This Is Not Over Part 18

Tonight, "Mom" slaved over a vegan dish with quinoa and root vegetables, while "Dad" clucks over it appreciatively. "Dad" is rail-thin and ruddy-faced, with a neat ring of ear-level gray hair. "Mom" carries just a little extra around her midsection despite all the power walking and the quinoa. Her hair is close-cropped and almost black, accentuating her green eyes (Rob's eyes). She's at that age where attractiveness is about the suggestion of past prettiness, and she's pulling that off. They both wear a lot of REI wicking fibers, and North Face on top of it. They're forever stripping off fleece zip-ups.

They're happy people, is the thing. Well matched. They found their mates as teenagers, just looked across the high school cafeteria, and bam.

I've seen them get testy with each other on a few rare occasions. But somehow, that only makes their union more impressive. They get annoyed, and then they hug it out, and they do it without a lick of shame.

Rob's allowed to get in a mood, and no one holds it against him. But I don't feel like I can do that. For one thing, my moods are way darker than Rob's. For another, I catch "Mom" looking at me sometimes like I'm a diamond ring that needs formal appraisal. She's not convinced I'm real.

And she's right, I'm not real around them. I'm not myself. I'm the self that I imagine they'd want for their son. I never used to perform that self for Rob. But since my father died, it's different. Now I have to prove I'm human.

"Dad" and Rob are talking about new marketing strategies and how to make an engraving shop "go viral." I bite my tongue. No one is asking for my opinion. If I offered it, I'd only be marked further as an outsider. Thiebolds are relentlessly optimistic. They're convinced that mom-and-pop engraving can be resurrected; all they need is to set up a Twitter account, and voil.

Finally, the conversation runs its course, and "Mom" takes over. "How are you, Dawn?" Her head is c.o.c.ked in condolence. She's asking how I'm coping with my grief, which is supposed to be profound.

"I'm okay." I avert my eyes to indicate that I'm barely holding back the floodgates, and that there should be no further inquiries, unless she wants this family dinner to turn into a deluge.

"Losing a parent so young," "Dad" muses, pausing between bites. "You just don't expect that. You can't prepare."

I glance at Rob, who is following the conversation with an unsettling avidity. "No," I say, "you can't prepare." Unless the parent in question was dead to you for years. Unless he was never really alive where you were concerned, until he needed you and used you and threw you away.

But "Mom" and "Dad" would never understand that. I don't think Rob could either. It's unfathomable to the real Thiebolds. I look around this comfortable house where he grew up-with "Mom's" needlepoint of BLESS THIS HOME on the wall and "Dad's" woodwork on the end tables and family portraits in the curio cabinet and st.u.r.dy Shaker furniture that may have been pa.s.sed down through the generations-and I have no right to expect him to get it.

It's why I've never told him what my father did, what I did, though a few times this past week, it's been on the tip of my tongue. Just do it, Dawn, you married a kind man, one with compa.s.sion to spare. Tell him, and he'll say how brave you are, what a survivor. He'll only love you more.

I excuse myself to the bathroom, and I see all three Thiebolds exchange a look. They're a.s.suming that I'm so upset I need a moment, and they approve of that.

I pull my phone from the front pocket of my jeans and sit down on the already-closed lid of the toilet seat. Rob is their son, no question. He doesn't just put the seat down, but the lid, too, religiously.

I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be texting another man from my in-laws' bathroom when they think I'm having a good cry. When I've already been feeling like I'm too different from Rob, and he's too good for me.

But Thad isn't.

I'd be in Monterey, I tell him.

How family-friendly.

f.u.c.k you.

Sorry, I'm in a s.h.i.+t mood. I can't paint.

Why not?

Too tired. Kind of down.

Down about what?

Do you ever feel like the world is pa.s.sing you by?

Sometimes.

Like you've wasted so much time, and you might as well quit while you're behind.

He's ridiculous. He's a maudlin poseur. I have a great husband one room over, and a plate half-full of quinoa, and in-laws who care about me, probably more than my own parents did (which, admittedly, is no ma.s.sive feat, like overtaking a slug in a footrace).

I'm ashamed to be in here feeling what I do. Which is exhilaration.

I don't quit, I say.

It's a lie. I quit college the first time around. I've quit relations.h.i.+ps. But I don't have to tell Thad the truth, and that's part of the thrill. He's no one to me. He's someone to Miranda, and that's another part of the thrill. Plus, he's in Arizona, so I've got a buffer zone.

I wonder what he'd say if he knew that I just spent two hours earlier today destroying his mother's online reputation. She made it easy. All I had to do was use her own words, which doesn't violate any statutes.

