This Is Not Over

by Holly Brown

  Dawn’s thorough, I have to give her that. Hers is a thoroughly reprehensible hatchet job. Google me, and she’s commandeered the whole first page of search results.

  If it hadn’t been for Frank, I wouldn’t even have known this was going on. Maybe it would have been better that way. Because I’m not sure there’s a thing I can do about her lies.

  I’ve lost all credibility with Officer Llewellyn. When I told him about the rat, he went silent for thirty seconds, at least, and then he asked, “Did you block her like I told you to?” I said that I haven’t, but I haven’t actually needed to. She’s too smart to contact me directly. He asked if I had an alarm system; when I said yes, he told me to set it, whether I was home or not. “That’ll give you peace of mind,” he said. My tax dollars at work.

  Since Dawn has stopped contacting me, she’s skirted the harassment laws. I know that Officer Llewellyn won’t see her online smear campaign as a credible threat of violence.

  But it is violent, what she’s done to me. It’s a direct attack. She’s managed to find every disreputable site with graphics upscale enough to pass for reputable. So at a quick glance, when the page of Google results materializes, I appear to be the equivalent of a vacation rental slumlord. Bewarethisrental.com has no rebuttal feature. Others are free to add their own experiences with me, but I have no forum to respond. It’s a free-for-all, and I’m a landlord piñata. The fact that I was a host and not a landlord seems to matter not a whit.

  There’s a website where Dawn posted our entire correspondence rather than just her skewed distillation, or rather, it’s what she purports to be our entire correspondence. She’s even included our text exchange. I don’t have the heart to do a line-by-line, but I’m sure she must have done some creative editing. What about her calling me a self-righteous c—? Where’s her mocking text about who I’ll fleece next?

  Her shakedown attempt reads like I was the one trying to buy her off, as if I’m the unsavory character. I’m sure I never invoked Larry’s profession. She must have searched me online and found that out herself. By now, that would be far down on the list, supplanted by all her trash.

  I’m also sure I never said, You need manners, and class. But I don’t blame you. I blame your parents. I wouldn’t resort to such a low blow.

  She acts like she’s the philanthropist and I’m an entitled name-dropper, an elitist snob rather than who I really am.

  Not that I’m clear on who I am these days. She’s got me tense and paranoid, and I’m having to do things that I never would have considered. I’m embroiled in a double life, all because of her, and I fear she’s not done yet.

  There’s no mention of the rat she left in my pool, now is there?

  If anyone from the Homeowners Association decided to look me up, they’d know that I’d been breaking the ordinance, and that my resignation wasn’t just about being too busy to serve.

  If the city attorney’s office finally gets their act together, could they be pressured to prosecute me retroactively? It’s possible I haven’t even dodged that bullet completely. Dawn wants this to follow me. She’s out to ruin me.

  I feel like I’m in the midst of pure evil, and I don’t know how to begin to combat that. But somehow, I have to find the strength.

  I try to locate phone numbers for the websites. If I can just talk to the right person, go up the supervisory chain, I can appeal to their sense of decency. I’ve always been good with people if I can speak to them, live. Obviously, e-mail and text are not my forte.

  Since there are no phone numbers, I have no choice but to write. I do my best to explain that Dawn’s actions are malicious, and potentially actionable, and that the websites won’t want to get mixed up in this. I respectfully request that they take Dawn’s post down.

  But I have little hope. Not just because those websites display no sense of decency, but because I have no confidence in my ability to express myself. Dawn has robbed me of that, too. It can’t be an accident that there’s no place for rebuttal; that’s a deliberate choice the websites are making. They’re for the Dawns of the world, and whether those people are lying or not is of no concern or consequence. The First Amendment protects them, and Dawn, too.

  I could consult an attorney regarding defamation of character, but I couldn’t go ahead with a lawsuit, not without telling Larry. Maybe just a threatening letter would be enough. I wouldn’t need to tell Larry I’d done that; there’s enough in my rental earnings to cover one letter. But my Thad fund is going to run dry quickly if I don’t get cash for the fake foundation work.

