by Holly Brown
I looked up to Professor Myerson. I sought his recommendations, his contacts, and above all, his approval. Maybe the cliché is true, and I wanted a father figure. Unfortunately, he was a little too much like my real father.
Here he is, standing in front of me, smiling. “How did it go?” he asks.
“Sean’s a nice guy.” There’s an edge to my voice that the professor either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. “He thinks Big Pharma is God’s work. I guess that’s what his mentor told him back in the day to get him to drink the Kool-Aid.”
Professor Myerson adopts a look of mystification. It could be genuine, I don’t know anymore, about anyone.
“Do you think it’s the best I can do?” I ask, and the edge is still there, but with an underlying plea. Please, think I’m worth something. Think more of me than my own father did.
“They pay a great starting salary. Great benefits, too. A lot of people are after those jobs.”
“That’s what Sean said.” You didn’t answer my question, Professor. Just tell me the truth.
“With the whole vaccine thing, I thought it might be right up your alley.”
“The vaccine project is an afterthought. Ten percent of the job. The rest of the time I’m schmoozing doctors.” Persuading them with my intangible quality. Does that quality smell like pussy?
He doesn’t look as surprised as I would have liked about the 10 percent figure. He nods solemnly. “You can’t get everything when you’re first starting out.”
“I’d be a sales rep. Did you realize that?”
“I don’t think Sean said that.”
“You don’t think.” I never expected anything of Dad. But Professor Myerson—he teaches ethics! Was it ethical for him to send me to a job interview knowing that I’d be getting 10 percent of what I asked for? Ten percent making a difference, 90 percent whoring myself. Again, is that the best he thinks I can do?
“Come in. Let’s not talk about this in the hallway.”
I shake my head. There are tears in my eyes.
He notices, and he reaches an arm toward me. I step back. “I was trying to help you. I thought it would be a great opportunity. You wanted money, above all, and then the chance to do something meaningful—”
“That wasn’t my priority list!” But maybe I did say that. Maybe I do feel that. I didn’t know I was so transparent, or that Professor Myerson knew I was so willing to sell out. The truth is, if Artie and I have that drink and then he offers me the position, I don’t think I can say no. A lot of pretty girls would kill for this job. It probably is the best I can do, especially with my background.
I’m not even sure who I’m most disappointed in anymore.
“Thank you for this opportunity,” I say. “I’ve learned a lot. I’ll see you in class.”
He doesn’t have time to answer as I flee the scene. In my car, I’m deciding which man to text.
It’s been one fucked-up day.
Tell me all about it, Beautiful.
No, you tell me something. Tell me a story. The kind of story that will take my mind off what’s going on.
What is going on?
I don’t want to talk about it. I want to listen.
Let me think.
More than a minute goes by.
Okay, here goes. It’s about my dad. I’ve never told this to anyone.
That’s a good start.
But before Thad can go on, I hear from Aunt Tanya:
WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT YOUR MOTHER.
I really hate those alarmist caps. My mother should not be my problem.
SHE JUST GOT AN EVICTION NOTICE. SHE NEEDS YOUR HELP.
I can’t let that go unanswered, not today.
SHE NEEDS TO GET A JOB.
SHE’S NEVER HAD A JOB.
WALMART GREETER. SANDWICH MAKER. HOTEL MAID. DRIVE HER AROUND AND HELP HER FILL OUT APPLICATIONS.
THAT’S EASY FOR YOU TO SAY.
EVERYONE HAS TO DO THINGS THEY DON’T WANT TO IF THEY WANT TO SURVIVE.
SHE’S IN NO SHAPE TO GET A JOB.
SHE’LL GET IN SHAPE IF SHE’S DESPERATE ENOUGH.
YOU NEED TO STEP UP, DAWN.
I’VE BEEN TAKING CARE OF MYSELF MY WHOLE LIFE. SHE CAN DO THE SAME.
SHE’S YOUR MOTHER.
LATELY, SHE REMINDS ME OF THAT ALL THE TIME.
