This Is Not Over

by Holly Brown

  “That’s great, Dad,” I said. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Don’t jump the gun,” he warned. “I don’t have the job yet.”

  Then I asked the question that would haunt me for years: “What do you have to do to get it?”

  “Do you remember Gary?” I shook my head. “He was over here last week. We were drinking beer on the front steps. You walked by in that white skirt.”

  I tried never to look at my father and his friends. They were a nasty bunch, and they’d been ogling me since I first filled out. “What about him?”

  “Gary’s a general contractor and he’s looking for someone to work on houses with him full-time. Remodeling kitchens and bathrooms.”

  “Do you know how to do that?”

  He made a face that told me he wanted out of this conversation ASAP. Which made me wonder why he’d ever gotten into it to begin with, but I was about to learn. He never said it directly but he made it clear that Gary was going to be over at the house the next day, and my mother would be out, and my father would take off for a little while, too, and then Gary just wanted to hang out with me, talk for a bit. “This job would change everything,” my father concluded.

  I wanted to think my dad didn’t really know what he was asking of me, but neither of us could be that ignorant. Maybe he thought I was still giving it away for free all the time and what’s one more, for the betterment of the family?

  “I promise you, Dawn, I will not screw this job up. I’ll treat your mom like she deserves to be treated.”

  That was what sealed the deal. I could turn things around for my whole family, but my mom needed it the most. She was the most fragile. And sure, I wasn’t a slut anymore by then, but this wasn’t like the other guys. I wasn’t doing it to feel just a little better about myself; I was doing it for all of us.

  So the next day, my father left me alone with Gary. He was about thirty and completely repugnant. He had one of those weird skin tags right between his eyebrows, and he made small talk while he chugged half a six-pack. I drank the other half just to get through. I insisted on a condom and he grumbled but agreed. I was grateful that he was doing it from behind so that I didn’t have to kiss him and he couldn’t see me choking back the bile. I was taking an hour-long shower when my father came back. He never said anything, not even thank you, but then, a thank-you might have made it all the grosser.

  Days passed, and he still wasn’t talking. Finally, I asked him when he was starting the job. He didn’t want to meet my eyes and I couldn’t tell if he was ashamed of himself or of me. He didn’t even stop walking as he said, “It fell through.”

  So I wasn’t the family protector; I was just a whore again. My father looked at me even less after that, if that’s possible. I was so ashamed. Sex with me wasn’t worth anything at all; it literally had no value. If I’d been better, my father would have gotten that job, and our lives would have turned around.

  At first, I thought my father had been tricked, too, but a month later, he was sitting on the front steps drinking beer with Gary. They both acted like nothing had happened.

  Then came the anger. At being duped, and used, and my father’s complicity in it. He was the one who thought I had no value, right alongside Gary. I wanted to put them both in jail. But I didn’t want the humiliation of going to the police and having to answer questions, and more than that, I didn’t want my mother to know about any of it. She wasn’t strong enough to handle it. She’d kept her head in the sand for years, and that’s where it needed to stay.

  I sometimes wondered if any of it was true, what he said to me. Had Gary really promised my father a job, or was that just a lie to get me to do what I would never have done otherwise? Was it a bet, or a debt between them? And if he had gotten that job, would he have kept his promise and worked hard and treated my mother right? Probably not. But while I was protecting my mother, she was gambling with my body and my sanity. I always knew my father didn’t much care what happened to me, but I thought my mother was a different story, and not part of this one.

  I get up and start making dinner. My mind continues to whir, but by the time Rob gets home, I’m not about to share my thoughts.

  All I tell him is that I’ve made calls to take the pharmaceutical job. I’m rewarded with an approving smile.

  I used to think he accepted me unconditionally. But now I have no way of knowing what he really thinks about me unless I eavesdrop on the next “family” dinner.

  After a pro forma kiss on the cheek, he says, “It’s been an exhausting day. I’m going to lie down. Just call me when dinner’s ready, okay?”

  I have to fight not to snort with derision. He had an exhausting day. There were probably ten customers, max, over eight hours.

  I’m quiet all night, and if Rob remembers that today was my final project, he gives no indication. The fact that he doesn’t even know the topic, hasn’t even asked, speaks volumes.

  Once we’ve climbed into bed, I’m all the way on my side, and he’s all the way on his. It’s been that way since I fingered his asshole. Sue me, I wanted to pleasure the guy. We did follow through on some missionary sex in our bed that night, as if he wanted to reassert our utter conventionality. I didn’t come, and he didn’t seem to care, which was pretty out of character. Or maybe it’s evidence of the defective character that he’s been concealing from me. They say cheaters are incredibly paranoid about being cheated on, so maybe it’s the people most worried about normalcy who are the most deviant.

  Rob says, without turning to me, “We have to start trying to have kids.” It’s in a tone I’ve never heard from him before—so absolute, so firm, that it’s nearly mean. He’s brooking no dissent.

  I have to remind myself that I married him so I could have a normal family. So I could be a part of his normal family.

  This isn’t normal, though, this dictate of his. This is not how a couple decides to procreate, not in any world I want to inhabit, and when you think about it, marriage is really just an attempt to create your own world.

