This Is Not Over

by Holly Brown

  Any second now, my confidence will kick in.

  Any.

  Second.

  Now.

  Professor Myerson has his face arranged in his usual mild listening expression. You wouldn’t know that we’d had our confrontation just yesterday, though my damp armpits are well aware. I know what he thinks of me.

  The rest of the class is watching me, the male students more avidly. I remind myself that oral presentations are my strength.

  Don’t think about Mom. She doesn’t actually know anything about me. She never bothered to learn.

  But she knew more than I ever guessed.

  Some students are restless; others look more curious about my unraveling. I can’t afford to wait for my confidence at this point. I just need to start talking. Get through it. Get out of here. But I don’t even know where I’m headed anymore.

  “There’s an Adrienne Rich quote,” I say, my voice trembling, “about how the political is personal, so I’ve decided to bring something personal into my final project. A few months back, I stayed in a house rental that I found on Getaway.com.” I click the button in my hand, and the screen behind me changes. I wanted to show them Miranda’s original listing, but of course, that’s not available anymore. Instead, I exhibit a similar sample house. “Beautiful, right? Luxurious. It was a splurge for my husband and me, for sure, one of our only vacations this year.”

  I’m not going to tell them the haunted part, how it affected Rob and me, how it affects us still. The political is not that personal.

  But my self-righteous fury is coming back to me. That’s powered me through a lot in my life, and of late, it’s what I look to Miranda for. It’s going to get me through this.

  I click again, and now the screen shows Miranda’s e-mail, though today she’ll be known as Marissa. “Then I receive this communication from the ‘host,’ Marissa.” I can’t resist the air quotes.

  Please note: It is April 23, 2014. You’ll have your deposit within seven business days, just like it says on Getaway.com. I’ve put through a refund to your credit card for the full amount, minus $200 to replace the sheets. I couldn’t get the stain out despite professional laundering and bleaching . . .

  “You’ll notice that there’s no ‘Dear Dawn.’ Or ‘I’m sorry you had to contact me repeatedly to get your deposit.’ There’s also no photographic evidence to support her contention of a stain. Quite clearly, there was no stain. The authoritative tone, the lack of personal touches—it’s all intended to make me feel that she has the power in our exchange. This is a prime example of unethical communication.”

  My voice is stronger now. I see that my audience looks a little more engaged. Everyone loves a narrative thread instead of a dry presentation of an article, like the ones we’ve sat through so far today.

  I click, and now it’s my review from Getaway.com.

  Beware of your “host”

  THREE STARS

  I wouldn’t have left a review at all, if I didn’t feel it was my civic duty to warn others . . .

  I let them read the meat themselves, and finish with “This is an example of persuasive communication. I distinguish myself—an ethical consumer of goods and services—from Marissa. I demonstrate that I’m a trustworthy person and she is not. Then the site’s users can draw their own conclusions.” I glance at Professor Myerson. He’s inscrutable. I look down at my notes, composing myself. Then I look up and smile. Somehow, against all odds, against my mother’s prophecy, I’m pulling this off. I’m standing straight, and I won’t let myself fall. Fuck her. And fuck Miranda. I click.

  I’m shocked that you didn’t address your issue with me first but instead chose to post a scathing review. Now people will be worried about their security deposit when they don’t need to be. Look at my other reviews. No one else has had any problem with me. On the contrary, they rave about my hospitality . . .

  You suggest in your review that I’m a liar. I can assure you I am not . . .

  “Notice the condescending tone. And nothing suggests ‘liar’ like protesting that you’re not a liar.” I hear a few snickers. Professor Myerson is giving me nothing, but that’s okay. I don’t need a father anymore.

  The fact that there are no other three-star reviews doesn’t mean everyone has had positive dealings with you. . . . Maybe you’re just in the habit of trying to bully people into taking their reviews down, and making them question their reality. Sorry it hasn’t worked this time.

