Thirty
Monday
I woke up with a profound feeling of sadness and dread. Little Sister seemed to sense my mood, staring at me with woeful eyes
until I’d locked him in his makeshift crate (aka the bathroom). Next I hurried the twins to the bus stop before embarking
on a few overdue errands.
As I waited in line at the post office to mail back two pairs of too-small Velcro low-tops I’d bought for the twins, I dove
headfirst into Google to read about sperm donor rights (or hopefully lack thereof). Of course I’d heard the spiel at the donor
clinic eight years ago, but back then I’d been distracted by visions of babies dancing in my head. Now all pertinent state
statutes I found online reassured me I had full parental authority and autonomy. Thank God.
My phone vibrated in my hands.
Nate: I had a great time with you last night. Like really great. But it felt kind of weird at the end. Want to talk?
A pipe bomb of heartsickness went off inside me. But I slid my phone into my pocket without texting him back.
As I walked through my front door an hour later, Little Sister frisked joyfully at my feet, but all I saw was carnage.
The faux delicacies my mother had lovingly collected over the years were now in masticated tatters all over the carpet.
Plastic fried eggs with fake browned edges, a packet of wooden French fries, and a slice of quiche Lorraine with lifelike bacon bits had all been gnawed to pieces.
The grief I normally kept at bay crashed in, and I felt with a piercing clarity that my mom was never, ever coming back. I
floated outside my body and up to a corner of the ceiling, where I watched myself sobbing and yelling, “What have you done!”
at the dog, who stared up at me with his head tilted as if concerned for my well-being.
A knock sounded on the door and Emmylou sailed in wearing her favorite shimmery green silk robe. “You okay?” One look at me
and she could see I was not okay at all. “The dog was barking and barking while you were gone so I let him out of the bathroom.”
“Why would you do that?” I said. “Why would you come in here without asking?”
“You told me where you keep the spare key. I was trying to help.”
“That wasn’t helpful! He chewed up my mom’s stuff!”
“Oh, toots,” Emmylou began, but she paused. “You know, this might be the Universe sending you a sign. It’s time for you to
stop living in a museum.”
“A what?” Surely I had not heard her right.
“I know you miss your mother. But staying in a shrine isn’t helping you and the girls move on. Why don’t you throw some of
this junk out? Make this place your own. It’s time. Past time.”
A shrine? I couldn’t help it. I snapped. “I’m getting tired of you trying to boss me around.”
“Boss you around?” Emmylou said. Clearly I’d hit a nerve. “I’m getting tired of you taking me for granted! And somebody needs
to boss you! You want help. You need help. But you don’t trust anyone. And you won’t give Idaho a chance. You won’t wake up to the fact that you live here now.
You spend your time thinking about how great LA is and how terrible it is here. But you’re in limbo. One foot in the past,
one foot in an imaginary future. Meanwhile, you’re just pissing on the present.”
“I’m not pissing on anything,” I fumed. But I was a little taken aback. Emmylou didn’t usually swear. “And I have a right to miss Los Angeles.”
“There are things you can do here to make your life better, is all I’m saying. You think it’s good for your girls to see you
moping around all the time? That’s why Phoebe’s been biting. That’s why Alice is always hiding in that smelly old lady mask.”
“Betty White was not any old lady!” I said. Nothing got my dander up like an attack on my parenting—or an iconic comedian.
“And I’m not in the wrong here. This isn’t a moratorium on how I raise my kids. You came into my house without my permission!” I gestured
at a tattered plastic slice of pepperoni pizza. “This is your fault! You’re always meddling!”
Emmylou’s face turned steely. She’d been furious when I came home late from McCall, but that was mostly because she was worried
about me. This was different. I’d never seen her possessed by this calm, cold wrath.
“You know what? I knew your mother well, and at some point, she’d want you to pull yourself out of the self-pity bog you’ve
been wallowing in. She didn’t practically bankrupt herself to give you the life and career of your dreams only to have you
give up on it all the second she died. She wouldn’t want you to use grieving as an excuse to quit comedy. She wouldn’t want
you holed up here, isolated, and not even trying for anything better for yourself or your girls. I’m tired of helping you
when you won’t even help yourself.”