  “Nobody has to have kids,” I say, my back still to his.

  He sits upright with such velocity and torque that the whole bed jerks. His anger is palpable in the room.

  I don’t move. I literally can’t face this right now.

  I’m not sure what provoked his sudden insistence. Maybe he’s trying to rush the kid thing so that he doesn’t change his mind about me. He won’t have time to discover anything else that makes him so uncomfortable he’ll have no choice but to walk away. A child would be an insurance policy against his own better judgment.

  I could be flattered. He loves me that much. Or he really, really hates to be wrong.

  He shakes my shoulder roughly. “I know you’re not asleep. Talk to me.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Don’t act like a child. You’re not your mother.”

  He’s spoiling for a fight. I’m not going to give it to him.

  “Get up, Dawn! This is our marriage here!”

  I hug my pillow. “Then let’s talk about it in the morning, when we’re calm and rested.”

  “You can’t control everything.”

  “I’m not trying to.”

  “You always do. Where we go for vacation, when we have a baby.” I can tell he’s struggling to find another example. “When we can have which conversation.”

  “I’m tired. You’re tired. We both had long days. It’s safer to just shut up.”

  For the moment, he prefers to live dangerously. “I need to know what you’ve got going on that’s more important than being a mother,” he says, ice dripping from each word, and I wonder if he finally knows about Thad. I told Thad to take down the tweet that mentioned me, and he did. But could Rob have already seen it by then?

  No, Rob’s not on Twitter. He and his dad talked about activating their social media presence, but I’m pretty sure it hasn’t happened yet.

  Could Rob have been checking my phone secretly?

 
; “What are you saying?” I ask. “Don’t speak in code. Come out with it.”

  “I want to know why you don’t want to have our child. Is that clear and concise enough for you?”

  “I want to have our child someday.” When we’re our old selves, the couple I thought we were.

  “Which day? I want a date.” I feel him bouncing up and down, full of furious energy. “Tell me the date when you’ll get your IUD out.”

  “Or what?” I say softly.

  “I just want a date.”

  “And if I can’t give you one?”

  He gets out of bed and walks over to my side, kneeling down so that we’re eye level. “Do not fuck with me, Dawn.”

  I stare him down. “Or what?” I repeat.

  He storms away and starts to get dressed. I’m supposed to ask him where he’s going—no, I’m supposed to ask him not to go, but I don’t have that in me. Instead, I lie motionless as he leaves the room, and then the apartment, with a ferocious door slam.

  I clutch the pillow to me for a while, squeezing my eyes shut and willing sleep to come. I wish I were a little girl again, a different little girl, one whose mother held her and whispered, “Shh, it’ll all be okay,” instead of the other way around.

  I reach my arm out for my phone and cradle it close. When he answers, all I can do is cry.

  “Dawn? Dawn, what is it? What happened?”

  “Everything is shit,” I choke out. “The whole world is shit.” People say they want you, but that’s only when they don’t know you, and when you don’t need them. Life is desertion. Love is the big lie.

  “I know that feeling. But I don’t have it anymore. You know why? Because of you, Dawn T. Bold. Because you’re—what’s the opposite of shit?”

  Despite everything, I have to laugh. “Piss?”

  “No. You’re gold. And I’m coming for you.”

  “No,” I say weakly.

  “You don’t have to promise me anything. I’m going to promise you something, though. I’m going to take care of you. You won’t cry on my watch. Okay?”

  I nod.

  “Okay?”

  Oh, right, he can’t see me. But it feels like he’s right here. His voice is a caress.

  “Okay,” I tell him. I glance at the clock. If he left now from L.A., he’d be here at five A.M. Rob doesn’t leave for work until eight. “You’re still in L.A., right?”

  “In Santa Monica.”

  Something’s coming into focus. “Where in Santa Monica?”

  “The best part. Right off the beach. My parents own a house.”

  “Do they know you stay there?”

  “Hell no. I squat at the house between guests. It used to be easier when I could just check the Getaway.com availability calendar. Now I have to be more stealthy. I have a key that I copied years ago. She never changed the locks. Now I’m here more or less full-time, though I’ve had a few close calls. A Realtor’s been sniffing around, so, you know, all good things must come to an end.”

  “Did you ever stay at the house after guests left, but before the cleaning crew got there?”

  “That’s a weird question.”

  “So I’m weird. Did you?”

  “A few times.”

  Holy shit. It’s all making sense now. “So you slept on someone else’s sheets.”

  “The people who rent this house are top-notch. I’d rather sleep on their dirty sheets than the clean ones at some shitty motel.”

  Thad stained the sheets. Miranda didn’t make it up after all.

  I start to laugh and cry at the same time. Because it doesn’t matter how it all started, not anymore. All that matters is what it’s become—a tornado razing everything in its path. Miranda’s lost her rental, and her son, and I’m losing my marriage, and my self-respect.

  I actually feel a strange kinship with Miranda. Neither of us is cut out for motherhood. Is it better to try and fail than never to have tried at all?

  My campaign against Miranda—whatever its true root cause, aggression that’s misplaced or displaced or simply placed—is officially over.

