Chapter 33
By Sunday afternoon, thanks to Rebecca’s stick-to-itiveness and William’s buddy who owned a moving company, Lucy and I were safely ensconced back in the guesthouse.
I’d contacted the landlord, who was thankfully willing to waive the thirty-day notice clause in our month-to-month lease in light of the hot rental market.
As for Frannie, I avoided telling her anything while she was on her work retreat, which was definitely cowardly but also necessary.
I knew how mad she’d be, and I really didn’t need a lecture about how I was driving my “get a life” project off a cliff.
Weirdly, though, I wasn’t afraid she would be able to talk me out of my decision.
My mind was firm and clear. This was the obvious answer to my problems.
The other benefit to the unplanned move was that it distracted me somewhat from the impending release of the tandem publishing and personal statements later that night.
My nerves were soothed somewhat by the unpacking of tchotchkes and toys, and the near-impossible task of rearranging Lucy’s room to fit the big-girl bed and dresser ensemble I’d bought for her larger bedroom in the apartment.
When Rebecca and I told Lucy about the move back to the guesthouse, her confusion and mixed feelings had been evident.
She was just growing accustomed to the new routine at the apartment.
But the wonderful thing about soon-to-be kindergartners was their resilience.
Once assured her entire bedroom set would be coming with her, and all her toys, and Sam The Dog, she’d flipped to celebrating the upsides—tennis, swimming, and grandparents available whenever she wanted.
The guesthouse had everything with the exception of Frannie and, if I couldn’t improve my spatial relations, the ability to close Lucy’s bedroom door around her furniture set.
I was giving one last herculean effort to swapping her bed and dresser to opposite walls when I heard a pounding on the door. It could only be Frannie. I braced myself.
“Open up, you gutless wimp!” I heard, followed by even more vigorous pounding.
Yup.
I opened the door and she spilled in. “What the mother—” She paused and her eyes scanned the room. “Is Lucy here?”
I shook my head, wishing I had the guts to lie. “Swimming.”
“Good.” And then: “What the motherfucking dickless fuck do you think you’re doing?” she screamed. “Did you think I might not notice your apartment is empty of all personal items and furnishings? Did you consider my first thought might be, oh, I don’t know, that you two had been kidnapped?”
“With all our furniture?” I replied calmly. “That would be kinda strange. Was that really your first thought?”
“No, dummy. It wasn’t. Obviously I knew exactly where you’d gone.
Back to the protective womb of your adopted mommy and daddy.
You know how I knew that? Cuz I’m not a dummy.
I’m really smart. And also I know you better than anyone else in the world.
” She folded her arms defiantly. “Jesus, Thea. What exactly do you think happens from here?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I avoid the media for a while, screw my head on straight again, take care of my daughter? Isn’t that enough?”
“Let’s focus on your head.” She glared at me.
“Fine. After I go to the bathroom.” It was a perfect stall, and also necessary, as I’d been ignoring my increasingly angry bladder for the last hour and felt like I was about to burst.
While I was in the bathroom, I heard the distant sound of texts pinging and hoped it was Frannie’s phone blowing up with a work emergency.
I took my time, unpacked some hand soap and lotion from the bathroom-supplies box, and even changed the toilet paper roll just because the existing roll was looking a little paltry.
When I emerged, Frannie’s face was a disturbing shade of white. “Work trouble?”
“Yeah, you could say that. But not mine.” She held out my phone, which I’d left on the coffee table, and I sucked in a breath, trying not to imagine what could possibly be worse than the humiliating statements about to hit cyberspace.
I touched the screen, and it lit up with four texts from Harper:
Old publisher is re-upping the COTV offer from 5 years ago. Not only that, they’re increasing the advance from $500K to $750K!!!
They’re aware of your current situation and don’t care.
I think we should accept it right away, before they have second thoughts.
Now that we all know the astronaut was a hoax, your fears about the kidnapping plot have been laid to rest, right? Can we say yes?
I looked up to find Frannie standing there with a hand on her hip, seemingly trying to divine her next words from the linen drum-shade light fixture.
“I don’t know, Thea, but I feel like those texts are implying you turned down half a million dollars because you were afraid the plot in your fictitious novel would cause Lucy to be kidnapped?