  “Communications—and ethics—is about refusing to back down in the face of tyranny.” I don’t see any nods, so I clarify. “Just because one person has money and an expensive house doesn’t mean they can force another person to do what they want.”

  Dawn,

  Your review is based on miscommunication and inaccuracies. It is tantamount to character assassination, as it paints me as someone who would steal a security deposit.

  My husband is a doctor. I do volunteer work. I have almost all five-star reviews on my property because I treat people well. That is my life.

  Please call if you’d like to discuss this further . . .

  “Would you call this woman?” A few people laugh. “Exactly. She could have responded with anything in this e-mail. She could have empathized with me. Instead, she chose to talk about her husband being a doctor, and her volunteer work. She tried to make me feel like she’s better than me to get me to take down an honest review. It’s poor communication, as well as unethical.

  “Her only recourse—since I wouldn’t take down the review—was to post a response on the website.”

  I’ve apologized repeatedly to the reviewer for any miscommunication but have only received hostility in return . . .

  Some people want to find fault; they want to hate. That seems to be the case here. Unfortunately, some people can’t be pleased.

  “Who’s engaging in character assassination now?” I look around the room. They’re just not getting it, they don’t know why this is so utterly enraging. Do they have no sense of fairness, justice, and self-respect? Do young people today care about anything at all?

  Professor Myerson seems slightly dyspeptic, like he’s stifling a burp. I hadn’t realized until just then how much I wanted them to get it, to see Miranda like I see her, and to see me like I need to see myself.

  But I continue, because I have to.

  I tell them about the Santa Monica ordinance and show my e-mail reporting Miranda to the city attorney. “While I never got a satisfactory response from them—they just told me they were ‘looking into the matter’—the listing disappeared from Getaway.com. I had, effectively, put her out of business. And for someone like Miran—Marissa, who’s used to getting what she wants by virtue of her money and status, this was too much to take. She had to up the ante.” I’ve got their attention again as I click.

  The police have advised me to block you. All further communications should cease.

  “I followed her instructions. I ceased communicating with her. But that didn’t stop me from communicating about her.” This is the true heart of my presentation. I point out how I used the Internet to my full advantage, turning her own words against her by reposting our exchanges on multiple websites. The Bewarethisrental.com review is on the screen behind me. “This became her new Internet footprint. And as a result, I received this e-mail.”

  It’s supposed to prove that I won. After all, Miranda begged for my forgiveness, pretended to be reformed, and refunded me double, while I did nothing for her. This should be my triumph.

  “Notice the manipulative communication. There’s the fake deference, the phony apology, the false flattery about me being a better writer than her, and her trying to buy me off for four hundred dollars.”

  I don’t know how to interpret the look on Professor Myerson’s face. It seems almost—pitying. He feels for me. He may even care for me. But he doesn’t respect me. If he did, he would never have sent me on that interview.

  “Needless to say, I’m not for sale, and I
haven’t deleted anything online. That, in conclusion, is how to right a wrong.”

  There’s a round of halfhearted applause, though none of the other presentations so far have garnered anything more than that. Still, I didn’t think it would be hard to top them. I have a sinking feeling in my chest as Professor Myerson clears his throat.

  “Let me play devil’s advocate,” he says. “What if it’s not manipulation? What if she had a sincere conversion?”

  “Then why does she ask me to take everything down? She has an ulterior motive.”

  “Is it possible that both can be true? She can sincerely see your point of view, realize she’s done wrong, but also want you to stop humiliating her?”

  He’s telling me to take her point of view, and it’s not until that moment that I realize I never really have. Now I’m standing in front of a class and they can all see it. I was so obsessed that I forgot Communications 101: try on the other person’s position; walk in their shoes.

  On the screen behind me is the final image.

  Thanks for the refund. Better late than never, I guess. And while I appreciate your epiphany, I’m standing by my reviews. You did what you did, and you can’t undo it now. We all have to sit with the consequences of our actions.

