A Necessary End (28 page)

“You can stay as long as it takes.”

“Thanks, Adrienne. You're the best.”

Michael lets out a whimper. Sometimes I think he just wants to remind us that he's here. I kick my legs out slightly and the motion soothes him immediately. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“How does Leah feel about me?”

He looks like he wishes he didn't have to answer. “It's not like she feels all one thing, you know? You're the mother of her kid. Our kid, I guess.” It seems like it still dazes him to say that. Maybe he's been thinking of Michael as just another one of his younger siblings.

“Does she think I'm a good mother?”

“Oh, yeah.” He says it so quickly that I feel a surge of relief. “She thinks you're great with him. That's sort of the problem.”

“Why is it a problem?”

“You're, like, larger than life. There's no room for her, and she's the one who pushed him out. You get what I mean?”

“You think I need to make more room for her?” As in, more trips to the park? More time for Leah to clutch Michael and stare into his eyes? That sounds dangerous. Unless the alternative is even more dangerous: We're all hard-wired to want what we can't have.

He glances in the direction of the port-a-potties. “I can't tell you what to do.”

“She likes Gabe better than me, though, right?”

A certain darkness crosses his face. I'm not sure how to interpret it.

“I know Gabe's been drinking more lately,” I say. “He's had trouble adjusting to everything. You know, he was used to it just being us, him and me, against the world. You get how that is, right?” He shrugs, like he's not quite willing to cut Gabe any slack. “Suddenly, there's Michael, and Leah, and now you. It's just a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, he's definitely still taking it in.” From Trevor, that's practically scathing. It suddenly occurs to me: Trevor really doesn't like Gabe. Is it possible Trevor's been stalling, same as Leah, because Leah doesn't want to leave Michael with me and Trevor doesn't want to leave him with Gabe?

“You haven't gotten to see the real Gabe yet. The real Gabe is . . . he's the most lovable person I ever met, until Michael.” I see that Leah is coming back, so my words accelerate. “Gabe and I have been together more than half our lives. We can get through anything. I'm going to support him, no matter what, and he's going to be an excellent father. He is.” It's hard to sound vulnerable when you're talking at breakneck speed, but vulnerability is key, because men (even the young ones like Trevor) are a sucker for a damsel in distress.

Leah rejoins us and asks, “What did I miss?”

“Trevor can fill you in,” I say.

I offer to take Michael home for his nap while they go out, and they agree. Then I watch the latest episode of Summer Jackson. My nerves are jangling so bad that I think about having a drink myself, but no, I need to keep my wits about me. I have to figure out my next move.

Today, Summer's guest is a “psychological profiler,” oozing professional lingo and faux-insights about Joy Ellison's disappearance. Summer sure can milk a case, despite the fact that no body's been found and there are no new leads. She's wearing hot pink today, and the profiler is in dark blue pinstripes. It looks like Barbie's just joined the navy.

“What do you make of the fact that Joy Ellison had no job, no friends, no one to report her missing as the months ticked by?” Summer asks. “What would you guess about her psychological makeup?”

Oh, this ought to be good.

“What it suggests,” Pinstripes explains, “is extreme isolation. That's fairly common in a domestic violence situation, especially one serious enough to involve hospitalizations. Domestic abusers are often quite adept at isolating their victims. The woman is made to feel ashamed of her victimization, to believe that she is, in fact, the cause of it. That's what allows the situation to continue for years. Her worldview is entirely shaped by the abuser.”

Pinstripes goes on to speculate about the potential kidnapper/killer. “The psychological profile is of someone who becomes very angry when his hold is threatened. Someone with poor impulse control.”

“And people who have affairs, are they more or less likely to become jealous and enraged at their spouses?”

“More likely, actually. The fact that they're having an extramarital relationship makes them more paranoid about what their spouse is doing.”

