means scaring her, and the best way to do that is with the law, which must be on my side in a case like this. After all, harassment is a crime.

  Officer Llewellyn listens with patience and concern as I explain it all, right up to Dawn sabotaging me with the Homeowners Association.

  “How did she do that?” he asks. It’s the first time he’s interrupted my recitation.

  I have to tread lightly. I hadn’t thought this through, and now I hope that the officers here don’t know or care about Santa Monica ordinances. The last thing I need is for this complaint to expose my own violation, minor as it is. I didn’t harass or threaten anyone; no one’s been harmed by my actions. On the contrary, I’ve given people a beautiful place to spend a few days or a week. I’ve been a good host to many, even to Dawn herself.

  “She made those same false accusations to the Association,” I say, thinking on my feet.

  “About you keeping her deposit when she claims that she didn’t actually stain your sheets?” Several officers look over, and this time, it’s less oblique, more overt. There’s no question what they think of me. They’re glad that Llewellyn got the crazy old broad. Is this a police station or a frat house?

  “I know it sounds ridiculous,” I say, lowering my voice. “It is ridiculous, and petty. She’s trying to ruin my life over something that she did.” I reach into my purse for my phone. “I have all her e-mails, and the texts, too. It might take me a minute to find them all, but I can show you, I can prove—”

  “I’m just trying to clarify so I can see if it meets the definition of civil harassment. If it qualifies as stalking, or abuse, or a credible threat of violence. Is that the case here, do you think?” His tone is neutral, but his intent is clear. He thinks the answer is no. He wants me to be the one to say it, to disqualify myself.

  I stop scrolling on my cell. I have the sinking feeling that he’s not interested anyway. I thought that if he couldn’t help me with Thad, the very least he could do was help with Dawn. Together, we could have turned this visit to the station into something useful. I feel a surge of disappointment. I misjudged Officer Llewellyn. “She’s contacted me repeatedly,” I say, looking down. “She’s trying to scare me.” I feel like I’m going to cry again, and I know it won’t do any good. I’ve been humiliated enough, to no purpose.

  “Show me the e-mails,” he says, like he’s taking pity on me. “If she makes any sort of direct threat, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “She’s too smart to be direct! But it’s in her tone. Here.” I slide him the phone after finding the most recent e-mail. I wanted to delete that filth immediately, but I knew, on some level, that I shouldn’t. It could be evidence.

  He scans the lines. “It’s definitely hostile, I’ll give you that.” I brighten slightly. Maybe this hasn’t been a waste after all. “You said she lives hours away. Has she come anywhere near you, or threatened to?”

  I lean in, needing him to look into my eyes. His mother’s eyes. This is a good boy. He’s the son that I should have had. He wants to help me. He just thinks his hands are tied. “You’re talking about a subjective standard. I find her texts and e-mails abusive and threatening. I offered to refund her $200. What more does she want? Why is she still in contact with me? Why is she baiting me with that text about the fleece sheets, ha ha? Wouldn’t you find it unnerving?”

  “She needs a hobby, that’s for sure.” He looks at his desk. He hasn’t look
ed at the other officers, not once, no matter how they try to catch his eye. He wants to do the right thing here. “You need to give me more, okay? This is the most aggressive of the e-mails, correct?” He holds up the phone, and I nod. “She writes to you, what, once a day?”

  “No, not that often.”

  “The kind of harassment we see—sometimes we’re talking about a hundred contacts a day. We’re talking about explicit threats. Often we’re talking about women whose husbands were beating on them for years, who have reason to fear for their safety. They need protection.”

  He’s lecturing me, I realize. He’s telling me that I’m wasting his valuable time. Well, I happen to think he’s been wasting mine. I snatch my phone back.

  “Based on what you’ve got here,” he says in summation, “it doesn’t qualify for a restraining order, especially with the distance, and that’s the first step in harassment cases. Establishing the restraining order, and then when they violate it, they can be prosecuted.”

