Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  And then the picture that explains it all: a headstone with the names Deanna Mullins Nash and Tristan Andrew Mullins Nash, listing respective birth dates and the date of death they shared.

  Jesus. Howie was married. And he had a kid. And the wife and child died on the same day.

  He never once mentioned this.

  I sift through the stack of keepsakes and find the hospital bracelet that must’ve been Tristan’s when he was born, as well as a small sandwich bag with a lock of curled baby hair.

  And then an obituary on fragile newsprint that has been opened and closed a million times, the print now rubbed clean at the folds in the paper. A car accident. Drunk driver.

  I think of the Limping Lady at the gym, the drunk driver who killed her son and ruined her body . . . and of all my other gym friends who have tragic stories.

  This is just too much. My heart physically aches in my chest.

  Gently, I slide Howie’s treasures into a bigger Ziploc bag so Aldous won’t get to anything, and then I open my laptop. A quick email to Joan the Crone about what’s happened, that I need the day off, that I will contact the lawyer about Howie’s arrangements.

  Aldous squeaks a little when I hoist her out of the box, but as soon as she’s tucked under the covers with me, she settles right in.

  Howie, wherever you are, don’t worry. I’m gonna take good care of your girl. I promise.

  FORTY

  “You look awful,” Thomas says, the first words he utters after finishing the last line from “Memory” off the Cats song list. Appropriate this morning, considering I woke up with a cat sleeping on my chest and now my nose is all stuffy. Or maybe it’s stuffy because I cried enough calories last night to skip cardio today.

  “Yeah. Howie died—the professor-slash-homeless-guy who collected our pop cans and gave me good books to read?”

  “You have the oddest collection of friends,” Thomas says.

  “Yourself included?”

  “Naturally.” He reaches into the glass-front cooler case. “I’m sorry for your loss. You’ll need food—these are oat bran and blueberry. No palm oil, no trans fats. In line with your training regimen, which, by the way, is definitely working.” He gestures to me, head to foot. “On the house today. You look so sad, I’m about to start crying.”

  “Sorry. I was with him when he died late last night.”

  “Which is why you’re here instead of at work? Or are you still suspended?”

  “Suspension’s over. I’m just exhausted. And I inherited a roommate who thinks it’s funny to bite my nose at six in the morning when it’s time to eat.” I pull out my phone and show him a photo of Aldous being adorable, and at that very moment, I realize that I’ve become a certified cat lady.

  “Male otters bite the noses of the females when they want to mate.”

  “Yeah, well, Aldous is a girl, and she doesn’t want to mate. She wants a bowl of delicious, stinky wet food made of parts from other animals.”

  “That’s it. We’re having a sleepover so I can have a bowl of delicious, stinky animal parts.”

  As per usual when I come in for coffee, Thomas takes his fifteen and pulls me over to the corner table reserved for employees. I know what’s going to come out of his mouth before he even sits.

  “I received an email from you.”

  Told ya.

  “Question is, did you click on the link?”

  He hides his face behind his hands for a moment and then pinches the air between his fingers. “Just a tiny bit. Until I realized what it was.” He stretches across the table and envelops my hand not wrapped around the coffee cup. He’s a furnace next to my stress-chilled skin. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you should write comedy. That shit is funny.”

  “It’s my life, Thomas. It’s not supposed to be funny.”

  “You know as well as I do that tragedy is comedy. Does your mom seriously send you faxes?”

  “Wow, you really did read.”

  “Sorry. But based on what you’ve told me about her, I so want to see those. If they’re as far out as I think they are—and I mean that in the kindest I’m-sorry-your-mom-is-a-nutter way—you should compile and publish them. In fact, you should keep writing about all this stuff. It’s great material, Dani.”

  I sigh and sip my coffee. I’m glad Thomas is amused, but this isn’t material. This is my life. These are my secrets.

  “The hacker who did this—she’s obviously very good. So good that the alleged experts working on it can’t figure out how to wrestle the blog back from her. My whole existence has been hijacked.”

  Thomas looks guilty for a moment, and I’m glad. I don’t want him peeking into my private life.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’ve done all I can—now I have to wait until the so-called experts actually do their jobs.”

  I don’t have much else to offer the conversation. Thomas updates me on gigs he has coming up, what I’ve missed the last few Sundays in our acting class, a potential new love interest he met at a greenroom mixer after a play he went to—oh, and he just happened to stop by Hollywood Fitness for a tour the other day so he could get a look at Miraculously Beautiful Marco.

  “You’re right. He does have great hair and nice knees and that British accent . . .”

  “God, Thomas, how much did you really read?”

  “Enough to know that your heart rate is raised by more than extra time on the elliptical?”

  I blush.

  “And . . . ?”

  “And he’s adorable. You should marry him immediately.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I mentioned that I knew you. His eyes got all sparkly when I said your name.”

  My heart skip-hops at this—but I’m not going to give Thomas anything more to tease me about. He has plenty for today. “Now you’re just being mean.”