“What about a substance abuse history? Would that increase the likelihood of losing control?” Summer isn't saying Brad Ellison's name, but obviously, she's talking about him. Last night, her “scoop” was about his being charged with cocaine possession; the charges were later dropped, which caused Summer to exclaim, “A lot of dropped charges when it comes to this guy! What's all that about?”

“A substance abuse issue would increase the likelihood of violent behavior,” Pinstripes affirms.

In the court of public opinion, Brad Ellison has just been found guilty. I'd feel sorry for the guy, but he should have known better. You are who you marry, right?

F
or the first time in my life, I envy guys with standard desk jobs. If I just had my own office—even my own cubicle—I could take a minute. I could regroup.

But my desk is public, on the showroom floor, and Ray is watching me through his glass wall. The month is ticking by, and my sales numbers are still low. The only people I sell cars to are the ones who are really dying to buy a car. That's not many. Fish don't generally jump out of the water and ask for a hook through the mouth. My reeling skills are for shit right now.

I have started trying again. I approach. I use the old lines. But there's no feeling behind them. What I used to have going for me was that I liked people. Apparently, that's the thing that can't be taught or faked. Unless you're Adrienne.

But Leah likes me, and she doesn't like Adrienne. So nah nah nah.

It's agony, sitting here at my desk, exposed, pretending to make follow-up calls. I'd prefer to make actual calls, because it's harder work to come up with one half of a conversation. “So you've been visiting other Lexus dealerships? . . . Infiniti? You can't trust an Infiniti.
They're good-looking but mechanically, they're a joke . . .” I glance over and see that Ray's now occupied with one of the other salesmen. Since no one's within earshot, I keep the phone to my ear, saying nothing, alert for Ray's potential reappearance.

This is no way to live. That's what I find myself thinking a hundred times a day.

I go outside to wander the lot. I hover near a couple, too close maybe, because the wife gives me a look like she fears a mugging. “I'm Gabe,” I say, “let me know if you need anything.” They nod and move away. I've become a bona fide creep.

I do something I've never done before. “How's your day going?” I text. “Was thinking about you and the baby.”

I lean against a CT hybrid, out of Ray's line of sight. Full minutes pass. Then I hear back: “M's great. Smiling a lot. U should give him a chance.”

“He's not hurting for attention,” I type.

“He needs his dad.”

I don't know why it affects me like it does, hearing it from Leah. M needs his dad, she says, and she means me. I'm it. “You home now?” I wait for her answer, but I feel like I can't wait any longer. “I'm coming home.”

My job's mostly commission anyway, and I don't have any sales in me today. Tomorrow. I'll turn it around tomorrow.

I stop by Ray's office, poking my head in through the door. “Gotta go,” I say. I look back toward the floor, where some of the guys are clustered, hungry. None of them have been complaining about having to pick up my slack. Yuri—the former number two guy around here—has been having a banner month. The rest of them stay away from me, like what I've got might be catching. They're a superstitious bunch. We were never friends exactly, but we used to be buddies. Now I'm on my own.

I'm tired of the self-pity as much as anything. But I feel like I can't catch a break. I lost money at the Pyramid yesterday, and it's
still burning me up. It was only a couple hundred dollars, a slow leak rather than one big hand. But I was at the table with Berkeley Goatee, and I had to watch him rake in pot after pot.

“Not home,” Leah writes. “Out with T. Talk later?”

“Come in, shut the fucking door,” Ray says. “This ain't a drive-by.”

I enter, letting the door fall shut behind me.

“Well, sit down.”

Now I really feel like a dog. Come in. Shut the door. Sit. I'd quit if I could think of one other thing in the world I'm qualified to do.

“Where have you gotta go?” Ray asks. I zoom in on the concern on his face.

“Home. I'm not feeling so great.”

“You don't look great. But that's nothing new.”

I try to smile. “Hey, that's my moneymaker you're talking about.”

“That's the thing, Gabe. You haven't been making money. Not for the dealership, not for yourself. Did some rich aunt die and leave you a million? You don't need money anymore?”