  “There should be some consequence for this behavior. She goes to buy a house, or apply for a job, and they see what kind of person she is. I want this to touch her in some way.”

  “That’s not how it works. You don’t get to put black spots on her record. This isn’t about retaliation.” His face has changed; he thinks he misjudged me.

  “It’s about my personal safety.”

  He shakes his head slowly, a little sadly. “She’ll have her own side of this, you realize. The e-mails and texts you sent her are going to be part of it, too. You haven’t shown me any of those.”

  “I have nothing to hide. You can see everything.”

  He shakes his head again, like he doesn’t want me incriminating myself. “I don’t understand why the Homeowners Association took her seriously enough to throw you out.”

  “I wasn’t thrown out. I was asked to resign. It was a courtesy.”

  Does he know about the ordinance? Is this entrapment?

  No, he wouldn’t do that.

  He’s not trying to figure me out anymore; he believes me. I’ve been trying to get him to see me as his mother, but instead, he thinks I’m my mother, that I’m losing my faculties.

  “In Santa Monica,” he says gently, “rentals are for thirty days or longer.” I feel my face growing hot. “You’re going to be okay. Things like this, people like Dawn—they flare up, and they flare out. She’s going to forget about you soon. Geography is your best protection. She might be trying to scare you, but she’s not going to hurt you.”

  He can’t know that, any more than I can.

  “Just between us, I’ve always thought it’s a stupid ordinance.” He smiles at me. “All you need to do is mark that woman as ‘spam.’ Everything she sends you goes straight to spam. Don’t let her take up any more of your thoughts, okay?” When I don’t answer, he says, “I can show you how to block her on your phone. That should take care of your problem.”

  I feel like crying (for the third time, this isn’t me at all), and he can see it. He doesn’t want to make his mother cry. So he keeps talking. “Just don’t engage her anymore. She gets nothing back from you, there’s nothing to fuel her fire. She burns out, like I said. So where are you headed after this? Do you have a friend you can call?”

  He’s a good man, and he’s telling me that Dawn gets to take away my income and my reputation and my peace of mind, and there will be no retribution. There will be no protection. The law will do nothing unless she crosses more lines. I’m a sitting duck.

  That’s with a sympathetic officer. Imagine what I would have gotten with that oaf at the next desk.

  “Do you work?” Officer Llewellyn asks me. I shake my head. “Volunteer?”

  “A little.”

  “Good.” He smiles. “Keeping busy is good.”

  So this is how he sees me. As a woman who’s so bored that she’s scaring herself, that she’s making mountains out of molehills, credible threats out of nothing. He thinks I just need something to do.

  He’s not entirely wrong, though. I’m barely a mother anymore, and I’m not really a daughter, I’m a flower delivery service, and I’m not a host anymore, Dawn’s seen to that, and I’m not yet a landlord, not that I’ve ever wanted to be one, and soon I won’t be a board member, and I haven’t volunteered in weeks.

  So I guess I’m just a wife. A wife with a secret, and a big problem.

  I thank Officer Llewellyn and wander out into the sun, dazed. As I sleepwalk toward my car, I trip on the legs of a homeless man. He snarls at me, “Watch it,” as if I’m the one who’s not supposed to be here. He’s living a block from the police station, without fear, and if they won’t even move him along, if they let him feel like he owns the sidewalk, then I never had a chance of them calling the Tucson police about Thad, let alone pursuing a woman hundreds of miles away.

  I’m truly on my own.

  21

  Dawn

  Hey, Salina.

  Hey, girl.

  I can’t come to class today. Take notes for me?

  Def. Hot date with Rob?

  It’s my dad.

  Gross.

  No, I mean, he died.

  Shit! So sorry.

  I have to go to Eureka.

  Soooo sorry.

  Yeah, I know.

  How are u?

  Fine. I barely knew the guy.

  But still.

  I have to help my mom. She’s a mess.

  Make sure Rob takes care of u.

  He always does.