  I have the estimate but I haven’t been able to approach Larry about it yet. He came home from work obviously upset, saying little. I surmised that a patient was dying, because that makes him quiet whereas hospital politics makes him loud. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I was relieved. I didn’t want to encounter any more pressure about calling Realtors.

  When did my life become Watergate, one giant cover-up with a million tiny moving parts? I’m not a duplicitous person. This isn’t in my nature, and it’s certainly not how I was raised. My mother would be horrified if she knew. It’s the first time I’ve ever been grateful that she isn’t capable of higher cognitive functioning.

  Because I’m not actually this person, Dawn has the advantage. She knows how to play the game. Her conscience might not make a peep, whereas mine protests at every turn.

  After dinner, I tell Larry that I’m going out with a friend for a drink, and he says that if I’m late, I should go in the guest room; he doesn’t want his sleep disturbed. It’s another sign of his internal tumult, but I know he doesn’t want me to pry. A good meal is the best I can do for him, and I’ve already done that. He pecks me on the cheek. “Have fun,” he says.

  Nar-Anon is many things, but fun is not among them. The last meeting I attended was years ago. Yet I feel myself being drawn in again—to the promise that there are steps forward, that it works if you work it, that you’re only as sick as your secrets. I’m also drawn to the people, my brethren. They’ll understand, intimately, the moral quandaries and compromises that beset the family of an addict. They wouldn’t judge. They might even have a suggestion I haven’t thought of for extricating myself.

  I have to do something. Life works if you work it.

  It’s the same church basement. Same dim lighting, and rows of folding chairs, and a table with coffee and pastries. I recognize some of the faces. Our addicts have us all stuck in a time warp. There’s the woman whose daughter is a bit younger than Thad, the one who clutched my arms and told me urgently that I had to keep coming back, that I had to try at least six different meetings before deciding whether this was going to help. She pegged me as a flight risk immediately. Ultimately, I did run away. I couldn’t stand the thought of being a lifer, and yet, here I am.

  I don’t know how they arrived at this number, six, but it gets repeated often. There’s a lot of repetition to the Twelve Step experience, so many sayings and slogans, and I suppose predictability is a comfort in the face of addiction’s unpredictability. I don’t know what my son will do, of what he’s capable, but I know to end the phrases “progress” with “not perfection” and “let go” with “let God.” I can anticipate that much.

  Then there’s the fellowship. These people get it. Rich, poor, black, white, Latino, there are no divisions, only collective pain. They’re tired, yet they’re hanging on, and they have a smile for the newcomers, always. It’s like everyone is thinking that it has to turn out well for someone, that, say, one out of ten loved ones will make recovery stick, and of course, they’d like to be the one, but they’d celebrate if it’s you, too. We’re all just pulling for someone on the team.

  I make sure that I’m a little late, so that I can avoid the pregame small talk. I slip into a seat, smiling around like a bee flitting from one flower to another, not landing on any one person for long. I catch the tail end of the Serenity Prayer. Then the leader welcomes newcomers, and I say my name and that I’m not
entirely new but I haven’t been there for a while. There’s a warm, enveloping chorus. I’m as close to a newcomer as they have here tonight.

  Then people start sharing their stories, heartbreaks, disappointments, and lessons. So many mistakes, but they all boil down to two, really. There’s enabling—giving to the addict, instead of trying to “be” for the addict. Then there’s codependency—focusing on how others feel instead of how you feel, not speaking up, bottling, keeping their secrets, being furtive with your own emotions. You’re likely falling into enabling or codependency by forgetting the three C’s—that you didn’t Cause it, you don’t Control it, and you can’t Cure it.

  Sure, I’m making all those mistakes, but what’s the way out, really? Admitting I’m powerless? That’s where it fell apart for me last time. I feel like that admission would be the end of me. If I’m powerless, I’ll give up. I’ll lie in bed until I mummify.

  They’re telling me that I need to stop focusing on Thad’s survival, and begin to focus on my own. But I’m already doing that. The $35K isn’t really for him; it’s to save myself.