“I don't need a pep talk, Ray.”

“Pep talk? Who's being peppy?” He shakes his head with a mixture of frustration and sadness. I've been seeing that combination a lot lately. “The thing about you is that you need deadlines. You need—what are they called?—boundaries. Otherwise, it's like I'm just giving you a long rope to hang yourself.”

I want to tell him I'm not following him, but actually, I am.

“I'm going to let you name the number. You'd better hit it by the end of the month, or, you know.” He might as well have drawn a finger across his throat.

I could tell him he can't do this to me, I've got a kid to think about now. Play the kid card, go on. What do I have to lose? My pride left me weeks ago, months. “I'll have the number for you by tomorrow,” I say.

“Feel better,” he tells me, before pointedly walking over to the board. I let myself out, trying to decide what to do. Do I actually go
home, now that I know Leah's not there? Do I go to the Pyramid and press my luck? Stop at a bar?

I want a drink, but I've got to watch it. I need to stay sharp, for Leah's sake. She's swimming with sharks, and I can't help her if I'm drowning myself.

I drive straight home, bracing myself for whatever Adrienne might have in store. But when I push the front door open, she's just sitting in the living room, watching TV, normal as you please. M must be down for his nap. I'm kind of okay with “M”—beats any of the other nicknames Adrienne's tried to float.

“What are you watching?” I ask her.

“Oh, nothing.” She looks around for the remote, seeming eager to shut it off. But it's too late. I've already seen the bitch.

I groan. “What's her name again? Autumn?”

“Summer.” Now she's decidedly uncomfortable, and the remote is nowhere in sight. “Summer Jackson.”

“Summer. Right. A woman disappears, her husband did it. A kid disappears, the father did it. No woman's ever done wrong.”

A photo appears on the screen. She's not pretty or unpretty, but she is familiar. By now, Adrienne is about to turn the set off manually; that's what it's come to. Summer is promising a scoop tomorrow.

“No,” I tell her. “Leave it on. Doesn't that woman look familiar?”

“She's been missing for a while. You've probably seen the coverage.”

“I don't watch these kinds of shows.”

“On the regular news, then.”

I stare at the woman, trying to place her. “Let me guess,” I say. “The husband did it.”

Adrienne laughs way louder than the joke warranted. She's nervous, I realize. Or embarrassed, more likely. She's always given the impression that she's some kind of domestic dynamo who never gets a minute to herself. She probably doesn't like my knowing that she's spending her time with Summer Jackson.

Summer Jackson. That's a made-up name if ever there was one.

“Who is she?” I ask. “The missing woman du jour.”

“Joy something.”

I don't know anybody named Joy. She must look vaguely familiar because of the homogeneity of the genre: The pictures always seem to be of women with windblown hair, on a balcony or a boat, somewhere balmy. It's a curated irony. We're supposed to believe that for these women, life was a beach. It seems sadder that way, to be snatched away in your vacation-going prime.

Adrienne's found the remote underneath the couch. She snaps off the TV and asks, “What are you doing home anyway?”

“My stomach,” I say. I learned long ago that the best fake illness is a stomach something-or-other. It's too distasteful for people to ask any questions, and it tends to disappear as quickly as it came.

Adrienne knows that's my illness of choice, but she says nothing. “It's a good thing you picked up some hours yesterday. Did you sell much? Because your last paycheck—”

“I know how much the last check was for. We're still in a recession. Or did you miss that news because you're spending all your time with your pal Summer Jackson?”

My nastiness surprises us both. As if on cue, M starts to cry.

She brushes past me. I sit down and put my feet up, only to realize that the remote has gone MIA once again.

I
t's a beautiful spring night, an eat-outside-and-drink-white-wine kind of a night. I marinated chicken, and Gabe's manning the grill. Michael and I are sharing a blanket on the grass. He's alternately looking up at me and at the emerging stars.