Some s.h.i.+t you need to quit, he texts.

Like drugs?

It's the first time I've directly mentioned what is so obviously on display in his tweets: That he's got some sort of drug problem. Sometimes he's romanticizing it, as if it gives his art integrity; sometimes he's touting that he's got a certain number of days clean; sometimes he's talking gibberish like he's high. He is one confused puppy.

We've all got our demons is his answer.

What's yours, exactly?

Meth. And I like pills. Weed does nothing for me. Heroin puts me to sleep.

I've never tried meth.

You shouldn't (unless you like multiple o.r.g.a.s.ms while skydiving).

I'm pretty sure the opportunity won't present itself. Meth doesn't seem like a social drug that's pa.s.sed around at a party, like a joint or lines of c.o.ke. Not that I party anymore.

You should only say yes if you're a certain kind of person, he continues.

What kind of person is that?

The kind who has things they can bear to lose. Like everything.

I want to ask him more but I've been gone a little while, and my face isn't remotely blotchy. My eyes aren't red. If anything, the color is high on my cheeks, like I've just been having a very good time, not a weepfest over my dead father.

To be continued . . .

I flush the toilet as a backup cover story and head toward the dining room. It's a shoes-off house, which means no one can hear you coming unless they're listening hard, and the Thiebolds are absorbed in hushed conversation. I pad through the kitchen and am nearing the curved doorway of the dining room when some intuition makes me stop in my tracks. Furball inches over to me from her food bowl, her flab swis.h.i.+ng. She's twenty pounds if she's an ounce, the repository for all the Thiebolds' self-denial. They probably feed her all the cupcakes that they wish they could eat themselves, displacement as love.

But she's warm, and she's sweet, and her fur whispers against my bare ankle in a way that feels oddly supportive. She's the Thiebold I'm most at home with, if you don't count Rob.

Whom I can hear talking about me from the other room, his tone worried and respectful. ". . . doesn't seem to be feeling it yet. It's going to sink in soon, and I feel like she might fall apart. I don't know how to help her."

"You just stay close, that's all. Close enough for her to lean on you," "Dad" tells him.

"When Grandpa died, I was in shock for a little while. Maybe that's what's happening for her." This from "Mom."

I think I hear Rob sigh. "She didn't even want to bury him. Is that normal?"

My cheeks flush. I never thought Rob would question it so explicitly, out loud. To his parents, of all people. He must know that I've been on my best behavior, that I've wanted to be a daughter-in-law they could be proud of. I feel like he's just outed me.

"It doesn't sound normal to me," "Dad" says. Somehow it hurts more, coming from "Dad." Mothers are supposed to be critical of their daughters-in-law, guarding their territory, wanting to maintain primacy in their sons' lives. "But what do I know? I engrave for a living."

"She was probably worried about the money," "Mom" says. "She didn't want to spend your money. I still can't believe her parents didn't set anything aside, or have any life insurance."

She's being sympathetic, but I feel like my whole body is baking in a kiln. She called it "your money," as in Rob's. She still doesn't think of it as ours, mine and Rob's.

"She gets stressed out about money," Rob concedes, but he doesn't sound sure. He's doubting me. To his parents.

"She should be stressed about it. She doesn't earn any." Who is this "Dad"? Does he always talk this way behind my back? "No more fancy vacations for a while."

"They're just long weekends," Rob says. "They mean a lot to Dawn. I don't want to take them away from her." Way to throw me under the bus. "It's probably because of how she grew up."

So he's told them that, too? I've said as little as possible about my upbringing.

He can never know what happened when I was sixteen. Never. Because then they'll know. If they think I'm defective now, imagine what they'd say then.

But they're not the ones questioning me; Rob is.

"The next time she wants to go away, I'll tell her no," Rob adds. "It's not a good use of my money."

"My money"? That's how he sees it?

Plus, I never suggest the getaways, he does! Sure, I'm always enthusiastic, but I would never bring them up first. I'm too self-conscious about not working, even though that's his doing. I wanted to work.

He's making me sound like some kind of gold digger. He's the one who always told me that he wanted to take care of me, in all ways. He told me I was worth it. Was he bulls.h.i.+tting me then, or is he bulls.h.i.+tting his parents now?

I'm floored. I always thought Rob was the straightest shooter, honest to a fault, and entirely trustworthy. That's the husband I knew, and wanted.

"Is she going to Eureka again soon?" "Mom" asks.

"I think she should, but no, she's not planning to."