  I need to open up to someone, somewhere. I’m as sick as my secrets, and that’s pretty sick.

  I’m considering whether to speak next when a well-dressed, well-groomed man in his late middle age takes the floor. My eyes had gone right past him earlier, but now I see that he’s one of Larry’s colleagues. There’s no anonymity anymore once I confess. He probably won’t tell anyone, but every time I come across him, in other settings, I’ll feel the shame.

  I can try another meeting, in another neighborhood. Most likely, I won’t know anyone there.

  But I feel like it’s a sign. Some things are not meant to be spoken out loud.

  I listen to story after story about addicts and how to hold the boundaries with them. Stay strong, stop the enabling. Between all the supportive sayings, they think what Larry does. Their love is tough, like his.

  I start to feel angry, because even though I feel guilty for lying to Larry, I should be able to tell him the truth. He doesn’t always have to be right. It should never have been a Faustian bargain where I had to cut off my son in order to keep my marriage. I wouldn’t be in this predicament if he hadn’t been so hard-nosed. Thad wouldn’t be able to blackmail me; he’d have no ammunition. And I would never have had to know how much my son hates me.

  I look around the room. Is anyone else in here being blackmailed by their addict?

  Of course not. What this meeting reinforces is that I am alone in this. I need to get money somehow. There is no other solution. There is no other way.

  Then there’s Dawn. What on earth am I going to do about her? The police threat clearly backfired. So what now?

  I slip out the back door.

  35

  Dawn

  Dear Dawn,

  I’m writing to extend an olive branch. I want to apologize for all our misunderstandings, and for things that I’ve said that were hurtful to you. I reread our correspondence after you posted it on LettersFromLandlords.com, and I can see now that I came across as condescending and unkind. That is not who I really am, but you have no way of knowing that. All you know is what I’ve said. I’ve never been a great writer (I’m no communications major myself!), and I’ve handled things poorly.

  I want to change that. I take full responsibility for what’s happened between us. I’ve put through a refund to your credit card of $400. That’s the amount I withheld from the security deposit, doubled, to compensate for your time which I’ve wasted.

  I’ve learned a lesson from all this, and I’m no longer renting the house out. Therefore, I hope you’ll see that there’s no sense in keeping all the postings up. They could be misconstrued by people who happen across them.

  I believe you are a person of substance and good intentions. I am, also. Let’s clean the slate and move forward.

  Thank you for reading, and considering what I’ve said.

  Yours,

  Miranda

  So Miranda finally saw the Internet footprint that I left for her and now she’s learned her lesson? I’d laugh out loud if it wasn’t so infuriating.

  She thinks she can buy me off for $400. That’s what my time is worth, in her eyes.

  It is almost the cost of a laser treatment. If the refund went straight to the credit card, then I’m practically budget-neutral.

  She said she’s already put it through. That means we’re on the honor system. I don’t have to actually do anything for her in order to earn the money, unless I feel so moved. But it makes me feel dirty anyway. I want to throw it back in her face, tell her I don’t need her chump change, only I really could use it.

  The check from Rob’s father was for $1,000—generous, yes, but Rob and I still had to take the other $2,000 out of our savings. I can’t, in good conscience, spring for a laser treatment now, though I need it more than ever. My skin is in revolt.

  Miranda wants me to feel indebted to her. I’m supposed to recant, even though everything I said about her is true. They were her own words! She’s phony and transparent and manipulative. It’s disgusting, really, all her sucking up. Appeal to my ego and my bank account and I’ll leap to delete my reviews?

  No, Miranda. You made your bed and now you’re going to lie in it, stained sheets and all.

  Giving the money back is just too easy. I’ll have to think of some other form of retaliation for this latest insult. Does she have any clue that I’ve got her son in my back pocket?

  I like the anger that’s rolling through me, and I hate that I like it. Miranda’s been the catalyst for all the darkness I left behind when I met Rob—no, before I met him. I’d already turned the corner.