  “Morning,” my mother says wanly. She’s standing in the doorway of my kitchen in a long T-shirt and nothing else (except, hopefully, underwear). It’s not like I think her scrawny frame would hold any appeal for my husband, but still. She’s a widow now.

  Even though Rob and I sprung for bright-colored curtains, it hardly remedies the dinginess of the kitchen. The walls are gray with tons of tiny holes like an ear piercer’s run amok; the linoleum has a pattern of faded yellow diamonds with an overlay of ineradicable grunge; the oven is the color of an old avocado; the refrigerator moans constantly. It pains me to realize that this place isn’t much nicer than the ones I lived in with my parents. But since it’s located in the Temescal neighborhood, just a few blocks from Telegraph Avenue with its wine bars and cheese shops, it costs five times what an apartment of similar size and quality would in Eureka.

  But my mother wouldn’t know that. Seeing through her bloodshot eyes, I feel like I haven’t come so far after all.

  As she colt-legs forward to take a seat across from me at the kitchen table, I slam my laptop screen shut. I couldn’t even begin to explain why I have a picture of Miranda, Larry, and Thaddeus up on my screen—to her, or to myself.

  I know where Miranda lives. I figured it out on Zillow. The Feldts bought their house twenty-five years ago, in Beverly Hills. It cost a million and a half then, so it’s got to be worth way more now. Funny how you can have all that money, and the Internet offers you no protection at all. I don’t just know her neighborhood; I know her exact address.

  Between my mother at one pole and Miranda at the other, I find that I’m scanning my kitchen with far greater distaste than usual.

  “I have to tell you something,” my mother says. “It’s about your father.”

  I listen for the words I’ve been wishing for my whole life: Your father is not actually, biologically, yours.

  “I wouldn’t tell you this if it wasn’t going to come out anyway.”

  Way to embrace truthfulness, Mom.

  “Your father and I weren’t legally married.”

  “But you have his name. I had his name.” I was thrilled to shed it but it feels oddly as if my mother is taking something away from me.

  “We went down to the courthouse to get married,” she continues, pushing a strand of hair back from her face so it can join the great unwashed masses, “and we found out my parents had signed the wrong form. Your father said we didn’t need some piece of paper to prove we were meant for
each other, definitely nothing signed by my parents.” She stops, tears welling in her eyes. She actually thinks it’s a romantic tale.

  I’m illegitimate. A bastard, or whatever the female equivalent is. What would Rob’s perfect parents think about this? For years, his mother’s been making a valiant effort to think I’m good enough for him.

  My mother’s been lying to me for thirty years. She would have lied for another thirty, if it wasn’t “going to come out anyway.”

  “We were in love,” she says, in her defense. “You know how we were.”

  “That I do.”

  “Don’t be like that, Dawnie.” She reaches a limp hand across the tabletop in my general direction, as if she doesn’t actually want it to make contact with me; she’s content with proximity, the illusion of connection.

  “So you changed your name to his?”

  She shakes her head. “I just used it. I signed everything that way, and you know what? No one ever checks. I guess now, with computers, they could find it out quickly, but back then, all you had to do was say it. I became Wendy Xavier. I figured that it would be true soon enough, that we would be man and wife. Common-law man and wife, since we were spending our whole lives together. And you know what else is funny?”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  “What’s funny is that your dad did the same thing I did! He made himself an Xavier, without any help from the courts. He wasn’t born that way.”

  Generations full of fraud. How adorable. Babies having babies. Free love. Call yourself something, make it so.

  I want to throw up. “Are you my real mother?” I ask.

  “Now that’s not funny.”

  “So why’s it going to come out now?”

  “Because California has no common-law marriage. I’m scared to find out how I’m going to get his body now. It belongs to me, Dawn, after all these years. All I’ve been through.”

  Does she mean the other women, or his breathtaking level of disregard for her emotional and physical well-being, or his abject failure to provide while he left her with all the household and child-rearing responsibilities? Is it all of that, or is there some other reason she left his body, unclaimed, back in Eureka, other than she didn’t have a marriage certificate or money?