by Holly Brown
If you saw only this house—high ceilings, ornate mosaic tiling, terra-cotta interior courtyard, Olympic-sized pool—you would think that it had been.
I move into the living room, though dusting isn’t nearly as satisfying as a vociferous spray and wipe. I should probably do one of the bathrooms. The master bathroom, maybe. I could clean the expanse of the shower, with its four showerheads.
I’d dressed to visit my mother, in the silk blouse she used to like when she still cared about what I wore, and I strip it off. I pull my shoulder-length ash-blond hair into a ponytail, trying not to see myself as I am: middle-aged verging on old, gaining flab in the midsection despite swimming and strengthening my core four times a week, in the plunge bra that Larry likes, when he remembers to look. Fifty-seven isn’t so old.
How old is Dawn? Young, I imagine, from the cadence in her e-mails and her review.
That review. I spritz the marble wall and wipe with such ferocity that I begin to fear carpal tunnel.
What if she costs me future bookings? I’ve got guests for the rest of April and May, but summer is prime time, and now is when people book for summer. If I lose that income . . .
Dawn has no idea what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s just that rotten.
No, I simply need to make it clear to her that she’s wrong, that this was all a misunderstanding, and she’ll be reasonable. She’ll take the review down. Most people aren’t rotten, they’re confused. Like Thad.
What galls me about the review is that it makes me look dishonest, when that’s the last thing I am. Not that I reveal everything to everyone. I’m circumspect, even with Larry. But I would never play fast and loose with someone’s security deposit.
I might not have been bubbling over in my e-mail responses, I don’t use exclamation points or (God forbid) emojis, but I told her what she needed to know: The security deposit would be returned within the specified time frame. They always are.
I left a voicemail to tell her about the sheets. I know that I did. Could I have left it on the wrong phone number? Hard to imagine making a mistake like that, but then, it was a hectic time. I was concerned by what I’d seen on Thad’s Twitter feed, not to mention his Instagram, and he didn’t return my calls, not for days.
Maybe I wasn’t so pleasant in that phone message, because I was peeved to discover the sheets. On the very rare occasions when guests have left damage in the past, they’ve informed me. They’ve apologized. We’ve worked it out together. When people are honest, I generally don’t even opt to charge them. But Dawn slips out the back door and then harasses me about her deposit, as if those sheets could escape my notice. It was like someone had come into my late father’s home and taken a dump in his bed (though the stain wasn’t feces, because human waste can be bleached out. I raised a child, I know this from experience). I still don’t know what caused that gray stain. I don’t want to know. But Dawn must.
Even if I give her the benefit of the doubt and say she really wasn’t aware, she should have been chastened once I called her attention to it. Instead, she came out swinging. She’s the “shady” one, not me.
Or she could just be young and in need of some correction. I’ll write to her, we’ll clear all this up, she’ll delete her review, and that will be that. No harm done. I can forgive most anything; I know that from experience, too.
3
Dawn
I’m shocked that you didn’t address your issue with me first but instead chose to post a scathing review. Now people will be worried about their security deposit when they don’t need to be. Look at my other reviews. No one else has had any problem with me. On the contrary, they rave about my hospitality.
I don’t know why you didn’t receive my voicemail. I did leave one. I was surprised that you didn’t call or e-mail me to discuss the situation. Honestly, I was surprised you hadn’t initially called the stain to my attention, as people are usually cognizant of the damage they do. Because I didn’t hear from you, I assumed that meant you were fine with me handling it on my own by subtracting from your security deposit.
You suggest in your review that I’m a liar. I can assure you I am not, and have never been accused of that before. I’ve also never had a situation like this.
I’d like to ask you to take down your review, as it is full of misleading information. I depend on reviews for my business, and false ones are harmful as well as hurtful.
Thank you,
Miranda
I usually like this taqueria. It’s not authentic, not at all, but it’s got happy primary-colored walls touting its non-GMO goodness. It’s the kind of place Rob and I will go when we have bambinos of our own because it’s affordable, and the high chairs and booster seats are plentiful, and the salsa bar isn’t just wiped down with some germ-saturated rag every fifteen minutes but routinely spritzed with spray cleanser.
Today, though, everything’s on my nerves. We couldn’t get a booth, and the table right next to us features a hyperactive bespattered toddler. The harried mom keeps giving us apologetic smiles, and I smile back because she seems to be doing the best she can to catch the items he’s knocking over. She’s just a woman, after all, not a multiarmed creature from Greek mythology, but still, I wish their food was to-go.
Rob’s doing his best to understand me, but he just doesn’t get this Miranda thing. His face is full of affectionate mirth, with the barest tinge of bemusement. “You’re cute when you’re worked up,” he says. In the four years we’ve been together, I’ve tried not to get worked up in his presence. I let his mellowness waft over me; I wear it like a security blanket.
He chews his burrito an extra-long time, contemplatively. The mastication has a damage control vibe. He wants to talk me down.
WWRD? He’d have let this go already. I hate that I can’t.
It’s like Miranda’s e-mails are calculated to push every one of my buttons. But how could that be? She doesn’t even know me.