Emmylou and I had never spoken of all the money my mother had sent me—the fact that she knew about it made me feel like someone
had dumped a bucket of shame over my head. Shame . . . and fury. “Why don’t you mind your own damn business! And. Butt. Out.
Of my. Life!” I yelled, suddenly irate as a teenager.
But my brutal outburst only seemed to further calm Emmylou. “Certainly,” she said, stiff and dignified as a royal at Queen Camilla’s birthday. “I’ll miss the twins. But the free time will be nice, now that I’m officially dating Oat Willimena. Not that you asked.”
She glided to the front door, silk robe fluttering around her ankles as she went. It closed behind her with a gentle accusatory
click.
What just happened? My knees hit the carpet. I curled up into a fetal ball—it had been less than forty-eight hours since I
cried hysterically on the bathroom floor. But this time my sadness and desperation found no release in tears. The dog sniffed
at my face as if to say, I did a great job chewing up this delicious kitsch. What are you so upset about? But still I lay there unable to move, pinned down by grief and the desperate impossibility of my situation. My mother was
dead and my career ruined and I was embroiled in a possible murder and had committed federal crimes. My fight with Emmylou
meant now if I went to prison there would be no one to take my kids. And I really, really liked Nate, and even my kids liked
him, and sex with him had been incredible, and yet I needed to shut him out for fear of what he might do if he found out any
number of truths about my situation.
It was all too much to face. So I stayed curled up on the floor like a child longing desperately for her mother.
In an effort to avoid upsetting the twins, when I met them at the bus stop I told them I’d put some of Grandma Lulu’s fake
food in storage. They’d taken this lame explanation in stride and had hardly commented on the changes in the duplex. (As it
turned out, Little Sister had only shredded the fake food in the living room. The plastic delicacies in my bedroom, the kitchen,
and the twins’ room were largely intact.) Now my girls sat at the kitchen table, Little Sister lying at their feet as they
played a game they called Mirror, in which Alice had to mimic Phoebe’s every movement. The game was unsettling, but today
I let them do their thing without parental intercession as I stared out the back kitchen window, feeling numb and overburdened.
Idaho Connor’s phone buzzed twice in my pocket. I hurried to the bathroom where I ran the tap to cover the sound of the voice
memo.
“Meet me at Bar Gernika tomorrow, Tuesday, at one thirty for the handoff,” the Receiver said. While my brain chewed on this
new dilemma like Little Sister gnawing a plastic slice of key lime pie, I read the new texts that had come in for Connor.
Natty Lite: LMK you’re okay, man.
Tony Jerkoff Neighbor: I’ve shoveled your sidewalk a few times but no sign of you. you out of town?
Ralphie the Lizard: u dirty fucking rat u need to call me asap i’m serious
Cricket: Your phone has been cut off for nonpayment. To reactivate your phone, call 888-458-9000 with your credit card number.
I swore like Sarah Silverman getting a Brazilian. I’d been worried about the temperature spiking in five days. But now it
seemed like something would give even before Connor started to rot. My breathing grew shallow and my heart felt like a pecan
in a nutcracker.
“Mooommmmmy!” Alice wailed from the kitchen. “It’s Phoebe’s turn to be the mirror and my turn to be the giiiiirrrrrrllll!”
“It’s not my turn,” Phoebe said, as I hurried in to manage the dispute, “because I’m tired of this game. Can we ask Emmylou
to come over?”
“Will she make brownies with us again?” Alice chimed in.
Too distracted and panicky to sugarcoat the situation, I said, “We won’t be seeing much of Emmylou for a while.”
Both their faces fell. Alice started to cry.
“It’s okay, honey,” I said. “Sometimes we need a little break from people, even if they are people we love very much.” But that only seemed to make her cry harder.
The inside of my head was as chaotic as a summer camp shaving cream fight and my chest pain had reached an eight out of ten.
“I need to go to the bathroom again,” I managed. On the toilet, head between my knees, I battled a sudden certainty I was
dying. I told myself if expiring on the john was good enough for Elvis, it was good enough for me. But I was not convinced.
I took calming breaths and tried to make myself think. If I got caught for any or all of my crimes, I’d need information to
trade for immunity. So far all I had were descriptions of Errol and Ralphie the Lizard, which definitely wouldn’t cut it.
But if I had the ability to hand over the exact location of an arms trafficker named the Receiver—now that might do the trick.