  “Class, do you have any questions?” Professor Myerson says.

  “Isn’t this actually an example of cyberbullying?” a girl asks from the front row. She’s a chronic eye-roller.

  “I never used that terminology for Marissa’s actions,” I reply, “but yes, it is.”

  Another eye roll. “No, you were bullying her.”

  “That had crossed my mind as well,” Professor Myerson says. “Though I don’t believe that was Dawn’s intent, I do think her actions could be construed as such. That could be why Marissa visited the police.”

  I feel a rush of heat to my cheeks. I could possibly have been a bit off base in my communications, but a cyberbully?

  All my actions were justified when it came to Miranda. Tit for tat, action and reaction. She started it. And continued it. She raised the stakes at every turn. Were these people even listening? Can’t they read?

  “Did you receive this woman’s permission to use her communications?” Professor Myerson says.

  “No,” I say tightly, “it wasn’t required by any of the websites where I posted.”

  “Ethics isn’t about mere legality. That’s the first thing I taught you.”

  “There was a greater good. I was reminding her that other people have feelings, regardless of their income level. They need to be treated with respect. She learned her lesson. You said it yourself.”

  “Did she? Or was she just telling you what you wanted to hear because you’d bullied her into submission? Because she was frightened? You can’t teach through fear, or humiliation.”

  Ironic, since he’s humiliating me right now. I was humiliated at the interview when I realized what the job really was, when I saw what my favorite professor really thought of me.

  “I think,” he says slowly, “that you felt you were communicating one thing and what we’re all hearing is something else. We’re seeing that the Internet can be used as a tool to exact vengeance, and sometimes we call that vengeance ‘justice.’ Really, it’s something else entirely.” His face has turned sympathetic by the end, or perhaps it was sympathetic the whole time. “Knowing ourselves and our own motivations is the source of all ethical—and unethical—behavior. It can be surprisingly easy to conflate the two. To rationalize, and to legitimize, and to think we’re angry with one thing or person when maybe it’s something or someone else. We’ve all, at one time or another, suffered from misplaced aggression. We’ve all lost people we love.”

  His eyes on mine are full of compassion, but he’s wrong. This could not have less to do with my father’s death. It’s about justice, and holding people accountable. It’s about consequences.

  “Thank you, Dawn,” he says, “for illustrating such an important point. For that reason, this was an extremely successful presentation.” He begins a slow clap, and the roomful of bewildered students follow his example.

  I make my shaky way to my seat. I’ve earned all my accolades since I started college here, except this one. This was pure pity.

  Professor Myerson made me out to be misguided and vengeful. A cyberbully, of all things! No one’s ever misunderstood me this badly, unless you count my husband.

  Miranda was the bully. Stealing my money, belittling me, and then, when I used the Internet to call her on it, trying to manipulate me.

  Is it really possible that I’ve been seeing this all wrong, that I’ve been the one bullying her? Professor Myerson is a smart man.

  No. It’s her. It’s all her. She managed to trick them all, even Professor Myerson. Without even being here, she got them on her side. That’s how good she is, how clever.

  She’ll get what’s coming to her.

  50

  Miranda

  Easy to create when you’re inspired by a good woman. #dawntbold

  Dawntbold = Dawn Thiebold = Dawn and Thad know each other. She’s his inspiration, which can only mean one thing. Dawn and Thad sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes marriage . . .

  Only she’s already married.

  What breaks my heart is that he has to know she has a husband. I raised the kind of man who wouldn’t care.

  He actually calls her a good woman. Like he’d recognize a good woman if she up and bit him. No, if she’d raised him.

  How long has this been going on? Have they been in cahoots this whole time?

  He always liked petite blondes. Not that he allowed me to meet his girlfriends, or (as he so charmingly called them) f— buddies. I caught a few of them leaving his room late at night when he was still in high school. All I could do was ground him, but it was after the fact. He’d already gotten what he wanted. His whole life, I’ve been playing catch-up. I wanted to get out in front of his problems but I was always trailing behind, mitigating the damage, cleaning up the messes, cutting my losses.

