Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
There are no pictures of me or Oliver or Emmy.
She decided long ago that that role wasn’t for her and that is okay.
It’s the only way she knew how to survive.
It’s how she copes. It’s becoming a ritual to say this to myself.
She peers into the bag of muffins and sighs.
“This is way too many! I’m going to freeze these and have them for breakfast all week! ”
I smile at the last-minute jab. We have bought an exorbitant, wasteful number of muffins, she’d like us to know. And we don’t seem to care. Must be nice, she wants to say. But she and I hug goodbye without too much tension, and then we’re off to the airport.
—
Oliver’s parents and Emmy made it back to Dallas last night and they’ve already called to warn us the weather is awful, windy with hail in the forecast. We manage to take off on time, but the flight is bumpier than I’d like.
Oliver reminds me to breathe through the turbulence.
“We’re going to be fine. These planes can handle just about anything. ”
In-flight service is canceled for the remainder of the flight, so I study the flight attendants’ faces, looking for a reason to panic. When they look worried, I will allow myself to worry too. But they don’t even flinch at the bumps. One hardly looks up from her book.
We land to a weather alert in Dallas, complete with a tornado warning.
Huge gusts of wind rock our cab back and forth on the highway home.
Billboards advertising pawnshops and the Texas lotto make me miss Los Angeles.
The best thing about returning home is Emmy, who is waiting on our doorstep.
She runs into my arms, her dress blowing up so far it covers her face.
“The flowers burned!” she announces. She’s right.
The flowers Oliver planted for me before we left couldn’t survive the July heat and are now just crispy, charred sticks.
We thank Oliver’s parents for doing such a wonderful job and quickly pile them into their car before the weather gets any worse. Just as they head off, the wind picks up a little more. A set of wooden shutters detaches and goes bouncing down our cul-de-sac.
“That won’t be cheap,” Oliver says.
“Should we wait it out in the basement?” I ask him.
“I don’t think it’s that serious.”
But an alarm on both our phones tells us otherwise.
We call Oliver’s parents to make sure they’ve made it home safely then wait out the storm in our murky basement, putting on cheery smiles for Emmy’s sake.
After five games of UNO and three confusing rounds of Exploding Kittens, we emerge.
The house is eerily quiet. Oliver and I make ourselves busy, unpacking our suitcases, turning on TVs and filling the house with distracting noise.
We put Emmy to bed, and I change into pajamas and brush my teeth.
When I come back into our room, Oliver is stretched out on the bed watching Netflix and I am jolted by the familiarity of the scene.
What life am I walking back into? We were so close to feeling something different, feeling somehow like we were new…
and now I feel as though we picked the wrong card in Candyland and are back at the gumdrop.
I squeeze Oliver’s shoulder. “Back in your old bed. How does it feel?”
“Maybe we should invest in a new mattress?”
“You want to sleep on the couch?”
“On my first night back? No. That feels weird.”
Neither one of us sleeps. Oliver tosses and turns, adjusting various pillows between his legs, and I start to spin out.
Is it being back in Texas? Are we already set in our old habits?
During our short stay in Los Angeles, nearly everyone we met questioned why we would live here.
I insisted I couldn’t leave Texas—I would miss so many things.
Bluebonnets. Watering holes. The people. Our friends. Breakfast tacos.
—
On our first weekend home, Oliver’s parents come over for dinner. I get a rotisserie chicken from Central Market and make a simple Mediterranean salad. Vivian will be displeased no matter what, so I do the bare minimum.
Oliver had heard from family friends and a set of cousins in Houston that Allen and Vivian had found out about Dirty Diana and were both crestfallen.
We even got a call from the family lawyer asking to meet in person and Oliver was convinced he was being taken out of the will.
While we might be moving forward, his parents were still grieving our old selves.
We hoped by having them to dinner—maybe finally inviting them to talk to us about their feelings, rather than gossiping to friends—that we could help them to move on.
But the fight we had trained for never materializes.
Vivian is cordial and talks about the ravages of her own garden this summer and how no one in Montecito plays cards.
Allen wants to hear more about L.A. and then launches into several stories in a row, all set on the golf course.
It’s a relief when Vivian turns the conversation to Emmy.
Oliver and I are so surprised by his parents’ good behavior, neither of us tries to raise the subject either.
But why are we surprised? This is how Oliver was raised.
Better to stay silent than discuss anything real or potentially upsetting.
Stuff it deep down inside and move on with a smile on your face.
Let it fester, or come out years later as an ulcer, a stroke, or a divorce.
“I wasn’t expecting that. But how could I not expect that?” Oliver asks me later.
“It’s how they cope,” I say, hoping I don’t sound flippant.
“That’s not how we will.”
“It must have been hard. Growing up in that house.”
Oliver swallows. “It was fine.”
That night, Oliver can’t get hard. It’s the first time this has ever happened to us. I tell him not to worry, that it’s the stress of returning to Rockgate. Oliver turns to me, his face flooded with concern.
“What if it’s something more?”
“What is the scariest thing it could be?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
“That we moved too fast. Or maybe Catalina…” Catalina. When we left the island we felt invincible. Stronger than ever. But Rockgate has drowned our California glow in harsh fluorescent lighting.
