This One Is Mine: A Novel

by Maria Semple

  Violet checked the rearview mirror. Dot was mesmerized, as always, by the opening number from Company.

  Bobby, baby. Bobby, Bubby. Robby. Robert, darling. Robbo. Bobby, baby. Bobby, Bubby.

  Dot whispered along, keeping up as best she could. Violet smiled. It was never too early to indoctrinate Dot into the glories of Stephen Sondheim. Dot, named after the artist’s muse from Sunday in the Park with George. David was dismissive of Sondheim, saying, He can’t write songs. Violet fervently disagreed. She didn’t care if other children grew up to the Wiggles or Dan Zanes. Hers would adore Sondheim. Violet had declared it that joyous day of the first ultrasound. David conceded her Sondheim if she’d give him the Mets. They shook on it in front of Dr. Naeby, who raised his brow and went about his business.

  There was a knock on the window. “Ooh, you brought the munchkin!”

  “Gwen, hi.” Violet turned down the volume.

  “I have my walking shoes on!” Gwen lifted a hiking boot to the window. Perhaps she’d been a dancer once.

  “I really can’t,” started Violet. “I have the baby. You know how enthusiastic we were, but the geology report leaves us no choice but to cancel. You understand.”

  “Oh.” Gwen’s face came crashing down.

  “Mommy?” said Dot.

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “Shit.”

  “I’m ignoring that,” Violet informed Gwen. “Thanks for everything, but our decision is made. Here are the papers. David didn’t sign page four, but he signed everywhere else —”

  Gwen swung her hands up, as if avoiding being served. “Nope. Can’t accept those. No point in trying. Papers gotta be signed. No can do.”

  It was impossible to hate Gwen. Violet would send her a check, or a client, even see if there was a one-line part for her in the new TV show.

  “I understand,” Violet said. “I’ll fax them to your office by five.” Gwen pivoted, climbed into her car, and drove off.

  “Out!” said Dot. “Mommy, want out!”

  Dot had been a trouper all day, plus it would be good to burn off energy before the nap. “Just for five minutes.”

  A green car crunched up the dirt road and stopped. “Green car,” said Dot.

  “Yes,” Violet said. “That’s a green car.”

  “What dat man’s name?” asked Dot.

  “I don’t know,” Violet said. “Now run around and then we’re going to go home and take a nap.”

  A door slammed. The green car’s trunk was open. Behind it was that guy Sally used to date, with the hair and the Hawaiian shirts.

  Violet’s instinct was to protect Dot. “Honey, don’t go far.”

  Then, this guy — Kurt, she thought — loaded his arms with Geddy Lee’s bass, the set of Callaway golf clubs, and the bag from the Apple store. He walked over and dumped them at Violet’s feet.

  “Take them,” he said. “Get them out of my life. I don’t need the karma.” He turned around.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “I took them out of your car.”

  “Oh.” Violet said. “Wait —” She glanced at Dot, who was climbing the nearby hill. It was rocky and steep, but thanks to RIE, Dot had good balance. Violet turned to Kurt. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I went to your house and Sally told me. I’m sorry. I’m a fucking moron. If suffering serves as a springboard to expand your life state, then I’m going to have the biggest life state in the universe.” His Hawaiian shirt was torn, his hand bandaged, and one eye was starting to swell.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Ask your fucking husband.”

  “Oh God.” Violet’s stomach roiled.

  Dot was squatting, completely absorbed in some discarded strawberry baskets. “Bobby baby, Bobby bubby,” she sang to herself as she filled a basket with rocks.

  “He thought I was fucking you or something,” said Kurt.

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Don’t ask me. What goes on between you and your husband is your business. My only business is to chant until I transform my destructive tendencies from poison into medicine. I’m like Pigpen with a black cloud of bad karma following me everywhere.”

  “Hang on a second.” Violet frantically tried to calculate the bits of information. “How did you even know this stuff was in my car?”

  “I overheard you telling the guy you were fucking.”

  “Is that what you told David?!”

  “I really don’t remember. I was too busy trying not to get my face kicked in.” He turned to leave.

