This Is Not Over

by Holly Brown

  Did I really just think that?

  I take it back. I’m not this venomous person. She’s young and foolish and needs to do some growing up, that’s all. All I’m wishing is that her growing pains have a little extra emphasis on the pain.

  Focus on Larry, that’s all I can do.

  I force a smile. “How’s the chicken?”

  “Perfect, as usual.” He smiles back, briefly, before he powers through more of the bird. He’s a robust eater, and he likes to eat first, talk later. I’m pleased when he takes a long swallow of Syrah.

  I sip daintily. I need to keep my wits about me.

  “I’m going to look through old pictures tonight,” I say. “I want to find some good ones of my family from when I was growing up. Pictures of all of us at Mammoth, that kind of thing. Some visuals might help.”

  He swallows, Adam’s apple wobbling. “Help with what?”

  “With my mother’s memory.”

  “That’s optimistic.” What he means is, it’s not going to work.

  “There are studies that say stimulation can prolong the early stages.”

  “She’s not in an early stage, sweetie. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  I set my fork down and say, quietly, “What’s so wrong with getting your hopes up? It beats the alternative, doesn’t it?”

  “Sometimes it keeps you tilting at windmills, until you’re crazy as Don Quixote.”

  I wonder if he’s thinking of Thad. I wonder if he knows, about everything. If he’s chalking it up to me being crazy. His wife, the windmill tilter.

  That’s probably the most favorable interpretation: not guilty, by reason of insanity.

  He munches silently for a few minutes. I’m too tense to eat, but I do a pantomime of raising my fork to my lips, with a small morsel on the tines.

  “You can find a study for anything,” he says.

  “Hmm?”

  “Those studies that show you can delay the disease progression by looking at home movies. I bet there are studies that show the opposite.” He drains his Syrah and looks right at me. “I don’t have a study to support this, not at hand, but it seems to me that trying to stimulate her memory could have some unintended consequences.”

  “Like?”

  “Like she understands that that’s her, and that’s her family, but she can’t recall anything. It’s like knowing you used to be someone, and you’re not anymore. You’ll be reminding her what she’s lost.” He sees the expression on my face, the hurt. He reaches for my hand. “I just want you to be prepared. Forewarned is forearmed. You’re a tender heart, my love. It’s one of your best qualities, and one of the most dangerous.”

  I nod. Sometimes I wish he could love one of my ideas, instantly, without reservation. But I do know he loves me. His heart isn’t tender, exactly, but it’s in the right place.

  “Talk to her doctor,” he says. “See what he thinks first.”

  “She,” I say. “Dr. Wallace is a woman.”

  “Even better.” He grins. “Female doctors often work harder and think longer.” Then he polishes off the last of his sweet potatoes and a final bit of chicken. “Bring her some of this food.”

  “Dr. Wallace?”

  “No, your mother. It’s her recipe, isn’t it?”

  I did tell him that, once upon a time. I don’t even know why, it just flew out of my mouth, something to make him love my food a little more, to create domestic continuity, maybe. It was a white lie, nothing like what I’m about to say. I make a noncommittal noise that can be taken as assent. Then I pour him another glass of wine.

  He’s used to finishing first. As I nurse my food, he tells me about his day at work: the consultations, the politics, and the collegial disagreements. He really lights up while talking about The Ignoramus’s encouraging a patient to do more treatment when that patient should be advised to begin hospice. It occurs to me that he’s doing this with an almost discomfiting amount of relish, like he enjoys sitting in judgment of The Ignoramus more than sitting in compassion for the poor patient whose life (and death) is being impacted. As if he’s forgotten that he wasn’t always so perfect himself.

  My discomfort right now isn’t really about the residency. It isn’t about Larry at all. He made his mistakes a long time ago, while mine just go on and on. They say it’s not the crime, it’s the cover-up, and his crime may have been worse but he was honest. This is about my sins, not his.

  Over apricot torte and coffee, when Larry has had two and a half glasses of wine, I decide it’s time. Let the deception begin.