“Should we go back to Miriam?” I ask.
“Do you regret what we did?”
“Not at all. Do you?”
“No,” Oliver says and his eyes light up. He takes my hand and presses it against his lips. “We’ll get through this. We can’t be in therapy for the rest of our lives.”
“There’s nothing wrong with therapy.”
“I know. Therapy brought us together. But it can’t hold us together.”
We sleep in the guest room, determined to at least be in the same bed. Oliver holds my hand as we fall asleep but halfway through the night he pulls himself out of bed. “I have to do the couch. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what is going on.”
“Is it me?”
“No. It’s my back.”
We spend the next few weeks in a confusing mess of sleeping arrangements. We try staying at Oliver’s place but Emmy complains about not having the right stuff. We try our room again, the guest room, Oliver back on the couch.
—
In September, after a particularly sleepless night, I drive Emmy to her first day of school. L’Wren told me that the petition to get us kicked out of St. Mary’s had three more signatures, making a total of seven. Not the slam dunk Lorraine was hoping for, but enough to make me nervous.
I decide to park and walk Emmy to her new classroom. I feel like I’m in a teen comedy—a gawky freshman who just slept with the wrong senior, walking down a hallway filled with whispers and stares. Other mothers who would ordinarily stop to ask about my summer are giving me tight smiles instead.
When we reach the open classroom door, Emmy runs inside, grateful not to be holding my sweaty hand any longer.
L’Wren finds me hovering in the doorway. “Keep smiling. It’s not that bad.”
“Does everyone know?”
“Oh yeah. But there’s been a twist.”
“In my favor?”
“Yep.” L’Wren pauses for effect. “Turns out it was Lorraine’s own twelve-year-old son who was giving the blow-job course. Not a fifth-grade girl.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“It literally wrote itself.”
“Jesus.”
“People want you here, Diana. Penelope’s mom told Lorraine to pack her own bag! Or at least she said that’s what she wanted to tell her.”
“I still feel like everyone is staring at me.”
“Oh, they are. For sure. But it won’t last.”
My jaw is tense the entire way back to the parking lot. And then I spot Lorraine, heading toward her Range Rover.
“Hey!” I call out to her. “Lorraine!”
She squares her body to face mine.
“You’ll need more than seven signatures to scare me away,” I say.
Her expression sours. “Please don’t take this personally, Diana. I wouldn’t want any family with a mom who produces pornographic material attending our school.”
“My job has absolutely nothing to do with you. It doesn’t affect you at all.”
“But it affects my kids, which is so much worse. Your website is smut. The kids at St. Mary’s need role models. How do I explain what you do for a living when my child comes home from a playdate?”
“The more we talk about sex in a healthy way, the less shame our children will feel.” I realize I sound like a pamphlet, but it might be the only way she can take it in.
“The women on your website are—”
“Deal with your trauma on someone else’s watch. Not on mine. Or my kid’s.”
I leave Lorraine clutching her actual pearls in the parking lot. I’m sure there will be repercussions, but I’m so blindingly mad I can’t find the strength to care.
When I get to my car, my heart sinks at the thought of going into the Monday meeting at Allen’s office until I remember I don’t have to.
It’s like waking up from a nightmare, finding yourself cozy in your own bed and realizing you’re safe.
My body instantly relaxes as I picture the open, airy Dirty Diana offices. And all the people who work there.
When I walk in, Petra, Liam, and Kirby are crowded around the biggest computer screen in the office. Petra FaceTimes Alicia so we can be together and watch as the first fantasy Alicia made goes live.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Liam asks.
“No. Just school stuff. That other mom and I are still in a…disagreement.”
“Why are you wasting your time trying to convince some dreadful woman of anything?” Petra asks.
“I’m not anymore.”
“I know you weren’t sure about this,” Liam says to me, nervously. “Initially.”
“I’ve come around.”
“No pun intended.”
Kirby pokes him in the ribs. “Just say thank you!”
“Thank you. For trusting me. And the listeners. And the projections. And the basic, essential rules of turning a profit. Shit—am I my father?”
“It’s up!” Petra claps her hands together. “People can watch!”
The video begins with an extreme close-up of our lead actress, Maya, speaking directly into the lens. “My fantasy is…”
The film Alicia made is somehow both playful and sexy. A series of beautifully lit portraits of Maya in various settings, frozen at first like a painting, and then doing simple everyday things, narrating her fantasy as it becomes increasingly erotic.
The first comments pour in: Beyond hot. Finally, something for me. Trina’s fantasy next? Please! When will the next one be avail?
“Alicia! You did it.”
She beams. “So many babies are going to be made because of me.”
—
On the drive home, I replay Liam’s forecast of our numbers doubling, and Petra’s bright smile, “See?”
I don’t want to stick around long enough for her to tell me it’s her last day in the office. I prefer a Jasper-style Irish exit, and then one day I’ll come in and I won’t smell her perfume or hear her voice calling to me excitedly from her office, “Diana!”
So I slipped away to my office then snuck off for home.
When I arrive, my excitement over the launch fades—Emmy is still at school and Oliver is ensconced in our sunken couch. I extend my hand and pull him to me. “It’s not us, Oliver,” I say, with absolute clarity. “It’s the house.”