It's an idyllic scene. If only I could enjoy it. If only I could make Leah and Trevor disappear. Leah would be great TV: Summer and her audience would eat up a young beauty, a young missing mom, like that. Trevor would be the prime suspect. Well, him or Gabe.

Leah and Trevor sit together at the picnic table like a couple of fireflies, alight in their postcoital bliss. Every so often, Trevor makes a goofy face at Michael, and Leah gazes adoringly at him and Michael in turn. It's like she's fallen in love with their little family, the one that I make possible by footing her bills and doing the actual caregiving. Is she some secret genius, turning me into her au pair? Meanwhile, Trevor keeps indulging her fantasy instead of puncturing it. He and I are definitely going to have another talk soon.

They're not the only reason I'm on edge. I didn't like how intently Gabe was staring at the TV yesterday, at Joy Ellison.

Today's scoop wasn't good for me at all. Summer's finally realized that Joy was no angel. Joy's mother was on the show, crying about how she had to cut Joy out of her life five years ago. Joy had been a troubled teen—promiscuous and manipulative and thieving—and as an adult, she'd begun unrepentantly scamming family members, getting them to invest in phony business schemes. “Was that after she got involved with Brad Ellison?” Summer asked. Once she has a suspect in her sights, she stands by her man.

“I don't know Brad,” Joy's mother said, wiping at her eyes. “But it was going on long before him. It seems like Joy was born without a conscience.”

Summer didn't linger on what Joy's mother said, but obviously, she's going to have to start looking into Joy's past more closely. Soon, she'll discover Joy's con games and her aliases. Even if that doesn't broaden Summer's suspect pool, it's going to have to broaden the police's.

But maybe not. Because Summer had another scoop. Her next guest was a law enforcement officer who talked about Joy's cell phone records. They'd found a text exchange between Joy and Brad in October where she bragged that soon she'd be coming into some “real money, none of this nickel-and-dime bullshit” and he wasn't going to get any of it. If I'm lucky, the police are as lazy and stubborn as Summer.

“Can we presume,” Summer asked the officer, “that Brad Ellison might have taken matters into his own hands in order to get some of this windfall?”

“This is an ongoing investigation,” the officer said. “I'm not making any presumptions.”

But obviously, he can't police the viewers at home. At least I've still got Summer on my side. That's what I'm telling myself.

I have more than enough on my plate right now. Gabe and I need to demonstrate an approximation of our old selves to Leah. She wants her baby to have a loving family, and we've got to be it. It won't be an
act for long, because once she clears out of here, we really will become ourselves again. We've got to fake it until we make it, isn't that the AA saying?

Speaking of AA, Gabe is doing his part tonight. He hasn't had any bourbon, hasn't even poured himself a glass of white wine. Leah isn't drinking either, since she's due to pump soon. So it's Trevor and me clinking glasses, toasting this perfect night. Sure, he's underage, but not by much, and I don't think any narcs will be crashing our little party.

I drain my wine and move Michael over on the blanket so that his fingers are in the long grass. He lets out a happy noise and stares at me with wide eyes before returning his gaze to the grass. I love that each individual element of the world is bright and fascinating for him; I just want to be there when he witnesses all of it, bit by bit, blade by blade.

Gabe brings the platter of chicken to the table. “Looks great,” I tell him.

“I'll fix you a plate,” he says. I'm touched, watching him carefully assemble the salad, corn, and chicken, and place it on the blanket. I'm even more touched when he makes a second plate and then joins me.

“Thank you,” I whisper in his ear.

“Kid's into weeds,” he says, his voice carrying to Leah and Trevor. “You think I need to worry?”

Leah laughs. Trevor gives no reaction. Even I think the joke's lame, but I'm glad to see Gabe trying. It reminds me of the night Leah arrived, when Gabe stepped up and charmed her. He saw what I needed from him then, and he sees what I need from him now. Gabe reaches toward Michael, and sure, he's petting Michael like a dog, but it's a start. I take Gabe's other hand. This is our fresh start.