  “No — you can’t go — tell me.” She grabbed both of his arms. “What did you hear? What did you tell David —”

  “I told him I’m not the guy you were fucking.”

  “What?!” Violet’s whole body throbbed. “What did he say? What did you tell him —”

  A shriek echoed across the canyon. It was Dot. No Mommy, no Mama, just one cry, then silence. It was what Violet had always feared the most, silence.

  “Dot!” she screamed. Her daughter had vanished from the hill. Blades of grass and fragile California poppies swayed in the breeze. It was silent and idyllic, like the day-after scenes of Chernobyl.

  “Shit,” Kurt said. “She was right here. Where did she go?”

  “Dot! Baby! Say something!” Violet fought her way up the hill. “Dot! Mommy’s here. Dot! Where are you?!” Violet screamed to Kurt, who stood at the bottom of the hill, “Help me! Maybe she’s down on the street. Or in a house. Knock on the doors. Oh God —”

  Violet thought she might vomit: the reservoir. “No, no.” She scrambled to the top of the rise.

  Twenty feet below, splayed among the rocks, was the still body of little Dot, facedown, pigtails askew, wearing her beloved Spider-Man T-shirt and the frilly pants Violet had sewn for her just last week.

  JEREMY entered his Sherman Oaks apartment. “Sally?” It had been twenty-nine hours since she had told him to get out. She never arrived in Houston, as he figured she would. She hadn’t called once.

  He removed the pad of graph paper he kept in his jacket. After the wedding, Jeremy had begun to graph Sally’s moods. He entered the intensities and frequencies onto a basic Cartesian graph. He had intended, through Fourier analysis, to break the master waves into component waves and extend the graph out to predict Sally’s mood swings. But he could only realistically predict sixty-three percent. Although that may have been an impressive number for sports handicapping, it didn’t help when applied to the person you were married to. He then came up with the idea of inputting his own actions into the sine-cosine equation in an attempt to see if he was indeed responsible for his wife’s terrifying moods. She always said they were his fault, for being so selfish. But what was he so selfish about? Wanting to go to a restaurant he liked? Wanting to walk instead of drive? Wanting to read the papers every morning in silence? Why wouldn’t she be considered equally as selfish for wanting to go to the restaurants she liked? Or wanting to drive everywhere? Or blathering on about some television show while he was trying to read the paper? How did that make him selfish and not her?

  Jeremy had tried to make this point many times, but how did you prove to someone that you felt as much as they did? All the feelings Sally was always accusing him of not feeling — love, anger, fear — he felt them. He just didn’t feel the need to talk about them. That was a feeling, too, not feeling like talking about your feelings. If all feelings were so great, why didn’t that one count? Besides, whenever he did try to talk about his feelings, she told him he was stupid to feel what he was feeling. In Jeremy’s opinion, the things Sally felt were stupid. Therefore, they should just cancel each other out.

  But Jeremy had taken Sally as his wife. All he could do now was try to figure her out. Coin flipping, formulas, first-order discrete differential equations, propositions: all had proven to be dead ends. But Jeremy had noticed that, like his favorite number, the imaginary number i, Sally’s moods were cyclical. So he decid
ed to graph them out.

  Even though the graphs were ultimately of no use, entering data points and curve-fitting served to calm him. Over the last couple of days, he had recognized that Sally was nearing an instantaneous inflection point and he had braced himself for an outburst. But yesterday’s tirade was a true anomaly. He tried to input it, but the curve had gone parabolic!

  He looked through the mail. Among the rectangles was a square. A pamphlet. He flipped it open and read:

  Repetitive

  Clumsy

  Literal Minded

  Socially Inept

  Obsessive

  On the last page, it said, “To learn more about Asperger’s syndrome, please call Nora Ross at . . .”

  Jeremy picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  VIOLET took a deep breath, then walked steadily toward the Ultra office, Dot on her hip. It was imperative that David sign the escrow papers in the next fifteen minutes, or they’d lose their $50,000 deposit. If pressed, Violet could attribute her shakiness to such a tight deadline. Before she opened the door, she ran through the story one last time.

