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A Playdate With Death

Page 18

by Ayelet Waldman


  “Are you planning on visiting her?” I asked.

  “Once they let me, yeah, I will.”

  I told him what had happened and asked him if he would be willing to pass word on to Betsy. I also promised that I’d go to county jail to visit her.

  I guess I wasn’t surprised that Betsy hadn’t managed to stay sober. Most addicts don’t. Drug addiction is a complicated thing. It seems to take some remarkable combination of support, security, and will to kick the habit. And even with all that to help them, many people still end up locked into a cycle of using that destroys them and those around them. I hoped Betsy would survive her months in county and come out with the strength and desire to try again. I wasn’t about to lay any money on it, though.

  Twenty-four

  AL and I drove down La Brea toward my house in silence. Finally, as I pulled in the driveway, I said, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  He looked at me, puzzled. “Do what?”

  “Go into business with you. But in a really limited way.”

  “Go on.”

  “First of all, I need completely flexible hours. I mean, I’ve got to be able to pick Ruby up at school, take care of Isaac, take the kids to playdates. All that.”

  He shrugged. “That’s fine by me. Work when you want to work.”

  “And I don’t want to commit to a firm number of hours or anything like that. If you need some legal research done, and I’m free, then I’ll do it. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “What an attractive offer,” he said.

  “Those are my terms. I don’t really want to go back to work, anyway. I’m a stay-at-home mom. I’m happy that way.”

  “Sure you are.”

  I decided to ignore that. “How are you going to pay me?”

  “I’m not.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to pay you. The clients will pay you. If I’ve got work for you, and you can fit me into your busy schedule, then you’ll do the work and we’ll bill the client. Whatever they pay me for your time, I’ll give to you.”

  “Okay. That sounds fair. Oh, and one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not carrying a gun. Ever.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “I’m serious, Al.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes, I believe we do.”

  We shook on it.

  After Al went home, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to have some welcome-home presents waiting for the kids. Actually, the most important person to reward was probably Peter. I headed out to the Toys “R” Us on La Cienega, across from the Beverly Center, and meandered up and down the aisles for a while. I found a truly disgusting doll for Ruby that would pee after drinking a bottle and poop after being fed a special powdered pap (sold separately). She would love it. I picked out a Johnny Lightning Speed Racer Mach 5 for Peter. As for Isaac, it didn’t take me long to find the perfect gift. When I got home, I wrapped everything in some Chanukah paper I found under my bed and sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

  It took them quite a while to make it down from Big Bear—it had snowed that morning—and, finally, I was bored enough to whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I had eaten my way through half the cookie dough and most of the cookies, too, when I heard the car pull into the driveway. I ran down the back stairs and greeted them as they tumbled out. The kids were squealing and ruddy-cheeked from their adventures in the snow. Peter looked exhausted and very happy to be home. We hugged, kissed, and staggered up the stairs with all their bags and boxes.

  Sitting on the floor in the living room, my husband and I cuddled as Ruby and Isaac tore the wrapping paper off their presents.

  “You okay?” Peter asked.

  “Now I am,” I said, kissing him on the cheek.

  Suddenly, Isaac screamed in delight. “A gun! A real gun! A gun! A gun! A gun!”

  “A gun?” Peter was obviously shocked.

  “A purple water pistol,” I said.

  “Don’t we have a rule against guns?”

  “Relax,” I said. I picked my son up onto my lap and kissed him on his round, soft cheek. “Isaac and I know it’s just pretend. Right, Isaac?” He took aim at me with the purple pistol, right between the eyes, and squeezed off a round, point-blank.

  “Pow,” Isaac said. “You’re dead.”

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