  I was determined to be lighter, easier, happier. I was going to be mother material. And I was almost there, dammit, until that weekend at Miranda’s house. Things have been spiraling ever since, slowly at first, and now faster, a tornado whirling, lifting me up, leaving my life with Rob far below, and behind.

  Now I’m a cigarette burning slowly, down to the filter. My father lit the match all those years ago, and I thought it was out for good. No more Slutty Dawn. No longer Used Dawn, or Angry Dawn. Those Dawns should have died in Eureka. I did my best to kill them, and now I’ve got my own zombie apocalypse.

  Miranda’s house started this, and then she continued it. She goads me, and I respond, every time, like I want the fury. Like it’s home.

  Maybe I’m not ready to be normal, or conventional, or happy. Maybe I always knew that someday, Rob would see through me and break my dark heart.

  Let it go, that’s what he’s been telling me since the beginning, let her provocations go unanswered. That’s what Rob would have done. She’s nothing to me, and her punishment is being her, just like he said. He’s so right. He’s always so fucking right.

  36

  Miranda

  Inspired by a new lady #beauteousmaximus

  In the end, I left the estimate on Larry’s dresser like a coward. It was after he’d already fallen asleep, so he discovered it this morning. When he asks me if I’ve gotten any others, I say yes, that was the best of them. He shakes his head with something like disgust, and I tell myself that it’s not directed at me, it’s at these thieving contractors. Only I know they’re not the true thieves, I am. I have to hope he doesn’t figure that out.

  I watch him fasten his cuff links. He’s the only man I know who still wears them, and somehow, that makes me ache with tenderness for him. What did he ever do to deserve to be married to me, to be lied to like this? Nothing, unless you count the residency, and I’m fairly certain he doesn’t.

  He kisses me on the cheek and says we’ll talk later and make a game plan for the house. He folds the estimate carefully in half, then in thirds, placing it in his wallet. I’m filled with fear. What if he doesn’t believe me? What if he shows it to someone and they tell him that they’ve got a great foundation guy he should call?

  I sink back under the covers, though I know I won’t slee
p. I didn’t, all night long. I was at such loose ends that I forgot Larry’s request to sleep in the other room, but my entrance into bed didn’t rouse him; that’s the advantage of the California king. Despite the darkness, I kept seeing the outline of that paper on the dresser, thinking that it’s not too late, I can still take it back. Throw it away. I hadn’t yet passed the point of no return. Prostrate myself before Larry, tell him I’m just a mother, that’s all, I couldn’t abandon my son, but I’m finally ready.

  I’m still choking on the e-mail I wrote to Dawn. I think it was the right move, the only move, really. Swallow my pride, and think in terms of outcomes. I want to cleanse my online presence, and that’s entirely in Dawn’s hands. The websites responded to my inquiries with form letters sprinkled with legal jargon, just enough to say that basically, they have the right to defame whomever they want.

  It’s not only about the posts. Even if Dawn doesn’t take them down, we need to reach détente. I don’t want to look over my shoulder anymore. No more rats in my pool, literally or figuratively. I want this over. Four hundred dollars is a small price to pay.

  I reach one hand out from beneath the covers, groping hopefully for my phone, pulling it under. In the dim cave formed, I do my obligatory checks. Nope, no communication from Dawn. The posts are still up. No texts from Thad.

  It appears he’s been awake all night, tweeting. Is “a new lady” code for a new drug? Maybe it’s not meth this time. Maybe it’s “Molly.” I just read about a bunch of college kids who were admitted to the hospital after a bad batch of MDMA. One of them nearly died. I have to hope they’ll learn their lesson. Nearly dying was never lesson enough for Thad.

  He didn’t contact me at all yesterday, and I was relieved. I didn’t contact him, and I don’t plan to. I’m fine with just being a follower for the moment.

  It’s the first time I’ve played this particular game of chicken. I’ve always needed to reach out, to confirm that not only is he alive but he’s still accessible, to confirm that he’s not so angry as to write me off for good. I’ve feared his anger since he was a child. But these days, that’s not my biggest fear. I suppose that’s refreshing, an old dog like me being able to develop a new fear.