  I was meeting Gwen Gold at the George Harrison property when I discovered you forgot to sign page four. Dot wanted to chase butterflies. I let her, never being more than two steps away. All of a sudden, the ground gave way. She must have stepped into a gopher hole. The geology report talked about them, remember? Next thing I knew, Dot rolled down the hill. I was right there. There was a little blood, but she hardly cried. On my way over, I stopped by Dr. Naeby’s, just in case. He thought Dot needed a couple of stitches and offered to do it there. I tried calling you, but Kara said you couldn’t be disturbed.

  It was a good story. The only collateral damage would be to Kara. David would demand to know why she hadn’t put Violet through when his daughter was getting stitches. Kara would claim no such thing had happened. Ultimately, it would come down to Violet’s word against the assistant’s. Kara was young; she’d find another job.

  Violet entered the office.

  “Mommy, down,” said a squirmy Dot. “Down, Mommy.”

  “In a second, sweetie.”

  Even though Dot’s CAT scan and neurological had been normal, the ER doctor had said it was imperative for Violet to monitor her for drowsiness, headache, balance issues, or vomiting. Any of these symptoms could indicate a hematoma and would require immediate surgery.

  David was behind glass at his desk, his back to them.

  Kara was at hers, taping receipts to a sheet of paper. “Mrs. Parry, hi!” she said. “Finally, I get to meet Miss Dot. Hi there!” She gave Dot’s hand a squeeze. “Aren’t you beautiful? And isn’t that the cutest hat ever?”

  “Mommy, what’s dat?” asked Dot with an impish smile. She pointed to a can of Coke on Kara’s desk.

  “What do you think it is?” Violet said.

  “Coca-Cola,” said Dot, in an unmistakable Spanish accent. “Want dat.”

  “Just this once.” Violet put Dot down. Kara punched something into her computer and led Dot toward the kitchen. David switched to a wireless headset and walked over. Violet took a deep breath: this was it.

  When Violet had reached the bottom of the hill, Dot was whimpering. Violet scooped her up. Dot’s mouth was full of blood; it flowed down her chin and onto Violet. Dot looked at her mother, indignant, as if to say, How dare you allow such a thing to happen to me? Violet wept with relief and cradled Dot’s head. Instantly, Violet’s hand became soaked. Blood flowed from a gash behind Dot’s ear. Violet pressed her fingers against the cut and ran to the Mercedes. On the drive down to UCLA, Violet had phoned their neighbor, the head of surgery there. By the time mother and daughter arrived at the emergency room, a team was mobilized and waiting on the curb. It reminded Violet of when she would arrive early for a party and there were too many valets.

  David muted his headset and stuck his head out of the office. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I need you to sign page four in the next fifteen minutes and fax it back.” Violet handed him the papers.

  “I’ll be right there.” He shut the door. Violet welcomed the chance to review her story one last time.

  Dot tripped in a gopher hole. She didn’t cry. Only upon Dr. Naeby’s insistence did I let her get a couple of stitches. I tried to call, but Kara wouldn’t put me through. It was over before Dot even knew what happened.

  Dot and Kara returned, Dot holding a can of Coke with both hands. Her balance, vision, and mental acuity all appeared perfect.

  “Dot,” Kara said, “do you want to see pictures of my nephew? His name is Lucas. He was only four pounds when he was born, teeny tiny.” The screen saver on the assistant’s computer was of a curled newborn covered with monitoring devices. “I’m so excited,” Kara told Violet. “I get to go to Coachella this weekend. David said he’d let me stand on the stage for Hanging with Yoko. I’m going to totally wave to all my friends.”

  “Come here, baby doll.” Violet adjusted Dot’s cashmere cap so it hid the inch-long tape protecting her stitches.

  Kara said, “And next week is going to be crazy with drummer auditions.”

  Violet thought of something. Coachella was this weekend, so David would probably spend at least two nights there. And with Yoko drummer auditions all week, his nights would be tied up. There was a good chance he wouldn’t be dropping by the house at all. Dot’s stitches were coming out in five days. If Violet could keep David from Dot, he might never know about the stitches. Violet’s new story was:

  Dot fell into a gopher hole while we were walking around the George Harrison property and —

  Actually, there was no reason to tell David any of it!