As we all eat, Trevor starts talking about some human sexuality museum he and Leah visited. I honestly can't tell if it was in San Francisco and they were there today, or if it was back on the East Coast. He's describing archaic sex toys in humorous detail. He clearly
likes center stage. He's got his shtick, and he's not afraid to use it. Though his recitation is funny, it's also gratingly in-your-face juvenile.

“When Mick's old enough to repeat things,” I say, “you'll need to tone that down.” The remark has a dual purpose. I'm reminding him that a child will definitely cramp his style, but I'm also baiting him to state his true intentions in front of Leah. He's not planning to be around anywhere near that long.

“What's with the ‘Mick' shit?” he counters. “I can still say ‘shit' for a while longer, right?”

Leah pokes Trevor and says in a low tone, “Gabe doesn't like hearing ‘Michael.' They're finding a nickname.”

“It better not be Mick.” Trevor makes a face. “That's like some aging cockney fucker.” He looks at me. “I can still say ‘fucker,' right?”

“Is there a problem?” Gabe says. His tone is mild, but the threat is implied in the question.

Leah says quickly, “Trevor has problems with authority. But he knows when to shut up.” Her implied threat is much bigger, and Trevor glowers but he goes back to eating. “I need to pump.” She heads inside, and after a few minutes of tense silence, Trevor follows.

“Alone at last,” I say, throwing myself across Gabe's lap dramatically. He strokes my hair and I look up at him. Darkness is descending rapidly, and the three-quarter moon has an ethereal quality. Michael seems hypnotized by it all. He's never been out at dusk, I realize. But I need to refocus on Gabe. He's been a very good boy tonight, from fixing my plate to petting his son to defending my honor. “I'm thinking that after I put Mick down, you and I can do things we wouldn't want him to repeat.” I run my nails up Gabe's arm and back down again. “What do you think?”

“I think ‘Mick' isn't really going to work for me. Trevor's right. I keep picturing him strutting around and singing how he can't get no satisfaction.”

“I'm not talking about the baby right now.” Isn't that what he's
wanted all along? For us to have sex and not talk about the baby? I sit up, shaking my head in frustration. Not one bloody thing can be simple, now that there are five of us. We're a pentagon of complications. A pentagram. “Do you want to fuck or not?”

“It's so enticing when you put it that way.” His sarcasm smells like a ruse. Not tonight, I have a headache. Not tonight, I'm too annoyed.

I pick Michael up and whisk him into the house. He's crying at his sudden and unceremonious departure, but he calms the second his lips close around the bottle. That, at least, is simple.

I walk him to our bedroom as he drinks. When he's finished, he's sleepy as usual. We're on the bed, and something comes over me, fast and furtive. I strip off my shirt and bra and clutch him to my bare breast. His lips find my nipple immediately, and he begins to suck. There's no milk to be had, and still he sucks.

I find myself wondering: Does he know to suck because it's instinct or because he's done it before? Because Leah's been breast-feeding my baby?

The sucking hurts, and maybe that's because I'm dry. Or maybe it's because I'm not used to the ferocity with which Michael applies himself to the task. Gabe never did it this way.

I can't believe I actually just compared the technique of my baby and my husband. I'm going nuts. This must be what nuts feels like.

I half-expect Michael to cry out in frustration, but he doesn't know any differently. He doesn't know that I should be yielding milk. Instead, he's drinking my closeness in, and it's enough.

I close my eyes and let myself feel that—what it is to be enough.

T
hat night, I dream of Gabe and me in the old Chevy dealership. We're up against the wall, and there's no condom, and I think, If I'm meant to get pregnant, it's okay, it would be Gabe's.

Little did I know. It was never meant to be.

I always wanted Gabe. As a freshman and a sophomore, I'd
watch him and yearn. But I hadn't grown into my looks or my confidence yet, and our paths never crossed. He graduated, and I still thought of him sometimes, hoped we'd run into each other somewhere. Then, in my junior year, after I'd made up for my lack of experience, I caught this weird kid drawing a picture of me. When I found out his last name, it was like everything clicked into focus.

