This Is Not Over Part 26

I'm just saying, she doesn't get to me now. I get to her.

How?

I let her chase me. She has to follow me on Twitter and Instagram. I only answer her texts when I need to.

When's that?

When there's money involved.

So your parents support you?

Not my dad. My mom. She hides it from him. It would destroy their marriage, if he knew. He cut me off, and she was supposed to do the same.

Pay dirt. I knew there was some serendipitous reason Thad had come into my life, something he was meant to tell me.

I won't do anything with it, not right now. But she'd better not push me. Ratting her out to the city attorney is nothing compared to ratting her out to her big-deal doctor husband. Yet for some reason, I find myself texting, She must love you, if she keeps helping you.

It's not love. It's fear.

What's she afraid of?

Right now, she's afraid I'll tell him.

Before that?

Here's the thing, Dawn. I'm not an addict, but I play one on Twitter because it's the best way to keep the money coming in. She pays so I won't rob people. So I won't f.u.c.k people for cash and drugs. That's how little she thinks of me.

Addicts do that kind of thing, though, right?

I never did. I only stole from her and my dad. I've got principles.

I'm not even going to touch that one.

Maybe she pays so you'll have someplace to live, and food to eat. Maybe she's trying to keep you alive.

Whose side am I on here? It's like I'm starting to feel for Miranda, just a little.

You don't give an addict money if you want him to stay alive. You know he'll spend it on drugs. You give him money if you want him dead.

Do you really think that?

She wants me to overdose. Then her problems would be over. Other than me, she's got a great life.

My mind reels. Would any mother do that? If so, I've encountered true evil. Miranda could make my mom look good.

But I don't even care. What I care about is my dad. He's what I miss.

What do you miss about him?

Sometimes late at night, he'd come into my room.

No happy story has ever followed a line like that.

We'd talk for hours. Those were some of my best memories. He was so honest. About his life, and about my mom. That's how I first learned what she's really like.

I'm about to ask more when I hear the front door open. Rob didn't tell me he was coming home early, almost like he wanted to catch me in the act.

42.

Miranda

#happyf.u.c.kingmothersday Thad is barely three. He wakes up crying-not screaming, as he often does, but a truly forlorn wail. He is plaintive, my little boy, and this is why you become a mother. So you can be needed in just this way. Not yelled at and kicked and told over and over again "Bad mommy," not like my usual days and nights. No, this is different.

I've made it a point never to go into his room when he's screaming, in an effort to break him of that habit. No reinforcement for that behavior. There's a lot of behavior that gets ignored in our house. But this is different.

I go into his room, and Thad is standing up in his bed, his arms outstretched, his b.u.t.t thrust out. He needs me, there's no question, and my insides turn gooey. I am so full of love, just as I always meant to be.

I don't immediately lift him up. I proceed with caution, as if it might be a trick, a bomb about to detonate in my face. "Are you sick?" I ask. He nods. "Is it your tummy?"

He says yes in a small voice, a rare voice.

"Do you need to p.o.o.p?" He doesn't think so. "Should I put you on the toilet?" He shakes his head no. "Would you like to sit in my lap and read a book?" I offer it hesitantly, afraid he'll s.n.a.t.c.h this moment away.

It would be a dream realized. Thad doesn't like books, and he doesn't like my lap, not normally. But perhaps this is a turning point, a chance to start over. I will be his new and better mommy, and he will be my new and better boy.

"Yes," he says, still so soft that I nearly moan with happiness. Yet I have to keep my face neutral. If I betray too much emotion, he can prey on it.

Do I really think this about my three-year-old? Yes, sadly, I do.

I pick him up and he smells so sweet, this boy of mine, and his body is relaxed, not rigid like usual, and he's leaning into me with all he has. I carry him over to the never-used rocking chair gingerly, not wanting to break the spell. I can reach the bookshelf from here-this was to be our reading corner-and I squint because the only illumination is the night-light. But I can't turn on the overhead, that would surely break the spell.