"Every family is different," she answers. She's defending me, but she's insulting me, too, via my family. "I do feel for her mother, though. Losing your husband of so many years. I can't even imagine." I can picture her shuddering as she squeezes "Dad's" hand.

"That's weird, too," Rob says. "He wasn't actually her husband. They didn't manage to really get married, if you can believe that. They messed up the paperwork." The three of them share a soft chuckle.

Rob knew I was embarra.s.sed to find out my parents weren't married, and yet he used that factoid like a bit of comic relief. I never thought he would share my private business so cavalierly, like his true loyalty, his affiliation, is to his normal parents and not to his abnormal wife from her laughably substandard family.

I can't bear to hear any more. I move forward, and Furball lets out an aggrieved meow, like I've defected. I reach down and stroke her just for a second before I make my reappearance.

"Hey, you," Rob says, a little too warmly, like someone who's not sure how much has been overheard. He knows he has something to hide.

All I can hope is that he's honest with me later about what's been said. I won't confront him; I want him to come clean on his own. If he apologizes and says he won't do it again, I can forgive. I'll try to forget.

I'm subdued for the rest of dinner and dessert. They're probably chalking it up to grief, but really, I can't stand to talk to any of them. I don't even want to look at them. My eyes are on my plate, and the table, and then, finally, gratefully, the door.

"Mom" gives me a good-bye hug en route, which tips me off. Usually, they both see us out, with long and equivalent embraces in the foyer, and "Mom" always releases me at the precise second that "Dad" releases Rob, and vice versa. But tonight, it's a solo act from "Dad."

"I have something for you," he says, reaching into his pocket and proffering a folded check. "To defray the cost of the funeral expenses."

Rob takes the check, but he doesn't open it. "Thank you." His tone is solemn, reverential.

I fight to find the right tone, the same one as Rob's. No, I should sound even more grateful. My voice should quiver with emotion. He's coming through when my parents didn't, proving that he is my family.

I can't tell him that there will be no funeral, that my father didn't live the kind of life that requires memorializing. I should feel grateful toward the Thiebolds, same as I should feel sad about my dad and sorry for my mom.

But I don't feel any of those things, because I'm not normal. Even my husband said so, and he doesn't know the half of it.

"Dad's" words from earlier ring in my ears. Beneath all his ch.o.r.eographed hugs and his kind expression and his amiable demeanor and tonight's check is the truth. They're not my real family, and they never will be.

They're trying to accept me and make me feel welcome. The check is here, in Rob's hand, and "Dad" is looking at me expectantly. They can't help what they think, deep down, and what they feel, any more than I can.

Despite good intentions, the whole gesture feels condescending and humiliating. It's how I felt when they offered-no, insisted-on paying for the wedding. I would have preferred city hall or a Vegas elopement, but they wouldn't hear of it. Rob and I couldn't deny their largesse. The Thiebolds had enough friends in attendance to stock both sides of the aisle.

The check "Dad" is holding underscores that I'm the white trash who's married into their solid upper-middle-cla.s.s family. Yet it's not that solid, not really. Yes, this house is lovely, it's a true home, but their affluence is a facade. "Dad" probably thinks I don't know that the family business is in trouble. Maybe he denies it to himself, or even to "Mom." But Rob tells me everything (or so I thought, until tonight), so I know that despite this trophy presentation, their business is dying every day.

True generosity would be giving Rob a life raft so he could push off. "Dad" needs to absolve his son of the responsibility to go down with the s.h.i.+p, with his family. Let him move on with his life, find a real career, with a future, one that will support the next generation. Our baby, if we have one.

Did I say "if"? When. I meant "when."

Rob is too loyal to his family; he won't just walk away. He needs to be set free.

To do so would be the most generous act of all, but "Dad" is incapable of it. Whether he's too selfish or blind, I don't know. So the Thiebolds aren't so perfect after all.

That should make me feel more like one of them, but I've never felt like less.

30.

Miranda

#streetart #banksy #vibing #artallnighter It's a night of favorites (Larry's, not mine): roast chicken and vegetables, a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, the unp.r.o.nounceable perfume from Barneys that's colored pale lilac yet scented like lilies. We eat in the dining room rather than the kitchen, our place settings perpendicular so that we occupy the same general region of the twelve-person table. The chicken is on a heavy silver serving platter, a wedding gift thirty-six years ago.

Larry smiles at me fondly. "What's the special occasion?" he asks, and I smile back, opting to treat his question as if it's rhetorical. He sees through me, I can feel it. I'm sweating, but I tell myself that only makes the tang of the French lilies more p.r.o.nounced. I'm all the more irresistible.