  “You know I’ve been so busy lately,” I say. “I haven’t even been cooking proper meals for us, like the one we had tonight. Between volunteering, my mother, and the rental house, it’s hard to keep up.”

  “You manage beautifully.” He’s beaming at me in the candlelight. He’s going to try to have sex tonight.

  “I’m thinking it’s time to cut back on my commitments. I could rent the house out on a longer-term basis. A three-month lease, maybe. Then I wouldn’t be fielding questions all the time, and having to get ready for the next guest. Dealing with money. Returning security deposits. It’s surprisingly time-consuming.”

  “Is it?” He swirls the wine in his glass.

  “I do most of it while you’re at work, but still, we get calls on the weekends sometimes. Remember that call about the plumbing at three A.M.?”

  He furrows his brow, trying to recall the imaginary emergency.

  “So I think it’s time. I want to focus on other things. It’s just not rewarding anymore, being a host. I want to be a landlord. I mean, we can be landlords.” I’m trying to sound light about it all, as if it’s no big deal. Meanwhile, my insides are corkscrewed. “I’ll visit a property management company and let you know how it goes.”

  “Then they’ll take a percentage?”

  “Yes, but they’ll negotiate higher rents, too.” I think of the extensive list of fees that are possible. If I chose a company with fewer fees but let Larry believe there were more, I could skim some off the top. Or if I told him I was using a company and then didn’t . . . More lies equals more possibilities. The corkscrew tightens. I don’t want to live like this, but I see no way out.

  Larry does not look happy. “You said we make more money with the long weekend rentals. We can charge a lot more per night than if someone has a lease.”

  My stomach manages to tense one more revolution. Right now, I could be murdering my marriage. Right this instant.

  But what can I do except continue? Commit to the big lie. “I don’t want to stress you out, but the house needs foundation work. That can be expensive. Tens of thousands, possibly.”

  “How long have you known this?” I’m surprised by how cold he sounds, as if he thinks I’ve been keeping this from him. If he only knew.

  “I’m telling you as soon as I found out.”

  “So you want to get in a long-term tenant and hire a property management company—both of which mean we’ll make less money—at the same time we have to put tens of thousands into a new foundation? What kind of sense does that make?”

  “It’s not just about money. It’s about time and energy. My time and energy.”

  “I can appreciate that, but Jesus. Tens of thousands?”

  I plunge ahead. “I don’t have enough in the Santa Monica account to cover foundation work. I’d have to take it from our regular accounts.” And funnel it into the secret account, the one with the siphoned money, from which I transfuse Thad. Two months, that was our agreement. Maybe he’ll honor it. Maybe he’ll get that show, or better yet, he’ll go six months clean and Larry will get on board with art school. Thirty thousand dollars will be a good buffer, and then who knows?

  Larry’s watching me appraisingly. It’s not that he thinks I’m lying; it’s that he doesn’t trust my judgment. He feels like he needs to step in. It’s similar to raising Thad. Larry is hands-off until he decides that I’m out of my depth and his services ar
e required.

  He’d never say that. But that was the feeling I had, then as now. In both cases, he’s probably right. I have let things get out of hand. Thad used my love for him against me, and when that stopped working, he resorted to the ultimate threat and I caved. Larry would die before he caved.

  “If you don’t want to rent the house anymore, maybe it’s time to sell it. The market’s booming.” Seeing my panicked face, he says, “I know you’re attached to that house, but it’s worth considering.”

  “It’s more than just an attachment.”

  “We need to weigh out the emotional and the rational here. But not tonight. Not on the heels of this fantastic meal, with you looking like a million bucks in that dress.” Yes, he does want sex. I could not be less desirous if I tried. “Let’s table this for the time being. You’ll get the estimates for the foundation work. Afterward, we’ll visit the property with a Realtor and see if it’s a good idea to do the work first or just put it on the market.”