Of course I was wrong to use Michael. But back then, I thought anything was permissible to help fate along. I didn't know how obsessed he'd become or how far he'd go. I only learned that I was his first sex when Gabe told me, years later. I rationalized that Michael was lucky, because he was getting regular sex, and that was definitely not true of all the guys who looked and acted like him.

The sex was surprisingly good, but that might have been because I was fantasizing about Gabe the whole time. Which was much easier to do since I was actually inside Gabe's house, sometimes even on his couch. When I could, I'd wander through his room and rake my fingers over his belongings, feeling the kinetic link.

I've always liked having one single focal point for all my energy. I'm no multitasker. When I was sixteen, Gabe became that focal point, and it remained that way until I was ready to be a mom, until I was thwarted again and again—through IVF, through Patty, and now, maybe, through Leah.

No, it can't happen again.

What Gabe never seemed to realize, what he doesn't want to accept, is that Michael had deeply mixed feelings about him. On the one hand, Michael liked having a cool older brother. He was one genetic degree of separation from a smart, handsome, socially apt jock—all the things Michael wasn't. So there was all this hero worship, which festered into resentment. Michael told me he used to set fire to Gabe's stuff when he was seven or eight; he liked to see people racing into the room, for him. It was my first clue that Michael was not entirely psychologically sound.

But there were others. Like how quickly he started to idealize me. To hear him tell it, I was flawless. He felt that way about Gabe, too, I came to realize. Gabe was perfect, and that made Michael hate him, on some level.

When Michael told me he loved me, I felt bad about leading him on. But I also thought, He's a guy, he'll get over it, he'll find some other “perfect” girl to sleep with. I didn't have a high opinion of guys in general, and Michael was no exception, but Gabe was.

One of the things I've always loved about Gabe is how principled he is. He didn't flirt with me in front of Michael. It showed his decency and his respect for his brother. Sure, I wasn't respecting Michael much, but I thought Gabe ought to. If Gabe had fallen for me right away, he wouldn't have been worth having; he would have been just another guy.

I tried to engage Gabe in conversation, using the information I'd learned from other people about his interests. He was polite but removed. Then one day, I just couldn't contain myself. We were alone and I was crazy about him. It just came out: “I love you more than anything.” Then I actually ran away, terrified.

I told myself that the next move was his. Yet for the next two weeks, Gabe avoided me entirely. At first, I was discouraged. Then I got it: He hadn't told Michael, which would have shut the door for good. That meant it was still ajar.

I went to the Chevy dealership, and they told me I could find him in the back room. He was surrounded by shelves of auto parts. I got close, and I couldn't even speak, I was so overwhelmed by him, and his smell, and the moment. I ran my hands up and down his body, smooth as rails, and then there was no stopping us.

The fantasies I used to have when I was with Michael were nothing compared to the reality. But we never kissed, and when it was over, he adjusted my skirt for me and said, “It's just sex.”

He was lying, and we both knew it.

“You need to leave me alone,” he said. “You have to stop messing
with Michael's head.” He sounded firm, but there was a plea in it. If I kept coming after him, he would have to give in.

He was right, though. It was time to stop messing with Michael. While Gabe was still at the dealership, I went to his house. I told Michael the truth: that it wasn't working out, that I didn't feel what I was supposed to.

He cried, he begged, he basically debased himself. “We can get the feelings back,” he said. “I'll do anything.”

I was hoping he'd get angry. I was hoping he'd hate me. This was way worse. But what could I do? There was no going back, no more pretending. It was better for Michael to start getting over me.

For the next week, he called me all the time, pleading. It was summer so we didn't have school. He started following me. I tried being kind and compassionate; I tried cruel. It didn't matter, he wouldn't go away. Finally, I told him I was in love with someone else.