I can't really make out the words on each page of The Cat in the Hat, but it doesn't matter. Thad doesn't know them anyway. So I hold him close and I breathe him in and I make up rhymes to fit the ill.u.s.trations. I approximate. Thing One and Thing Two don't want to be late for important dates; Sally says "no, no, I will not go"; and the Cat in the Hat says his tricks are not bad, though sometimes he's sad.

We read book after book this way, and Thad snuggles like he's wanted to do this his whole young life, and I think, Yes, it's all worth it, finally, it's all worth it. Then I think, Why hasn't this happened before? Isn't it this way for all the other mothers, all the time? Why is it always such a battle? I shouldn't think this, I can't squander my opportunity with bitterness. I need to just enjoy it, this moment, which is also a little creepy, enjoying a little boy's constipation-induced closeness, but it's not like I'm inducing it myself, or willing it into being.

So we read, and I'm as happy as I've ever been, and he's as content as I've ever seen him. Eventually, I ask if he wants to sit on the toilet. He says no, no, he wants to go back to bed. "With you," he says.

He's never wanted that before, and I've never even thought to suggest it. But I curl myself around him in his bed, and he stares into my face with the sort of love and wonder I've been dreaming about not just his whole life but my whole life, too.

"Try to close your eyes," I tell him, but neither of us does.

As soon as his eyelids droop, they open again, and he's smiling at me.

"Keep them closed," I say gently, "that's how sleep works."

He tries, he really does, and I do, too, but we can't sleep. I'm thinking what to do when Thad says, "I want a hug from Daddy. Then I can sleep."

I'm not sure Larry would want to be woken up; in fact, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't. But maybe he'd get to experience the kind of moment I just had, the connection with Thad that is so hard to attain, and I don't want to rob Larry or Thad of that, though a part of me doesn't want to share it either.

"Do you want to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed?" I ask Thad. He says yes.

We go into my room, and into bed. "Larry, Thad's here," I say. "He wanted to be with us." Larry grunts in some sort of acknowledgment but without approval or engagement. I worry that Thad will feel rejected, but he's resilient. He climbs all over Larry, and eventually, Larry not only hugs him but wants to take care of him. He's vulnerable, this Thad, in a way that he isn't during daylight hours, and Larry responds to it, just as I did. We all try to sleep, snuggled up together, though none of us do. Larry tries to teach Thad how to slow his breathing and count in his head. We're all awake, and we'll pay for it tomorrow, but that's okay. More than okay.

Then I see that Thad has his eyes wide open, and he's staring right at me, differently than earlier. It's not love or wonder I see now. Just wide eyes, and a hand moving across his little thing, inside his pajama bottoms. He knows I don't like to see that. It disturbs me because he's so young; I've been too ashamed to even tell the pediatrician about my overs.e.xed boy. I've told Thad not to do it around me, ever, and here he is, in my bed, staring right at me, and I'm sure that he's smirking.

I suddenly know that he's engineered this whole thing, lulled me into a false sense of security-no, worse, into a sense of love-so that he can mock me. So that he can defile my bed. So that he can humiliate me.

I'm filled with a fury I've never felt before. I haul him out of the bed, with him kicking and screaming as if at an injustice, and I throw him back into his own bed, not even caring if that thump is his head against the wall, I'm that angry. I don't give him one word of explanation, because he knows.

I slam the door behind me. I'm breathing heavily, leaning outside his door, and he's screaming b.l.o.o.d.y murder. I start to cry, because that's the Thad I've always known.

Was that the fork in the road, the irrevocable moment when Thad could have become one kind of person rather than the other? If I'd accepted him fully, if I'd loved him properly? He made it so hard, but that's no excuse. I should have found a way.

Was it then?

43.

Dawn

I'm so lucky to have a mother-in-law like you!

Happy Mother's Day!

Love, Dawn I have to admit, Thad is on my mind. There were his revelations about Miranda, and about himself, and how could I forget that o.r.g.a.s.m the other night? Still, I turned my phone off hours ago. I have, effectively, blocked him. For the night, I need to focus on Rob.