  I know that Miranda’s life isn’t perfect, and she knows it isn’t perfect (Thad certainly reminds her of that), and isn’t that what I was trying to establish all along? That money doesn’t solve all your problems, or breed happiness? That we all bleed red?

  Such deep revelations. I could have just read a book.

  Thad must be thinking that I’ve truly lost it, but all that’s left is to laugh and laugh and laugh.

  52

  Miranda

  A stun gun is a device that is used or intended to be used as either an offensive or defensive weapon, which is capable of temporarily immobilizing a person by inflicting an electrical charge. (Ca. Pen. Code §§17230, 16780.)

  In California, most people may purchase, possess, or use a stun gun, and they do not have to obtain a permit. However, you may not purchase, possess, or use a stun gun if you are:

  • a convicted felon, someone convicted of an assault under federal or any state’s laws or the laws of any country, or have a prior conviction for misusing a stun gun under Cal. Pen. Code §244.5, or

  • addicted to any narcotic drug.

  There really ought to be a weapons store. Of course I realize there are gun stores, but time is of the essence and I need something I can operate immediately. Besides, I don’t trust myself with a gun right now. Dawn and Thad sitting in a tree rings in my head. I have to stop this before it goes any further. I have to stop her.

  A self-defense store, that’s what it should be called. Shelves full of Tasers, stun guns, knives, pepper sprays, and what have you. It’d be a haven for people like me, those who’ve been pushed too far, who’ve been forced into the conclusion that the only defense is a good offense.

  Dawn’s got more than twenty years on me, at least, but I work out. I have a strong core, and no health issues, and the element of surprise. She probably expects me to be some sitting duck. She wouldn’t think some old lady from Beverly Hills would come for her.

  It’s not that I intend for things to get physical. I simply have no idea what to expect. This is uncharted territory. But I’ll come prepared.

  I haven’t set foot in a Walmart since I don’t know when. But for “personal security” on a moment’s notice, it’s my superstore.

  The Walmart employee is so baby-faced that I suspect he doesn’t yet have to shave. He looks surprised by my various requests, but he dutifully looks up each. “We don’t carry Taser brand merchandise in-store, ma’am,” he says. “It’s online only. Here in the store, it’s just the holster.”

  “What would I do with a holster and no Taser?”

  He shrugs, managing to convey both apology and indifference. “We’ve got pepper spray and a stun gun in stock. Taser is just a kind of stun gun.”

  “Show me what you have, please.”

  “It’s part of Home Improvement,” he says, and leads me there. I never would have noticed on my own that near the lightbulbs and wall sconces, there are two different pepper sprays and one type of Mace. And—I almost laugh out loud—a pink stun gun/flashlight combo disguised as a lipstick.

  “That’s the only one?” I ask, pointing to it.

  “Yep.” He grins back uneasily.

  “I guess I’ll have to get the matching pink pepper spray, the one that supports breast cancer awareness.” There really is a pink ribbon on that package. What will they think of next? I would never normally carry anything in candy pink, it’s so déclassé, but I’ll make it work.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “You carry axes, right?” It would be a last resort, but an ax with a good swinging radius could potentially come in handy. The Dawn I know is capable of anything, and I won’t be the one surprised anymore.

  His eyes widen.

  By the time I leave, loaded down with my purchases, I am, genuinely, feeling a greater sense of personal security. Thank you, Walmart.

  After days of cowering
in my house, I’m walking straight and tall. It’s good to feel something other than fear. I’m coasting on pure venomous rage. Larry has been trying to get ahold of me, but he’s irrelevant right now. This is about Thad and Dawn. Thad, most of all. He’s always needed to be saved from himself.

  With my weapons locked in the trunk of my car, I drive to see my mother.

  I feel transformed in some way that should be visible, but as I check in with the staff, I’m greeted in the usual way. No one gives me a second’s pause. I should be glad I’m not setting off any alarm bells. Yet I want to be seen. For better or worse, let me register, with someone.

  Let it be her. My mother. She’s walking toward me now, neatly dressed and hair brushed, with the same erect posture I’ve inherited. No shuffling gait here. She doesn’t set off any alarm bells either, until you sit and talk with her. Then you’re treated to blank stares, non sequiturs and rambles, confusion, memory failures, and, on rare occasions, screaming, arm-wheeling agitation.

  “Let’s go to the garden,” I say, as usual.

  “That sounds lovely,” she replies, as if it’s a delightful idea that has never occurred to her. She’s in hostess mode. She doesn’t remember me; she’s just been briefed on who I am. I wonder if she’s been talking to my father today.

  “Has Dad been in to see you?” I ask her. I’m trying something new.

  “My husband?” She smiles. “He comes every day. He brings smoothies.”

  She lets me take her arm and lead her outside. She generally starts out pliable. She’s a people pleaser by nature, and LBD can’t steal that away entirely. The conditioning remains. It occurs to me that the same would be true of me, if I were to suffer from LBD someday. Everything would be stripped away but my basic desire to be what everyone else wants.

  We take our seats at a table among the purple and white of the lavender, daisies, and hydrangea. “Tell me how Dad’s doing,” I say.