  “You’re talking like it’s a done deal,” I say, “like we’re definitely going to sell. How long have you been thinking about this?”

  “Nothing’s decided.” He takes my hand and kisses it. “Eva can do all the dishes tomorrow.”

  He starts to lead me up the stairs. All I can think of is what’s ahead of me, tomorrow and the day after that. I’m going to have to broaden the lie: get the highest estimates I can for the fake foundation work from disreputable companies, and find a Realtor to say that property values will be even higher in a year, or two, or better yet, five. Then there will be no plausible deniability. Larry will know I created this whole elaborate scheme in order to deceive him.

  That’s if he finds out. I need to keep that from happening, at all costs.

  “I’ll be upstairs in a second,” I tell him. “I just need to turn all the lights off.”

  I go to the kitchen and flip the switch, and that’s when I notice that the lights outside are on, the pool illuminated azure. I don’t actually remember turning them on, which sends a shiver through me, given my mother’s condition.

  Could all the stress I’m under activate my family’s predisposition? It’s a cruel irony that my mother was the one to get dementia after she spent all those years acting as Daddy’s memory. It was a joke between George and me that even when my father was home, he wasn’t all there. He spaced out sometimes in midsentence. Fortunately, Daddy’s forgetfulness turned around. Once he was retired and in Santa Monica, his memory was fine.

  I’m about to turn the outside floodlights off, but something makes me pause. I step outside and scan. At first glance, everything’s in order. Then I look more closely at the pool to see what’s floating there. I move closer.

  It’s a drowned rat. Or it could be a mouse, I’m terrible with rodent identification. It’s a skill that I’ve, thankfully, never had to master.

  Just my luck. Manuel isn’t due to service the pool for a few days. I marshal the energy to go outside and grab the net, steeling myself.

  Dead rodents. Is that an omen?

  31

  Dawn

  Whatcha doing, beautiful?

  I’ve got a new painting on Instagram.

  One selfie, that’s all I ask.

  The secret to Thad’s interest—the secret to most men, pathetically enough—is responding to every third contact. One to three, that’s the magic ratio. When I do respond, it’s often with a nonanswer. I flirt. I deflect. I obfuscate. He begs for more.

  While I’ve spilled a few discreet nuggets, he knows little about me and how I spend my day. I withhold and he pursues. It’s a simple formula that I employed with great success from ages nineteen to twenty-five. Then I met Rob and decided I could trust and open up. Look how that’s turning out.

  It’s clear by now that Rob isn’t going to confess to me about his conversation with his parents. He might not even think he did anything wrong. Maybe he didn’t. He can’t help it if he thinks I’m some kind of freak.

  Thad, however, thinks I’m perfect.

  It helps that he barely knows me. By revealing so little, I don’t feel like I’m betraying Rob. If anything, Rob’s the one who’s betrayed me, dissecting me with his parents like a frog in biology class.

  Three texts from Thad, so it’s time to give him something.

  Some of us have more important things to do than selfies.

  You can be a bitch, you know that?

  I’m definitely not going to respond to that.

  But I kind of like bitches. I was raised by one. She made me what I am today.

  It’s the first time he’s referenced Miranda. I’ve got to answer.

  And what are you?

  I’m a charming fuckup. Haven’t you figured that out by now?

  How did she make you?

  I don’t think I got a hug from her until the day she sent me away to rehab.

  Aw, poor little rich boy. Mommy never hugged him. She just gave him everything. But he hasn’t yet told me that he was raised in Beverly Hills. He’s still pretending to be a starving artist.

  Did rehab work?

  I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  Do you have a dad?

  Sure. Did you?

  It seems pointed, the past tense. I wonder if he Googled me, if he knows about my father dying. The one thing my mother paid for in all of this was an obituary. It was full of misspellings and falsehoods about what a great man he was, and a loving father (“survived by his beautiful daughter Dawn Thiebold”).

  No, I answer, I don’t have a dad.

  Sorry. Or not?

  Not.