YOU CAN’T REALLY BE THIS WAY. STEP UP, DAWN. YOU’LL FEEL BETTER.
YOU LIVE IN HER TOWN. YOU HAVE ROOM FOR HER. YOU TAKE HER IN.
IT HAS TO BE YOU.
WHY?
BECAUSE SHE DOESN’T THINK YOU LOVE HER.
NOT MY PROBLEM.
I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU, DAWN, THAT YOU CAN BE LIKE THIS.
MY PARENTS HAPPENED TO ME.
I’m always hungry because of them, and everyone can smell it on me.
I block Aunt Tanya.
The day just got worse.
You sure you don’t want to talk about it?
Tell me your story, Thad. No, better yet, tell me a secret.
I already told you my biggest. That I’m not an addict, that I con my mother into thinking I am.
Miranda’s been diminished by all that I have going on right now. Once I do my final presentation in Professor Myerson’s class, I could exorcise her for good.
Yeah, I get it. You’re a bad, bad boy who just wanted to be loved.
And what are you?
We’re not talking about me. Are you going to tell me a secret or do I have to go somewhere else?
My father’s an alcoholic.
As in, your father the doctor?
The very same. He goes on binges that last days. He plans them ahead of time. My mother thinks he’s at medical conferences.
How do you know that?
I caught him once when I was in high school. Just ran into him on the street when my mother thought he was in Las Vegas. He was wrecked. Blacked out. He didn’t even remember it later. Or he pretended he didn’t.
You confronted him?
Yeah. It was the best talk we ever had. He gets it. The need for oblivion.
He said that?
He said that he gets so tired of being responsible, he likes not having to fulfill any expectations for a while. To be out of control. He said he envied me. That I got to shirk responsibility as a way of life.
He said THAT? It’s almost like he was endorsing you being an addict.
He didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. But after he confessed, he started to act like an even bigger hardass. Like it was a part he was playing in front of my mom so she wouldn’t suspect.
Suspect what?
That my dad and me get each other. That we have what me and my mom don’t. What he and my mom don’t.
I had the impression you and your dad don’t talk.
We don’t anymore. And we never talked that much when he was sober.
All those nighttime talks, he was drunk?
That’s when he was his real self. He’d tell me the truth about my mom. How she only cares about appearances, and how the world sees her, and she put all this pressure on him to be seen a certain way. Because if you let her down, she punishes you. She won’t look at you the same, she won’t love you the same, you can just feel it.
Your dad told you all that?
Yeah, he told the truth. With my mom, anything positive is just phony bullshit. I always knew she didn’t like my art, that she was just humoring me. My dad confirmed that.
I could almost feel sorry for Miranda. I mean, who could like Thad’s art? If his dad claimed to, then he was the liar.
My dad was just warning me. You can’t believe anything good from her. All the bad is right there under the surface. She’s just keeping up appearances.
But she’s the one who’s still in your life, right? Your dad isn’t.
That’s not exactly his fault.
What do you mean?
I blackmailed him, too.
Jesus, Thad.
It was after my dad had thrown me out a
nd he said it was for good. I just needed him to listen to me. So I told him I’d tell Mom about his binges if he didn’t help me, and I didn’t mean with money. Or at least, not just money. My dad turned around and said he’d give me ten thousand dollars, but that would be the end. We’d never have a relationship again.
He was testing you.
He said that if I ever came back around, he would just tell my mom rather than let me have anything over him.
You chose the money.
Because it’s what he wanted. He wanted to be rid of his addict son. I know because I offered to give the money back a week later if he’d have me in his life again. He never answered.
He didn’t trust you.
Do you know how hard it is for an addict to give back money?
I thought you said you’re not an addict.
I’m not anymore. I got clean for him. I’m going to show up soon and he won’t be able to turn me away.
Sounds like someone’s heading for a fall.
I have another secret. I’ve been pretending to be away in Arizona. I’ve been back in L.A. for a while.