But that can’t be right, can it? I mean, obviously I know the fear part is right, because I know you rejected an offer for Call of the Void way back when.
But how is it that I assumed it was a garden-variety publishing deal, for, say, fifteen thousand or thirty thousand? Not an actual fortune?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but she held up a hand first. This seemed fortuitous because I hadn’t worked out what to say yet, and normally when I let my mouth run roughshod over my brain, it didn’t end well for me.
“Wait, don’t tell me,” she said, her voice louder with seemingly every word. “I know the answer to this one! I assumed that because you wanted me to assume that, right? Because you knew if I knew the full amount I would tell you in no uncertain terms that you are batshit crazy.”
It felt like speaking was ill-advised at the moment, so I kept my mouth shut.
“So your answer to Harper now will be ‘Yes, sell the damn thing,’ right?”
I pressed my lips together. Could I do it?
For three-quarters of a million dollars?
My head shook all on its own. “Nope,” I said, finding my voice again.
“Lucy’s safety is priceless.” Frannie’s mouth gaped but I continued, “Think about it: What if I published it and Bronwyn’s stunt gave someone the idea to kidnap Lucy? ”
“I think you’re being a little paranoid,” Frannie said. “What Bronwyn did was awful, but it wasn’t a felony. No one’s going to kidnap a kid as a publicity stunt. Is that really what’s holding you back, or is it the other thing?”
“I don’t know!” I threw my hands in the air.
“I don’t understand how all this works. Like, is it cause and effect where what I publish gives someone the idea to do something?
Or is it more of an invisible hand kind of thing?
Or is it all just completely random? All I know is, if there’s even a one percent chance of something hurting Lucy, I’m not risking it. ”
“Thea, I need you to hear this loud and clear.” She stepped to within millimeters of me, her warm breath blanketing my face. “You need to go to therapy and unpack this shit once and for all!”
“Well,” I snapped back, my condescending tone matching Frannie’s, “it just so happens I have an appointment with a therapist on Wednesday. Happy?” The instant the words passed my lips I wanted to shove them back into my voice box.
Exhibit number one of my mouth getting ahead of my brain.
Because I had already decided not to go to that appointment.
It was just to get Rebecca and William off my back, and now that wasn’t necessary since we’d moved back into the guesthouse anyway.
In fact, the therapist’s automated office reminder email came through this morning and I meant to cancel it before I got distracted with packing.
“Great.” Apparently we were not done with the sniping. Frannie unlocked her phone. “Give me the time, place, and name of the doctor.”
“Why?” I said meekly as the hole I was digging deepened.
“Why? Why do you think, knucklehead? Because obviously I’ll be driving you, and I’ll be delivering you to the doctor’s door, and I’ll be blocking all the exits.
I might even bring handcuffs and shackles.
Now, for the love of god, please tell me the name of the doctor so I can map it and plan my workday! ”
Maybe if I said it real casual, she wouldn’t make the connection?
“Oh, um, let me think.” I pretended to think. “She’s in Santa Monica, and . . . I think her name is Dr. Field or something like that?”
“Oh really?” Frannie narrowed her eyes instantly. “Like the marriage therapist in your book?”
Dang. But at least she’d read my book.
“I guess.” I shrugged. “What can I say? She was the only therapist I could find with an opening before Lucy graduated from high school.”
“Wow, Thea,” she said after a few beats, seeming to deflate before my very eyes. “This is even worse than I imagined.”
“It’s just a coincidence, Frannie. Really, I’m fine. You’ll see.”
“Oh, so now it’s just a coincidence?” she fired back.
And there was the rub. Because Frannie was right about that.
I desperately wanted to believe in the randomness of coincidence.
I did actually believe in it some of the time.
It was a well-established part of life. There wasn’t a person alive who didn’t have a story about a time when a curious coincidence left them breathless with wonder.
What I couldn’t wrap my mind around was this: At what point did a coincidence become so improbable that one could not comfortably accept it as an explanation?
If Dr. Field could help me answer this one simple question in our session on Wednesday, then the expensive hour of therapy might be worth it.
“Fine, you can take me,” I said, defeated. “Pick me up at two thirty Wednesday. But I’m only promising to go this one time.”
“We’ll see,” Frannie said ominously.