  I could ask him how he met Dawn, but I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t tell. Besides, I wouldn’t believe any answer he gave.

  I’ve been lying on my couch in the same clothes for two straight days, the knife and saw like extra appendages. I’m delirious from stress and lack of sleep, but I couldn’t even make this stuff up: Thad and Dawn have formed some sort of unholy alliance.

  I suppose I should be grateful. She’s given him something to live for, the inspiration to create.

  They deserve each other.

  I’m shaking. In grief, and in rage.

  No, they don’t deserve each other. Dawn is a rotten person, and what she deserves is to be punished. She’s come after me through Thad. Drugs have disabled his brain, and now she’s using my handicapped son against me.

  Hell hath no fury like a mother protecting her child.

  Dawn T. Bold, you’re going to learn your lesson. I will see to that.

  51

  Dawn

  “Hi, Mr. Callahan. This is Dawn Thiebold. Sean said I’d be hearing from you to schedule dinner or a drink. I’m really excited to be a part of your team. I’ll make myself available any time. Look forward to hearing from you!”

  “Hi, Sean. This is Dawn Thiebold. Since I didn’t hear from you, I decided to go ahead and leave a message for Mr. Callahan—for Artie—to schedule that drink but haven’t heard back yet. I’m just wondering how everything’s moving along in terms of my hiring? Please shoot me a text or an e-mail, whatever works. Thanks so much! I’m so excited about this opportunity!”

  Maybe Sean got busy and never talked to Artie; maybe Artie’s just having a hectic week. Or is it possible that Sean changed his mind? Or that Professor Myerson conveyed to Sean what I really thought of the job?

  No, he wouldn’t have done that. But just to cover my bases . . .

  “Hi, Professor Myerson. It’s Dawn. I’ve been thinking a lot, and I’ve realized how
much I really do want that job. We can’t have everything we want in life, but that job’s a great start. I really appreciate you setting it all in motion. Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something to thank you? If you hear from Sean, please let him know how interested I am. I already left him a few voicemails but he must be in meetings or something. Thanks again! See you soon!”

  I have to accept this job, and accept reality: I chose the broadest major but now I have fairly narrow prospects. What I can do is sell. Might as well sell myself to the highest bidder. That’s if Big Pharma will still have me.

  Rob said as much. He didn’t even ask how I really felt, though I’m sure my reservations were written all over my face. I wanted him to say I was too good for that job, and that I should hold out for something better. Instead, he told me, “You’ve got to start somewhere, right? Pharmaceutical sales is lucrative, and it’s competitive. And that VP wants you.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Now you can support me for a while.”

  My mother’s right. I thought I’d come so far, but I’m nowhere. My husband’s a lousy provider, same as hers was. He doesn’t care how I really feel, deep down, same as hers. But unlike her, I’m going to make my own opportunities.

  Call back, Artie. Call back, Sean.

  Fucking men. As soon as they can have you, they don’t want you anymore.

  Misplaced anger, that’s what Professor Myerson said. That this hasn’t been about Miranda at all, but about . . . ?

  I orchestrated my whole life to avoid feeling powerless, dirty, and disposable, and here it is again. I’m back here, again.

  I was sixteen, and yes, I’d had a lot of sex, but Planned Parenthood set me on a different path. I was rehabilitated. Then my father came home and told me he had a “business opportunity.” Those were big words for him. He’d been working his temporary jobs through Manpower, a couple of days a week if we were lucky, and he sat on my bed and said, “Things are going to change around here.”

  He generally only spoke to me if it was absolutely necessary, and he never came into my room, so I knew something significant was under way. My mom was stressed out all the time, losing weight, with her hair coming out in clumps. When my father said that he was on the verge of a regular job, full-time, with good pay and benefits, I thought of her first.