  “Nope. I think this is a match made in spandex. Mark my words. I come from a long line of soothsayers.” What I would give for him to be right . . .

  My phone buzzes against the tabletop, making us both jump. “That could be him right now, texting to profess his undying love.” My stomach flutters at the thought.

  “Or it could be Trevor again, threatening to sue me because I told the world about his curved penis.”

  “Trevor is a mutant, and not because of his curved appendage. That will probably make him famous. He should be thanking you, not suing you.”

  “Sadly, he does not agree.”

  “He will. Just wait—even Charles Manson has admirers. Trevor and his crooked cock will get their fifteen minutes of fame.”

  I slide my finger across the screen. It’s not Trevor, or Marco declaring his undying love.

  It’s a brief email from Joan the Crone, requesting my presence at a meeting at four o’clock today.

  Shit.

  FORTY-ONE

  I didn’t expect the summons from the Crone to be awesome news, but walking into her office to see Agent Superman also present spikes heat into my ears and dampens my palms.

  “Please have a seat,” Joan directs me. I follow orders, tucking my nervous hands under my thighs to keep them from bouncing. “Danielle, I am sorry for the loss of your friend Howard. He was a colorful character. We’ll all miss seeing him around the neighborhood.” Joan sips from her nature-biscuit tea that makes her entire office smell like a postmarathon foot.

  “Yeah, I guess you guys will have to pay for someone to wash the front windows again.” I don’t know why I’m being snarky. Maybe because everyone in this building has been a stuck-up asshole to Howie, and the last thing I want to hear is disingenuous condolences.

  Agent Superman clears his throat and sits forward, adjusting the black folder on the table in front of him. “I’m limited on time here, so I’m going to cut to the chase. Your manager has called you in today as we have been in receipt of correspondence from the hacker, who we are now certain is the employee formerly known as Lisa Rogers.”
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  That makes her sound so glamorous. I’m guessing she’s chosen some esoteric symbol to represent her real name too.

  “As I mentioned in my most recent voicemail to you, we—both the agency and your employer—are concerned about the violation of the nondisclosure agreement you signed when this investigation began.”

  “It wasn’t as if I set out to tell the whole world what was going on. I was hacked. I’m a victim here.”

  “Yes, we understand that, which is why we are not going to pursue any further action against you in relation to this information. I cannot speak as to the actions of your employer—that is for your superiors to debate. With that said, however . . .” Agent Superman pulls a piece of paper from his folder. He slides it across to me and nods.

  It’s from The Hacker Formerly Known as Lisa. I read, and my heart drops into my stomach.

  “So . . . she’ll give us the blog back if you guys fire me?” I look up at Joan, and then at Agent Superman, and reread the dispatch. “Lisa” says she will revert full control of the blog back to my care, plus the designated website URL www.deardwaynewithlove.com, with the promise to never interfere in my future online activities in exchange for my termination from Imperial Health and Wellness, what she sees as “rightful and equitable punishment for the physical assault perpetrated against my person.”

  “Is this real? How do you know this is from her?”

  “We have reason to believe it is. She communicates with a set of highly sophisticated crypto tools that the layperson would not likely understand or have access to. Plus, she knows specifics about the case that no one else would.”

  “Wow. So I’m basically being blackmailed out of a job.”

  “You can stand on your principles and keep the job—there’s nothing more we can do for you at this juncture, however. Your hacked blog, while uncomfortable for you personally, is not the sole damage this person has accomplished. We’re talking high-level corporate espionage. If ‘Lisa’ is ever caught and convicted, she’ll be looking at significant prison time.”

  “What you’re saying is I don’t count because I’m just a person and not a corporation.”

  Agent Superman sighs. “What I’m saying is that she’s hacked into government agencies, not just private companies—her actions are doing major damage on a scale that could be a threat to national security, and those issues are prioritized over wrestling your diary back from her. As such, I’d like to wrap this up today.”

  I sit back and pick at the calluses that have hardened along my palm from the weight lifting.

  “Can’t we just tell her I’ve quit? Is she spying on us?”

  “We have no way of knowing that,” the agent says.

  Joan shakes her head no. “Danielle, there are managers above me who are pushing for your termination based on the violation of the NDA, especially after they allowed you to stay on despite the physical assault that occurred on company premises.”

  “But I served my suspension.”

  “Yes, and then the information contained in the leaked blog violated the terms of your agreement with the company.”

  “So I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

  Agent Superman retrieves the dispatch from the tabletop and slides it back into his folder. He checks his phone; obviously, he’s ready to leave.

  “Best-case scenario, Danielle,” Joan says, leaning forward on her elbows, “I will fire you quietly so you can apply for unemployment. That will give you some breathing room to find another job. When you start applying for future employment, I will provide a personal reference so that your potential employer understands that this was a unique and unfortunate situation.”

  “Is there another option?”

  “You can resign. You won’t qualify for unemployment that way, though.”