We walk, hand in hand, along Telegraph Avenue. Our apartment building is on a street that's safe but less than chichi, near the many Ethiopian restaurants. We head toward the gastropubs, tapas bar, and organic ice cream shop. Tonight, it's artisa.n.a.l pizza and c.o.c.ktails at one of our favorite spots.

The walls are brick, and the lighting is low, which I appreciate since my skin is horrific.

Rob looks good tonight. He's better looking than Thad, I remind myself. Just because he talked a little s.h.i.+t about me to his parents, that doesn't have to mean anything. He's a kind person, and he wants me to be kind to my mother, that's all. A life partner is supposed to improve you.

He reaches over and touches my cheek lightly, and what I'm thinking is, Germs. Oil. Now I'm going to break out even more.

"You look pretty," he says.

"Thanks."

"My mom had a really good time at brunch."

That makes one of us. Well, three of them. I faked my way through, saying as little as I thought I could get away with. At one point, "Mom" talked about how sorry she felt for my mother, being completely alone on Mother's Day, and we all had a little moment of silence. Then I said, "I texted her, she's doing okay," and there was another moment of silence, this one laced with Thiebold judgment. "I sent flowers," I added, which was a lie, but it did the trick. Everyone relaxed again.

Tonight, Rob and I are drinking gin with house-made tonic and eating fat green marinated olives. I find myself eavesdropping on the couple next to us. They're having one of those pseudo-fights, where you keep your voice light as you say something you mean heavily. She says gaily, "Next time, text me if you're going to be late!" and he responds, "It was only ten minutes, but sure," and she says, "Let's split the squid pizza," and he says, "Squid pizza?" and so on. There's an underlying tension between them, no doubt, but it occurs to me that they're actually talking, unlike Rob and me.

Rob must realize it, too, because he starts telling a story about some demanding customer from the shop. I try to get interested. I've always wanted to find Rob funnier than I do. It's not that he's humorless; he can appreciate a joke. We laugh together, sometimes. Ours is not a grim marriage.

But we're in a s.e.xy restaurant, with s.e.xy c.o.c.ktails and s.e.xy lighting, and I don't want to talk about engraving.

What does that leave? My job interview tomorrow, which has me terrified. Miranda's manipulative refund. My father. My mother. Thad.

I don't know what Rob would do if he found out about Thad. Most likely, he'd decide it's another indication of my abnormal character.

I so wish I'd never overheard that conversation. All I want is for Rob and me to get back to normal, together.

So I let him talk, and I fill in the blanks with smiles and laughter, and I drink.

We split the squid pizza. I notice that the couple beside us is splitting it, too. They're whispering. Their laughter is low, guttural, and intimate. Whatever was between them earlier has evaporated now. Maybe their bickering is a sort of foreplay. They're going to have s.e.x tonight, no question.

Rob and I walk home, hand in hand once again. As the pedestrians thin, I stumble into him in what I hope is a come-hither manner. Glancing at his face, at the set of his jaw, he doesn't look like a man who's about to get lucky. He looks like he's feeling anything but.

That's when it occurs to me: This is just as forced and effortful for him as it is for me. The storytelling, the hand-holding, the favorite bar.

Somehow, that makes me feel closer to him. We're in this together.

I squeeze his hand, and he looks down at me. His eyes s.h.i.+mmer, with moonlight or tears. "I love you," I say.

"I've always loved you," he answers, with great feeling. It's a strange sentiment, like a form of good-bye. But I could be misinterpreting him.

I reach up and hug him. In the middle of the sidewalk, he's clutching, I'm clinging, and we're both crying. Whatever illness exists between us, there's an antidote, and we'll find it, together.

When we start walking again, Rob's arm is tight around me. Once inside the apartment, I light upon him immediately, not so much seized by pa.s.sion as determined to seal the deal.

Rob seems surprised but enthusiastic. We haven't done it outside of the bedroom in I don't know how long. We kiss up against the living room wall, his hands in my hair, my fingers clawing at the b.u.t.ton of his jeans.

I turn around. "From behind," I grunt. Without even seeing his face, I can feel that he's surprised again. He normally looks into my eyes for much of the time. But this isn't making love; it's making a pact. Whatever it takes. For better or for worse.