I catch the frazzled mom stealing an appreciative glance at Rob. I don’t blame her. I still look at him that way myself. Sandy hair, green eyes, thin build, in a button-down and jeans. She’s got no ring on, so either she has no husband of her own or what she has isn’t necessarily worth telling the world about, and she surely wouldn’t mind one like Rob.
Her instincts are spot on. A Rob type would always be faithful, ever true; you’d have to get sick of him. And if you did, if you broke his heart, he’d still never go negative in a custody battle; he’d always respect the primacy of the mother, while being the world’s greatest dad, who tickles and jokes and teaches all while deriving effortless delight.
Not that we’re ever going to break up. I love Rob, a lot. He’s not perfect, which works for me. I could never be with a man of all smooth planes. But he keeps his sharp edges well concealed, and no woman in a taqueria would ever suspect.
“She’s not a communications major, like you,” Rob finally says. “She probably doesn’t know how she’s coming across.”
I thought that after a full minute’s delay, he would have come up with some magical solution and all these feelings I’m having would evaporate. But he’s trying, and that counts for a lot.
“She sounds really full of herself,” he adds, “which is annoying.”
“Absolutely.”
“Her punishment is being her. She spends her time looking down on people, so she’ll never be happy. But you will.”
It’s ironic that his remark comes as I am staring dispiritedly at my carnitas taco, unable to take another bite. I can feel a new pimple forming on my cheek, under the surface. It’s not just a pimple, it’s a cyst. Those hurt. I blame Miranda.
No, I blame me for letting Miranda get under my skin, literally.
I can’t tell Rob that during class today, I was formulating and discarding different responses to her e-mail. They were mostly variations on “Why do you think you’re so much better than me, you old cooze?” I can’t imagine talking down to someone the way she t
alks down to me. My parents never talked like that. But then, they were train wrecks, and my dad barely spoke to me at all. Mom’s the one thing I’ve successfully let go.
Rob hit the nail on the head, though. Miranda does sound abominably sure of herself. She almost had me convinced that the stain is real, and that she had left me a voicemail. But I know neither of those things is true. If there’s anything that’s going to piss me off, it’s forcing me to question my reality. I’ve done enough of that in my life.
She was “shocked” I hadn’t discussed my issues with her first. Shocked I didn’t think she was the cat’s meow like every other person who’d ever stayed in her house. Shocked I didn’t know I’d ruined her sheets. How has her old heart withstood so much shock?
She’s accusing me of writing a false and misleading review. But she’s the one who’s offered no proof of her claim. Where’s the picture of this supposed stain?
She is a liar. And her biggest lie is that she isn’t.
“Why does it matter, though?” Rob asks. “Why does she matter?”
“Because you don’t treat people the way she’s treating us.”
“So then don’t treat people like that. That’s all you can do, right? You control yourself. You don’t control her.”
“Someone needs to teach her a lesson. Don’t you think?”
I want very much to hear his answer—it feels like a litmus test somehow—but he’s saved by the salsa. I catch it in my peripheral vision, but it’s too late to move out of the way. It’s the red stuff, no verde here, and it splashes onto my leg. The toddler’s mother is beside herself, apologizing profusely. “We’re going to go now,” she tells me. “We’ll get out of your hair.”
“That’s okay,” I say. I dip a napkin in a cup of water and rub at my thigh. “He’s a little boy. It happens.”
“More stains,” Rob says, grinning. “We can’t seem to get away from them.”
“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that there was a gray stain. What could have possibly left it?” I’m trying not to be distracted by the mother, who’s inadvertently banging me in the head with her bulging diaper bag as she tries to gather everything on her table into piles while subduing the toddler at the same time. He’s got white-blond hair, crew-cut style, and the sailboat graphic on his shirt is mottled by salsa, as if there’s been an onboard massacre.
“Don’t worry,” Rob says to the boy’s mom. “Leave it all. We’ll throw everything out for you. Just get the little guy home. He seems tired.”
“He is!” She sends Rob a grateful smile. “Thank you so much! Enjoy your night!” She glances at me. “And again, I’m so sorry.”
“Not a problem,” I say, because it shouldn’t be. I know what I should feel; now I just have to get there.
Let Miranda go. If I could do it with my mother, Miranda should be easy.
But then, I’ve never let go of what my father did.
4
Miranda
I received your e-mail. While I understand your concern that my review might damage your business, I did not hear you in any way addressing my issues. What I heard was a stream of “you’re wrong” and “me me me.”
I was not trying to be scathing in my review; I was being honest. Getaway.com is a community and its members have to look out for one another by posting their honest experiences.
My honest experience with you has not been good. The reason I didn’t choose to address the issue about the sheets with you first is because I did not find you trustworthy. To wit:
1. You told me to “keep checking” my credit card statement for my refund, which seemed to indicate that I would be receiving the deposit in full.
2. You had ample opportunity to mention the sheets in our e-mails but you didn’t. And you still haven’t provided any photographic evidence of the supposed stain.