  In the UCLA parking garage, Violet had changed into some yoga clothes she always kept in the trunk. She didn’t have clean clothes for Dot, so she had called Daniel at Hermès. Fifteen minutes later, he was standing on the curb with a six-hundred-dollar (!) ensemble for Dot. And hats for Violet, of course. Other than the tiny stitches that were hidden by the Hermès knit cap, Dot betrayed no evidence of the fall. David always went out of his way to avoid talking to the neighbors, so he wouldn’t find out about the accident from the surgeon. And if Violet brought cash to UCLA, she could pay the bill and there’d be no paper trail!

  David was now off the phone.

  One last time, Violet ran through the story — there was no story! And sweet Kara would be spared! If David confronted Violet about the stuff Kurt stole, she would say she’d gotten it for the RIE silent auction and figured a valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel had stolen it.

  David opened his office door and handed Kara the papers. “Fax these immediately and get a time-stamped confirmation they were received. Thanks.”

  Dot galloped into David’s office and jumped up and down upon seeing all the pictures of her. “Dot!” she exclaimed. Dot’s favorite subject was Dot. She was like a miniature rapper, always referring to herself in the third person.

  “I have lots of pictures of my girls here,” David said.

  “Daddy?” Dot held up a framed picture. “Dat man eating nuts?”

  “No, that’s Dada.”

  “Dat man eating nuts,” Dot insisted.

  David studied the picture, then laughed. “How about that?” It was the photograph of them at Lake Tahoe, the one where Violet looked so incomprehensibly happy.

  They had flown up to ski and had watched the Super Bowl while playing Texas Hold ’Em at a casino. Violet was up two grand at one point, then gave it all back and more. David won a monster pot early and cashed out. Violet’s style was to raise and bluff, even when she knew she’d been beat. At halftime, when her stack had started to dwindle, David had come by and whispered, “Learn the thrill of a smart lay-down.”

  “Do you see that?” David asked Violet. “In the corner. See that man eating a Mr. Goodbar?” He turned to Dot. “You’re just a little smartie, aren’t you?” David swept up his daughter and emitted a roar of love. “God, I love this little girl. I’m never goin
g to let anything bad happen to you.”

  Back in the hospital examining room, Violet had held her bloody daughter. Their neighbor Dr. Driscoll entered. A highly decorated Vietnam vet, the surgeon commanded fear from the orderlies. “Thank you so much for coming, Dr. Driscoll,” she said. “I really appreciate it.” “What’s going on?” he asked. “It’s right above her ear. A cut.” Dot’s hair obscured the injury. Violet lifted it, but the blood had dried, sticking strands of hair to the wound. “Owww!” howled Dot. The surgeon shot a withering look at the nurse and growled, “Will someone get me a sponge with some warm water?” The nurse did, and Violet pressed it against Dot’s head. “How did it happen?” asked Dr. Driscoll. “We were walking on a hill and she fell — I was right there.” “With kids,” the surgeon said, “the worst ones happen when you’re right there. Jonah fell off the changing table when he was three months. I swear, I had my hand on him!” He smiled at the recollection, then looked at the cut and frowned. “I’m going to have to sew this shut.” Violet trembled as the nurse prepped the forceps, needle, and syringe. “Relax, Mom,” laughed the doctor. “I’ll have her looking like she went to a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.” The nurse popped her head into the bustling hallway. “I’m going to need all hands,” she called. “We’ve got a baby.” It required four nurses, as well as Violet, to hold Dot down for the lidocaine shot and the stitches. Violet repeatedly telling her daughter, “It’s okay, Dot. Mommy’s here.” Then whispering: “I’m sorry I didn’t want to be with you. I’m sorry you weren’t enough.” It was the only time during the ordeal Violet had cried. Once the final suture was in, Dot’s shrieks abruptly turned into strange high-pitched barks, “Oof! Oof!” Violet panicked that her daughter’s brain had been damaged. “What, Dot?” Violet looked desperately into her daughter’s eyes. Dot pointed to a wall where a calendar of West Highland terriers hung. “Doggies. Oof! Oof!”

  Violet watched Dot now, sitting in her Dada’s lap, playing with his headset.