Why have you been pretending?
My mother feels safer with me further away.
But why did you lie to me?
I thought you might feel safer, too.
48
Miranda
“This is Ed from Dunleavy Construction, just following up on that estimate we gave you. We could get started on the work next Wednesday . . .”
“Miranda, it’s Vi. I want you to know I had nothing to do with that rumor. I never told anyone at the Association about you violating the ordinance . . .”
“The conference is going well. I hope the time apart is good for you, too. We need to let cooler heads prevail . . .”
“It’s Officer Llewellyn. I’ve been busy with investigations so I haven’t been able to call you back. What you described does not sound like cybercrime. There’s nothing I can do for you . . .”
“Hi, Miranda. This is Kimberly Zhou. Larry thought we should get to know each other better. I have some time today, if you’d like to meet for coffee . . .”
“Hello, Miranda. It’s Harriet. Calvin thought I should call. He saw a man who seemed to be skulking around your house, like he was checking to see if it was occupied. He didn’t go inside, but Calvin said that might be because he realized he was being watched. We’re probably being overly cautious, I don’t want to alarm you, but maybe your husband could drive over and make sure everything’s okay? . . .”
If that sequence of voicemails tells me anything, it’s that I am fully alone, and I am under siege.
My reputation is the least of my problems. If Dawn’s man was skulking outside the Santa Monica house, checking to see if I’m there, then how long will it be before he finds his way back to Beverly Hills? She’s still after me, and I can’t stop thinking about what comes after a dead rat.
Larry and I have never been gun people. I’ve never been touched by random crime, and until now, I’ve never been targeted specifically. The alarm used to feel more than sufficient. Superfluous, even. I’d forget to set it for days on end. That seems like a long, long time ago.
I’m on the living room couch with a twelve-inch chef’s knife and a saw. I would have preferred an ax, but we don’t have one. What we have is a saw that I can hopefully swing like an ax, with the knife for backup in case an intruder enters my immediate radius. It occurs to me that I could go out and buy an ax, but then it would seem like I should just be buying a gun, and it’s all become so patently absurd that I can’t move. Besides, I’m afraid to step outside; he could be waiting for me, whoever “he” is.
On what counts as a positive note, Thad’s started tweeting up a storm. I have almost too much confirmation that he’s alive.
It’s painfully coincidental. He goes silent, I’m forced to pay money to confirm his continued existence, and then he’s got loads to say. He’s excited about some woman, probably a fellow addict. The rapid-fire tweeting makes me suspicious. It could be infatuation, or it could be meth talk. I transfer money into his account, and he goes on a binge. I’m financing my son’s addiction. If he overdoses, it’s on my head.
Maybe Larry was right. Total cutoff, black and white—it’s the only way to go. Then you don’t have to spend the rest of your life second-guessing. You can say that those were all Thad’s choices, you had nothing to do with any of them. He knew what he needed to do to reenter your life, and he chose drugs instead. You wash your hands of all decisions. You’re free and clean.
Not that Larry should ever feel clean again after what he did to the Stanwyck family, and to Tom Englander. He’s the anesthesiologist who turned in his license rather than face the investigation into Joshua’s death. Now he’s a stockbroker. He might even be happier, who knows. Larry could have done him a favor.
That’s just what Larry probably tells himself. I need to stop thinking like him.
Poor Tom Englander has been living his life believing that he killed a seventeen-year-old boy, and Larry has walked away without so much as a demerit on his record or a scratch on his conscience. Because after that initial weeping, I never saw much evidence that he was haunted by what he had done, which is all the more disturbing now that I know the extent of his crimes.
He’s off in Palm Springs, and I’m barricaded in my own home, with a chair beneath the doorjamb, and an alarm system that I keep checking. In my bones, I’m sure that Dawn is coming for me. So, woozy as I am, I won’t let my guard down.
