by Holly Brown
He’s quiet. “That was mean.”
“You get to question my bona fides as a potential parent but I can’t question yours? It’s supposed to be a given that you’ll be amazing and I’m suspect?”
“I never thought you were suspect.”
“Before today.”
He’s quiet again. We both know what that means.
My mother renews her sobbing, and it occurs to me that she conveniently stopped during my conversation with Rob.
“We have to leave tomorrow,” I say. It’s a matter of survival. “I’ll call to check in on her, and maybe we’ll drive back up some other weekend, but I will not be her mother.” Not ever again.
“Let’s wait and see how she is tomorrow—”
“And you’re not going to be her father.”
In this third silence, I’m seized by terror. I can’t lose him. I cannot go backward. He’s my future. I knew that the first time we met. Well, within a few dates. Stable but not boring. Attractive but we weren’t ripping each other’s clothes off. Our relationship was an orderly progression. He was healthy, in mind and body, and I’d be healthy, too, by extension, and through example.
So I give in. “Before we leave, we’ll make all the arrangements. We’ll get my dad buried.”
He’s surprised, and then delighted. Is it because he’s won? No, Rob’s not like that. “Are you sure?”
I say yes, because I have to.
He pulls me to him. Relief radiates off him, like the rays in a child’s drawing of a sun. I feel the warmth of it, and I focus on that. He loves me; he doesn’t want me to have any regrets someday; he knows what’s right.
For the sake of my marriage, and my husband’s good opinion of me, I will acquiesce to the burial of my father.
I’ll insist on the cheapest burial possible, without a funeral or any sort of service. If my mother wants add-ons, she’ll pay herself. But the burial—why fight anymore? It is, after all, Rob’s money.
My stomach is churning. I tell myself it’s the scent of whatever’s rotting in my mother’s garbage. But I can’t help feeling that I’m conning my husband. I’m letting him believe that he’s turned me around in my thinking, that I’m something other than I am.
It makes me feel, for the first time, like I’m in a sham of a marriage. And yet, I’m desperate to preserve it.
24
Miranda
It is with great regret that I must resign from the Homeowners Association. I’ve been privileged to serve, and I continue to love our community as much as ever. Sadly, personal commitments have interfered with my ability to give it the attention that it deserves. I consider you all friends as well as colleagues. Please don’t hesitate to be in touch in the future, and I hope to see you around Santa Monica soon.
Sincerely,
Miranda Feldt
That’s one unpleasant task taken care of. I might as well face the other, which promises to be far worse.
It’s late, and I’m at the kitchen table, in the room farthest from our bedroom, where Larry is relaxing. Thad has ignored my requests all day for us to talk on the phone, and the several voicemails I’ve left. I’ll have to use his preferred medium.
I’m going to bed soon. Could I call you now, please?
What’s up?
Let’s talk. I want to hear your voice.
Let’s just text. I’m in the middle of some stuff.
It’s occurred to me that he texts because he doesn’t want me to hear his voice. If I did, I could tell immediately if he’s been using. It’s not just the timbre, but the cadences. It’s all of it. Within seconds, I’d know.
I’d really like to actually talk. If you’re busy now, then call me later. I’ll stay up.
You’re acting weird. What’s up?
He’s digging in his heels. He always had a stubborn streak. The more I push for a phone call, the more he’ll insist on texting. He can outlast me. He always has.
I need him to hear my voice, to know how sorry I am that I can’t give him more money. I didn’t want it to be this way.
The Nar-Anon people would tell me that I have no reason to apologize; the end of enabling is good for everyone involved. But they’re not the ones with something to lose in this situation. I don’t want him to disappear again. He’s already been much less available over the past couple of days, ever since I didn’t take the bait about the studio space. Not unpleasant, just slower to text back, and less chatty when he does. But it could be a coincidence. He could be on another art binge.
I detest that word.
Did you see the paintings I posted on Instagram?
I did, but I don’t know what to say about them. Art is for uplift, and his work . . . it’s gutter. There’s just no beauty in it. I wonder if that’s how he’s subverting the dominant paradigm, forcing people to look at something so distorted and ugly.
I haven’t seen them yet.
Look now. I’ll wait.
Am I imagining the note of challenge?
Do you like them?
Very much.
What do you like about them?
The size. And the emotion of them. They’re very emotional.
You don’t really like what I do. You never have.
He’s picking a fight. He’s obviously in a rotten mood. It’s the wrong time to tell him about the money.
I like that you like it. I appreciate that you have the urge to create.
Text silence. I’ve offended him.
I’m getting that show, you know.
That’s fantastic! I’m so proud of you!
I didn’t get it yet. I need the time and the space to paint. 24 hours a day.
This again. He’s trying to force me into paying for a workspace so he can produce all that ugliness. I flash on the installation that took over his room in high school, the Tinkertoys accusing me of . . . what? I still don’t even know.
Any kindness, any engagement of late, has all been in service of this, of getting me to fork over more money.