  Bottom line: I want the blog down.

  “Fine. Yes. Fire me. Tell that vapid cow she’s won. Just . . . just get the blog off the Internet and back to me, okay?”

  Agent Superman pats the tabletop and stands, pushing his black-framed glasses up his long, thin nose. He really is Clark Kent. “I’ll get to work on relaying the message immediately. Things should be back to normal by the time you’re putting on your footie pajamas for bed.”

  “Thanks. I guess.” Under my breath, “And I don’t wear footie pajamas.”

  With that, he’s gone, leaving only a hint of aftershave in his wake.

  “If you want to wait until folks have started leaving the building before cleaning out your desk, I understand,” Joan says, leaning forward on her crossed arms. Though she’s not smiling at me, she’s also not scowling. She isn’t as intimidating without the scowl. I’m grateful. “I am sorry things have worked out this way, Danielle. But if it’s just you and me being completely candid, you’ve never been happy here. I think there is something else out there that will be more aligned with your unique talents.”

  I guess that’s as close as I’m going to get to a pep talk from the Crone. Hey, it wasn’t the worst effort.

  I shuffle back to my building, passing through the cafeteria where, on the counter, sits a telltale pink pastry box. The MotherCluckers must’ve had an impromptu meeting today, one I was not invited to.

  Whatever. I can’t eat that shit now anyway.

  In the corner, the blue bags holding the recyclables are near full. My first thought is to tie them closed and leave them outside for Howie, followed swiftly by the second thought that he’s dead so that’s no longer necessary. And now with my leaving the employ of this fine establishment, I guess someone else will have to take over care of keeping recyclables out of the city dump.

  At my desk, I start making piles: unfinished work, resource materials belonging to the company, all my Dwayne Johnson memorabilia that goes home with me, the best pens out of my desk, random office supplies I can pilfer just because I’m mad and a girl can never have too many staples.

  I should be devastated about losing my job. I cannot pay rent or buy cat treats without actual employment.

  Instead, though, this weird levity bubbles in my chest, and with every thumbtack and staple I pull out of my fabric cubicle wall, with every picture of The Rock and every collectible I put in the stack to go home, the desire to giggle tickles the back of my throat.

  I might even be smiling.

  “Hey.” Viv leans against the cubicle’s three-quarter wall.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Well, you’re either redecorating to fill the space with more pictures of the Sexiest Man Alive, or you’re leaving.”

  “Ding ding ding.”

  “Dani, you don’t have to be nasty.”

  I stop moving and look at Viv. She’s pale, the skin under her eyes a little more purple than usual. While she’s still her buttoned-up professional self, her hair is a little lifeless. Looks like she’s not feeling well.

  “Morning sickness?”

  She nods. “The worst. And it lasts all day.” She scoots into the cubicle and perches on the edge of my desk. “That obvious, huh?”

  “You look like you caught a bad batch of seafood salad.”

  Viv turns green. “Oh god, no food jokes.”

  “Sorry.” I hate that my best friend and I have this prickly distance between us. “Viv . . . I am so sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings—I didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings. It was my diary . . .” My eyes burn, the giddy feeling of just moments ago evaporating as reality slides back in front of me. “I don’t want you to think you can’t trust me. No one was ever supposed to see that stuff.”

  Viv nods and sips from the panda bear-decorated water bottle she’s never without these days. When she exhales, I smell ginger. “I’m sorry I got mad. I should’ve been there for you. I can only imagine how awful this has been. If anyone saw my diaries . . .”

  I unpin another photo, eyes averted, so she doesn’t see me tearing
up.

  “Everything has been really stressful, and I feel like crap most of the time, and it sorta seemed like you were saying in your blog that you’re too good for us, that we all work here because we have nothing better to do with our lives.”

  I wasn’t saying that. Although I was.

  “I’m a world-class jerk, I know. I shouldn’t have said those things about you guys. I’m just so scared of getting stuck—because you know the corporate world isn’t for me—”

  “Stop before you dig yourself deeper. We can agree you’re a jerk,” she says, a small smile crawling across her face.

  When I see that maybe she’s accepting my apology, I place a hand on her elbow. “I’ve really missed you, Viv. I’m sorry you’ve been so sick.”

  “Part of the fun, apparently. Ben says it’ll all be worth it.”

  “Ben’s a boy. He knows nothing.”

  She laughs.

  “So you’re leaving, then?”

  “Yeah. It’s time.” I don’t go into details.

  “At least this will give you more availability to train for The Rock’s fund-raiser, huh?”

  I nod.

  “What will you do next?”

  “Dunno. Guess I have to figure that out.”

  “I’m really sorry about Howie too. He was lucky to have you as a friend.”

  “We were all lucky to have been Howie’s friend.” I pull out my phone and show her my most recent shot of Aldous.

  “You have his kitten?”

  “She needed a home. She’s pretty great, and now Hobbs isn’t so lonely. Mostly because he spends his days in a state of sheer panic.”