I take a sip of strong coffee. It’s my third cup in as many hours. First I couldn’t sleep for reliving those voicemails, and seeing the smiling picture of Joshua Stanwyck, frozen at age seventeen. Now I won’t sleep because it’s too dangerous.
The TV is off, because I need to be able to hear every noise. That buys me the most time to react; it gives me a fighting chance. If someone tried to bust into the house, I’d sound the alarm and call the police, but what if that’s not enough? If he forces his way inside with a gun, he could kill me instantly and be gone before help could arrive. Officer Llewellyn would finally have to take me seriously, but fat load of good it would do me then.
If I buy my own gun, I have to learn not only how to aim and fire, but how to do it under pressure. It seems more likely I’d shoot off my own foot than I’d harm any intruder.
I’m on my own. Up shit creek without a paddle would be a vast improvement. I’m on the ocean floor without an oxygen tank.
I remember that when Thad was about seven or eight months old, he stopped breathing. I didn’t know infant CPR; I don’t think they even offered the classes. Mothers back then weren’t as braced for disaster as they are now, living in terror of autism and peanuts. We used to think it would all turn out for the best somehow.
Thad wasn’t choking, but he was in paroxysms. He was turning blue. Panicked, I called 911.
The dispatcher asked me a series of questions, and the one that seemed most inane is the one that comes back to me now. “Is he holding his breath?” she said.
What baby would do that? And how would I know?
“He needs me,” I wailed, “and I don’t know how to help him.”
She had missed her infant CPR class, too, apparently. She just kept telling me not to worry, the paramedics were almost there, and we’d stay on the phone until they arrived. I didn’t touch Thad for fear that I’d make things worse. I’d impede his oxygen flow further. If I tried to pump his chest, I could break a rib. I could kill him with blunt force trauma.
Tears were streaming down my face, the dispatcher was reminding me to hang on, it would all be okay, and then the episode passed. Whatever was happening stopped. Thad drew in a sharp breath, and then another. There was a pounding on the door. Help had arrived. The paramedics listened to Thad’s heart and lungs and declared him a very lucky, healthy baby.
Through it all, even when he hadn’t appeared to be breathing, Thad watched me, impassively. It was like he wanted to see my r
eaction. His was the pitiless gaze of a future serial killer, one who had nothing to be afraid of himself because life is nothing to lose.
I can see it so vividly, it’s like I feel his eyes on me now, though I know that’s crazy. He was eight months old. The alarm system is working. There’s no one here but me.
I pick up the knife with trembling fingers, and I ask myself the essential question.
Was it then?
49
Dawn
I know what you told Aunt Tanya.
I know you think you’re so much better than me and your father.
Really? How are you different?
You live in a shitty apartment.
You don’t work.
You’re headed for a fall, Dawnie, and when it happens, I’ll be here for you, because I’m your mother.
What, you’re too good to answer me?
Does Rob know you’re a whore
and not a very good one?
All this time, she knew.
I’m so stupid. That never once occurred to me. I thought I had to protect her from everything, even that knowledge, but of course, she was in on it.
This is why you should turn your phone off during class.
“Dawn,” I hear Professor Myerson saying, from about a million miles away, “you’re up.”
My knees are shaking. With anger, hurt, and maybe the recognition of truth—that on some level, I’ve always thought I was a whore headed for a fall. I just didn’t think my own mother would push me off the cliff.
I need to get through this presentation. It’s the last one of the semester, and it’s only fifteen minutes long. I’m good at public speaking. It must be my intangible quality.
So why hasn’t Sean called me back about that job? I’m ready to whore myself, and now he doesn’t want me?
“Dawn, are you ready?” Professor Myerson says, sounding concerned. He’s in the back row, I’m in the front.
I force myself to my feet. It’s not such a long distance to travel to the podium, and my first PowerPoint slide is on the screen behind me.
HOW TO RIGHT A WRONG: THE INTERNET AS AN ETHICAL EQUALIZER
A Final Project by Dawn Thiebold
I stand ramrod straight. In my public speaking class, I learned that with the right posture, confidence will follow.