Well, he needs to know there won’t be any more money.
This has to be done, for his own good, and for mine. Dawn has inadvertently done me a favor. Such irony. I should text her: You only made me stronger. I’m a better mother now.
Stay strong, right now.
I need to tell you something, and you won’t like it.
I already want to take it back. This isn’t the time to tell him about the money, not when we’re both so prickly. Yet some kamikaze part of me wants to see where I really stand with Thad.
What?
I said, what?
Forget it, we’ll talk about it some other time.
Tell me now. I don’t need your manipulation.
Is he kidding?
Tell me now.
I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any more loans. After this month, there’s no more money.
Did Dad lose his job?
No.
But there’s no more money? You guys are bankrupt? That sounds like bullshit.
There’s no more money for you.
Why’s that?
Because after this month, the fund is dry.
I did my research earlier today into the Santa Monica rental market, looking up comparable houses to mine, and there’s no way around it: With a lease of six months or a year, I’ll make less money; I won’t be able to siphon off much without arousing Larry’s suspicion. If I do thirty-day rentals, there’s no guarantee I can get a tenant each month. Whichever way I go, I won’t be able to help Thad as I have been. A few hundred here or there, sure, but that’s all. Anything more and Larry might figure it all out. My marriage would be in jeopardy.
I can’t explain all that to Thad, not by text. That kind of story requires nuance, and human emotion, and personal connection. Thad doesn’t want any of that with me. He wants my money.
I can feel where this is heading. I cut him off financially, and he’ll cut me off emotionally. This could be the last contact I have with my son.
No, that’s not going to happen. We’ve made such progress. He told me he loves me.
Thad, talk to me.
I don’t know what you want me to say.
Say you understand.
I understand. You don’t believe in me.
That’s not it. My circumstances have changed, that’s all, and I just can’t afford it.
So I’m expendable.
No. This is why I wanted to talk to you, so you could really hear me.
You don’t want to help me, that’s what I hear.
You’re wrong. I haven’t been helping you, I’ve been enabling you.
Fucking NA speak.
Don’t curse at me, please.
Of all the moments for you to turn your back on me, you pick now. That’s fucking great. Your timing is impeccable.
What do you mean?
I’m on the verge of something, Mother. Something big. And all I need is a little help. And then your circumstances change. WHAT THE FUCK, MOTHER!
He’s in shock, that’s all. Anger is a natural part of that. He’ll calm down. He doesn’t mean what he’s saying right now. He loves me, he told me so.
I’m still here to give you moral support. I do believe in you, and your talent.
Bullshit.
It is bullshit, but suddenly, I’m tired of being cursed at. I’m tired of being cursed with this son of mine.
It’s time to stand on your own feet, Thad. That’s what’s good for you.
I need to devote myself exclusively to my art.
To his meth, he means.
No. I saw his canvas. It was enormous, just like he said. Trust but verify. I saw the photo. I verified.
Why don’t you get a part-time job so you can still work on your art at night, or on the weekends?
No response, for more than a minute.
In the past, I’ve urged him to get a full-time job—no, not just a job, a career—so this is a change for me. I hope he sees that.
I’m making art. That’s my job.
Then you need two jobs.
I can’t believe this. I’ve been confiding in you, and you turn around and cut me off. Just like Dad.
Money isn’t what you need. You need to be able to take care of yourself, without relying on anyone. You need life skills.
That’s rehab talk. I’m not an addict. I’m an artist. I need time and space and materials. I need parents who believe in me. ONE parent who believes in me, at least.
I’m sorry. I want you to have everything. But you need to earn it.
You never believed in my talent.
He’s not wrong. I don’t see any skill or vision. I see mess. I see the complete absence of discipline. He wears his sloth like a badge of courage, as an identity. He’s an artist, he can’t live like regular people. I see Legos glued haphazardly while on a meth binge. I see him blaming others—namely, me. He’s still that same boy. He hasn’t grown up.
I’m to blame, at least in part. But which parts?
I think you need training. Go to art school.
Art school? My art is about the school of life. It’s about experience.
You make drug art.
It’s inspired by the street.
Then go live on the street.
I’m surprised by myself. Yes, he pushed me, but I should model restraint. I’m still a role model.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.
I think you did. That’s what you want to happen.
No, I want you to get a job and support yourself.
You want me to hit rock bottom. It’s all that NA poison.
This has nothing to do with NA.
I’m clean, Mother. I have been for weeks.
For weeks. He just plucks time periods out of the air.
I’m glad to hear that.
You’ll pay for art school?
I didn’t say that. But I can’t stop myself. If you stay clean for six months, we can talk about art school.
What am I saying? Larry wouldn’t go for that. After six months, he wouldn’t even consider speaking to Thad, let alone paying for art school.
But it’s a promise I’ll never have to honor. Because in my heart, I know that Thad won’t be able to do it.
I’m already halfway there.
So now it’s been three months, not mere weeks. He’ll say anything. Tears fill my eyes. Because I want to believe him, and every lie he’s ever spun.