3. I always receive my e-mails, voicemails, and texts, yet I’ve never had any messages from you in any form warning me that you’d be deducting $200.
All of these things together gave me the impression you were not acting in good faith. Our subsequent communication has not altered that impression. For example, you didn’t take responsibility or apologize for anything; you just asked me to take the review down.
The fact that there are no other three-star reviews doesn’t mean everyone has had positive dealings with you. Maybe the people who were dissatisfied don’t like to write reviews. Maybe you’re just in the habit of trying to bully people into taking their reviews down, and making them question their reality. Sorry it hasn’t worked this time.
Dawn
Me me me. You sure have got me pegged.
If she could see me now, pulling into the circular drive of the cancer center where my husband is a chief radiation oncologist, where he saves people’s lives, as I deliver a homemade lunch to keep him going in that mission, she’d have to eat her words.
Larry is off to the side of the sliding glass entrance doors, a scowl on his face as he stares at his phone. I’m not surprised to see that expression. I knew it was a bad day when I received his text this morning: What are you having for lunch? It’s how he tells me that it’s ten A.M. and already a rough one, and he could use my cooking; he’d like to see my face.
I give the horn a jolly little beep, and he looks up and over, the irritation melting away. I love that I still have that effect on him after all these years. I work at our marriage every day, so he won’t have to. It’s our division of labor, and it’s a fair one.
He’s not a handsome man, Larry, but then, I’ve never been a beautiful woman. I’ve always liked his features, that they’re large but not cartoonishly so; they’re trustworthy. I have a trustworthy face, too, the one you pick on a busy street to ask where the nearest something or other is, but my features are all on the small side. I draw outside of my natural lip line and fill it in with a bright color, lest my lips disappear. Maximizing my eyes is no picnic either. Every decade, my makeup routine gets ten minutes longer.
But you do what you have to. You run to the store after you get your husband’s ten A.M. text and you make quinoa with wild salmon and asparagus and you drive it to him and it’s all worth it when he opens the passenger side door and gives you that smile that says you’re helping to turn it all around for him, you’re making his day exponentially better, because what’s a lifelong partnership for if not that?
He eases down into the passenger seat, still trim after all these years. He accepts the container with an appreciative glance inside. “You didn’t go to any trouble, right?” he asks. “You were already making this for yourself?”
We’re not really supposed to linger here in the drive, it’s for pickups and drop-offs only, but I’ve pulled way up and the security guard knows Larry and me. He’d never shoo us along. I’ve made sure we’re not blocking anyone. Unlike Dawn, I’m conscious of my impact on others.
She’s clearly not about to take back her review. She’s determined to see herself as the wronged party. It’s a joke, but I can’t afford to laugh. I’m genuinely afraid.
What if potential renters believe her? What if her vicious words somehow cancel out the other twenty-seven raves and they stop booking with me? Sometimes nastiness is more compelling than the truth.
The stakes are high, in ways Dawn couldn’t even begin to understand. It’s not just about me, or about Thad. It’s about the ripple effect outward—the harm Thad could do to other people. He’s well over eighteen, so I’m not legally liable anymore, but I’m still morally liable. I will be for the rest of my life. That’s what motherhood means.
I try to push down the rising panic. I tell myself it’s not life or death, but I can never convince myself. Not where Thad is concerned. There’s no way to forget the overdoses, the ambulance rides, the fear.
I see people walking in and out of the glass oncology palace, their backs hunched with exhaustion or too upright, like they’re using every bit of strength to maintain the rigidity of hope. Some are weak with che
mo, in wheelchairs or leaning on their loved ones for support. I do what I can to ease their suffering, which is to keep Larry’s stress as low as possible so he can give them the best possible care, a fighting chance.
I wish I could stop fearing that review, but I know how potent lies can be.
Larry kisses my cheek. “Thank you,” he says tenderly. “The salmon looks fantastic. So do you, by the way.”
I give his hand a squeeze. Such competent hands. “Fortunately, I happened to be making your favorite today.”
“I could use it.” He looks out the window briefly, and I know better than to ask. He prefers to complain about the system—the medical oncologists who need to be more honest with patients and their families and stop prescribing treatments that will only prolong discomfort and not lives because of their own egos, because they view death as failure, because they get higher reimbursement for more treatment than for honest conversations—rather than tell me about the specific losses he faces every day. It hurts him to watch good people die. He doesn’t have to say it; I can see it.
Radiation oncologists don’t get to know their patients as intimately as medical oncologists do. Larry spends a lot of time doing treatment planning (viewing simulations, consulting with other physicians) and less direct time with the patients. But he carries their prognoses; he carries their sorrows, even if he can’t name them as such. Governed by confidentiality, he isn’t allowed to name them at all. No patient names, no identifying details, but sometimes, he can’t hold it all in. Sometimes, he slips. That’s when I have to hold him up.
“What’s going on with you?” he asks.
I tell him about my trip to the market, about the price of wild salmon, about the new robe I bought for my mother. “She used to have such good taste,” I say. He reaches out and touches my shoulder. He gets it; he understands erasure, bit by bit.