  I’m telling him too much. Stay a woman of mystery, a trench coat disappearing into the mist, and you’ll never get hurt. They’ll never touch you.

  That was my mistake with Rob. I became real.

  32

  Miranda

  Bengal Construction

  62 reviews

  1 STAR

  Make sure you do your homework before you hire a contractor, especially for foundation repair. Don’t rely on the contractor to tell you what to do, especially when that contractor is Bengal.

  We’ve had to file a formal complaint with the Better Business Bureau and the Contractors State License Board . . .

  1 STAR

  I had three companies give me estimates. This was the only one who said I needed significant repairs, to the tune of $25K. These guys should be put out of business. No, they should be run out of town on a rail.

  1 STAR

  Frank came to my house and said I needed a new foundation when other companies said I just needed some beams added for stability. I was quoted $60,000 for a job that ended up costing $9,000. Frank gave me an estimate after five minutes, and he was looking at something on his cell phone for half that time. No measurements, nothing. Wouldn’t call them again, ever.

  2 STARS

  They called me back fast, I’ll give them that, and they were polite. The work, though, was a disaster. They were never on time, they left trash everywhere, and they did different work than in the contract! I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t asked for pictures. Then I had to ask for a refund of the difference between what they said they’d do and what they did. They gave it to me, which is why I gave them that second star.

  Sometimes people surprise you with their character and integrity. There you are, standing before them, begging to be ripped off, saying things like, “I just don’t know anything about foundations! I don’t even know where my crawl space is!” and they refuse to take the bait.

  And sometimes people disappoint you with their character and integrity. Frank from Bengal Construction has the face and mannerisms of a classic shyster. I was sure that he would be the one to give me an extravagant estimate. But instead, he tells me, “Your foundation’s pretty much fine, just a few spiderweb cracks. I can come back in a couple of years and check again, but for now, I’d say you’ve got no problems.”

  My eyes widen. I almost want to laugh—me, with
no problems?—but something else must cross my face instead, and I must have surprised him right back, because his eyebrows hoist and he adds, “This is good news, missus.”

  He can’t even remember my name, which was one of the knocks on him in the reviews I read. His company had the worst Yelps of any in the greater Los Angeles area, and that’s saying something. In a metropolis as sprawling as this one, Frank and Bengal Construction have screwed people end to end, from East L.A. to Culver City.

  I chose the three most disreputable companies I could find to give me estimates on foundation work. With the way my luck is going, the next two will have similar attacks of conscience.

  I can’t go home empty-handed. If I have to, I’ll work my way down the list. Someone will be willing to screw me. This is Los Angeles, after all, home to Hollywood, land of a million rationalizations and creative interpretations. One man’s spiderweb crack is another’s gold mine.

  It’s been a disappointing day, all told. Earlier, I went to my mother’s facility and met with Dr. Wallace. I need to keep moving, to keep busy, so I won’t think about Thad’s threat, and how close I’m dancing to the edge of my marriage, to the end of life as I know it.

  I was just hoping for some good news, that I’d be told I can impact something (in this case, someone) in a positive way. Dr. Wallace gave me a gentle smile and said, “Your presence is enough. So many family members stop coming over time, but you’re still so consistent. That’s what she needs.”

  Dr. Wallace doesn’t know how I’ve struggled to stay consistent, how many visits I’ve wanted to blow off since they don’t seem to matter to my mother anyway. “I want to help bring her back,” I said. I need to do something, doesn’t anyone understand that? Progress instead of progression—that could be my slogan. I should float it at a Nar-Anon meeting and see if there are any takers.

  “Lewy body dementia is a little different than Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s,” Dr. Wallace replied. “Stop me if you’ve heard this before. Her short-term memory is not as affected as it would be if she had Alzheimer’s. But her fluctuations in attention, concentration, and awareness—well, you know how those can happen suddenly. It seems like you’re going to have a good visit, and then she’s agitated. There are the hallucinations, and the delusions. She talks to your father often, as if he’s right there.”