You need to go somewhere for regular drug tests. I need to verify.
You never trust me.
I wish he was joking. I wish he had the self-awareness for that.
Trust but verify.
I’m your son.
Oh, I know. I never, not for one minute, forget.
Did you hear me, Mother? I’m your son! Look what you’re doing to me. You have tons of money, and you don’t want me to have any of it. You want me to suffer.
This is no good for you. You’re a grown man, begging for money.
You try to manipulate me. To control me with your money.
It’s laughable, the suggestion that I control anything, least of all Thad.
You did it just this conversation. You say your circumstances have changed, you have no money for me, you’re so sorry, and then you tell me if I’m clean for six months, you’ll pay for art school.
I said we’d talk about me paying for art school.
See?
You’re twisting my words.
You’re the one who’s getting it twisted. You always have.
I want you in my life. I want us to talk on the phone. I want us to have a relationship. I’m your mother, not your banker.
You’re abandoning me when I need you. I’m talking to a gallery owner about my latest paintings. I need to finish the series. You can’t do this now. Just give me two more months.
Two more months, he says, but it’ll never end. I’ll just be kicking the can down the road. In two months, it’ll be two more. I know that. He knows I know.
No. I’m sorry, but no.
I need that money. I have to finish the paintings.
I want you to finish your paintings. Get a job during the day, paint at night.
It doesn’t work that way.
It’ll have to. I’m sorry, Thad.
I wait one minute, two, three. When I can wait no longer, I sign off (I love you) and walk upstairs, slowly. He’s done with me, but I fear his night is just beginning.
I take a long, hot shower, trying to scrub off our interaction. I want to forget, and I want to believe. It’s a terrible hinterland.
Once I’m wrapped in a robe, my skin still pink from heat, I crawl into bed next to Larry. He’s reading The Economist, glasses perched low on his nose like pince-nez. I move toward him, until I’m clinging to him like a vine.
Earlier, he went on a diatribe about the colleague I don’t even know by name; I just know him as The Ignoramus. I hear about every bad medical decision The Ignoramus has ever made, that he should be thrown out of the profession before he can do any more damage to any more lives. I can only hope it’s out of Larry’s system for the night. I can’t listen to anger, not even the righteous kind.
“Hey,” he says, surprised that I’m on his side of the bed, “what’s going on?” He pets the shoulder of my robe. I see softness in his face and love in his eyes.
I squeeze my own eyes shut, and I take a leap of faith. I say a name far more unmentionable than The Ignoramus’s. I have to know where I stand with Larry, too.
His body tenses, and when he speaks, his voice is equally tight. “You talked to Thad?” He’s no longer petting me.
“No. I just read his Twitter.”
“His Twitter?” This isn’t what I need, a reminder of how scathing Larry can be. It confirms my fear of how quickly he could harden toward me.
I feel the proximity to the third rail of our marriage. Since everything started with Dawn, I entertained a small hope: that I was overestimating my betrayal (really, it was just a serie
s of lapses, a mother’s inability to give up on her son) and underestimating Larry’s love for me.
But if I can’t even say Thad’s name without Larry doing a pretty good impression of rigor mortis, then it’s as bad as I feared.
No Thad and no talk about the residency. Those are Larry’s rules, and I’ll have to abide by them.
25
Dawn
California Code of Civil Procedure Section 527.6:
(b) For the purposes of this section:
(1) “Course of conduct” is a pattern of conduct composed of a series of acts over a period of time, however short, evidencing a continuity of purpose, including following or stalking an individual, making harassing telephone calls to an individual, or sending harassing correspondence to an individual by any means, including, but not limited to, the use of public or private mails, interoffice mail, facsimile, or computer email. Constitutionally protected activity is not included within the meaning of “course of conduct.”
(2) “Credible threat of violence” is a knowing and willful statement or course of conduct that would place a reasonable person in fear for his or her safety, or the safety of his or her immediate family, and that serves no legitimate purpose.
(3) “Harassment” is unlawful violence, a credible threat of violence, or a knowing and willful course of conduct directed at a specific person that seriously alarms, annoys, or harasses the person, and that serves no legitimate purpose. The course of conduct must be such as would cause a reasonable person to suffer substantial emotional distress, and must actually cause substantial emotional distress to the petitioner.
There’s plenty of coastal beauty between Eureka and Oakland, but we don’t have time to see any of it. We’re taking the inland route, 101 all the way, baby. I want the quickest way back home, to our real lives. I don’t belong in Eureka. I never did.
As Rob drives, he keeps shooting glances in my direction, asking if I’m okay. I don’t know what to tell him.
The truth is, I’m more than okay with my father no longer walking this earth. What I’m not okay with is feeling like I had to give Rob what he wanted, that we had to use our wedding money to bury my father, lest my husband find me inhuman. That hurts. But I tell myself that it’s my own fault for keeping the truth from him. How can he be compassionate about what he doesn’t know?