“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Uhm, hello to you too,” said Tristen.
Something was wrong — maybe he was on drugs again. Opiates and speed were the daily vitamins of the editors of his generation but as far as Tristen knew, his father had been clean for years. He was way gaunt and sallow, though, with wet, stringy hair. Sounded like he was wheezing—
“I wanted to show you my car.”
“Your car? Since when do you have a car?”
“Out front. I’ll show you.”
Derek hesitated. He looked like he wished he was dead or wished Tristen dead or wished both of them dead. He stormed out in disgust, as if to minimize a scene at the workplace.
And there it was — like a thing expecting to be petted:
The Honda.
“See?”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Just… with some money I made.”
“Doing what?”
“Computer stuff. It was cheap.”
“What’d you do, some bitcoin rip-off? You hack an ATM?”
“No-o-o-o,” said Tristen, unfazed. He pointed toward the CR-Z like a model on a game show. “It’s pretty cool. It ain’t a Tesla, but—”
“You shouldn’t have come by. I’m barely holding on to this piece-of-shit job without your little unannounced visits.”
“Okay.”
“Well, is that all you wanted? To show me your new car? If it even is yours… Are you paying your mother rent? Your sister told me you’ve been staying there again. Are you giving her rent money?”
“Yeah, I am,” he stammered. “And I pay for groceries — not just mine, for the house. Anyway, I’m getting my own place soon…”
“Buying a little casita in the Hollywood Hills?” he said sarcastically. “You better not be into any illegal shit.”
“I’m not.”
“If you go to jail, my friend, you’re on your own. Your mother and I ain’t gonna rescue you. And you know what? I don’t believe you bought this car for a minute. Who bought it for you, Tristen?”
“I did. I told you—”
“Because if some man bought it for you, some faggot, that’s even worse than fucking wire fraud or destroying people online or whatever the fuck it is you’re up to, okay? Because if a john bought you a car, that makes you a whore, right? Wanna be a whore, Tristen?” Derek walked over and tapped the trunk of the Hybrid. “You go, girl.”
A young woman covered in tattoos raced from the building. She looked like one of those pale-skinned, blue- and black-haired porn stars Tristen knew from the SuicideGirls tube.
“Derek,” she said urgently. “You need to talk to Manny.”
“I’ll be right in,” he said. Without looking at either of them, he said, “This is my son”—like the introduction had been mandated by law.
“Oh hi!” she said, startled, then all happy-faced.
“Hi,” said Tristen.
“I’m Beth.”
He was too upset to give his name.
“That’s Tristen — queen of the sporty hybrid,” said Derek. He spun around and walked back to the building. Beth followed.
On their way in, Tristen heard her say, “Manny fucking hates the first cut. He was just, like, screaming at me. He’s totally out of control.”
—
It really did feel as if Reina was still alive, which gave some concern.
Her death seemed more and more like a daydream.
Dusty feared her mother had “won,” that she would always walk the earth, haunting her in some form or another. If all the years of therapy meant nothing, if even her dying meant nothing, where did that leave her? Ginevra tried to console, drawing comparisons to those who were raised in a fascist country that finally lost a despotic ruler. There was much rebuilding to be done, not only of infrastructure but collective spirit. The therapist said that her feelings were normal and she needed to give herself time. But Dusty insisted she had no feelings. That was the problem.
The private line rang — Livia, with “some news.”
Dumbfounded, she blurted out, “Did you find her?”
“No no! Not yet. I have other news.”
“Related though?”
“Yes.”
“Can I call you right back?”
A gal from Bartok was having a raucous hang with Allegra out by the pool, one of those casual, getting-to-know-you post-deal-signing playdates that were more about the fab house and the fab Dusty Lifestyle Experience than anything else.
She locked herself in the bedroom and curled up with the phone. “So what’s going on?”
“A few things,” said Livia, girding herself.
A week ago, when Dusty came clean about how she’d lost her daughter, Livia was stunned, and knew right away that finding Aurora might be impossible. Until then, everything that had been told to her over the years, or implied in glancing conversation, portrayed the case as a fairly typical adoption scenario. At the time, of course, Dusty had no desire to go further, so Livia didn’t probe. By accepting what she’d been told, she booked passage on Dusty’s leaky ship; she hadn’t enabled the actress’s false narrative, but rather conspired, in complete innocence, to endorse or at least subscribe to the history that was provided. But the facts she’d recently been apprised of — details Dusty blithely, wrongly presented as what Livia “already knew”—greatly disturbed. The storyline’s fresh parameters fell far outside the usual avenues and networks of Livia’s experience, and well beyond her sleuthhound capabilities. She understood the distortions and confusion of Dusty’s recollections; because of the guilt she carried for losing Aurora, she’d been deeply invested in the somewhat sugary expository yarn her mother had initially imposed. Reina had inculcated, shaped, and molded, persuaded and propagandized, masterfully exploiting the teen mom’s vulnerabilities. It made sense to her that Dusty would have cosigned whatever story she’d been spoon-fed at the age of sixteen, one that got reinforced over time — a wrenching tale, yes, but craftily commonplace (though in gross contradiction of the recently shared facts). Even if from early on Dusty was aware subconsciously that something didn’t jibe, the details had hardened into a mythology that served her wayward heart.
It was imperative that Livia handle with care; Dusty was family. Outside help was now required and it was time to have that conversation. But first, she needed to soften the blow — to give her something.
“I found Aurora’s dad.”
“You found Ronny?” she said with a smile, not really surprised. She’d provided Livia with the full name. How hard could it have been?
“Yes. And you did say he never tried to get in touch with you?”
“Absolutely not!” said Dusty. “Wow. God. Ronny!”
In truth, she was only mildly curious, and a little nonplussed. You found Ronny? Ronny Swerdlow? That’s the newsflash? Well, thanks for the memories… But, like, uhm, really? It made her bitchily wonder how Livia had been spending her time. Maybe the old broad had been in the general’s tent too long and forgotten what she knew about hand-to-hand combat. Why waste time tracking down a man who was useless to the cause? Besides, anyone could have gone on the Internet and found him, Marta’s daughter could have… but she needed to give Livia her due. The woman did know her shit.