crestfallen at this. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about her. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“The neighbors called my cell phone. They said you were breaking in, and that you were in their moop heap, whatever the hell that is. They asked if I wanted to have you arrested. These people are Ecstasy dealers, Hannah, and they thought you were out of control enough to be arrested.”
“Well, thanks for saying no. I guess.”
“I should have you arrested, you insane woman.” His voice cracked. He sat down on the vinyl visitor’s chair, running his hands through his hair. He didn’t look good. The scar on his cheek was particularly purple that day, something that happened when he wasn’t in the sun enough. His green custom-made shirt had egg on it, and he needed a haircut. “I don’t know what to do about you. You just . . .” He paused. “You are very, very bad for me. I cannot be around you anymore. But I’m so worried you’re going to drive yourself into the ground, sweetheart. Like, six feet under.”
“I won’t.”
He nodded and leaned back, crossing his legs.
“I called Daisy,” he said after a moment.
Hannah shook her head.
“I had to.”
“You didn’t have to do anything.”
“Hannah, wake up! ” He was yelling now, the veins on his temples emerging like angry little rivers running down either side of his forehead.
“You have lost everything. Get it? I can’t be here for you anymore.”
“What do you—”
“You’re going home,” he said. “It’s either that or some kind of center. Daisy and I agreed.”
“Daisy,” Hannah repeated. “And you.”
Hannah pictured her mother on the porch of the DeWitt House, white wine in hand, writing the next day’s activity in her planner.
It would be a warm, soft night on the peninsula. DeWitt would be in the house somewhere, listening to pop country music. She could hear the phone ringing, the soft tones of a pleasant greeting. Jon, how are you, honey? So good to hear your—
Hannah balled the sheets up in her hands.
“One month.”
“Why did you call her?” she wailed. “Fuck you!”
“Yeah? Hell with you, too, for making me do it. You know I actually thought about having you committed?” Jon’s voice cracked again, and suddenly he was next to her, his arms draped over her legs, his head in her lap. She put her hands in his hair.
So soft, she thought. Such nice, soft hair.
“It’s OK to say ‘fuck,’ you know,” Hannah said. “It feels really good sometimes.”
He shook his head. “I love you, Han. But I can’t do this, you know? I married someone who’s not right. In the head, I mean.
You have any idea how much that sucks?”
So this was how Hannah’s husband got her to go home again. He broke down, cried, and begged. It didn’t take long for Hannah to relent. After all, she’d hit bottom. As she sat in the hospital, comforting her crying husband, this much was finally obvious. She’d fallen off her own balcony, and now no one was left to help her get back up.
Hannah gets up and dusts herself off. From far away, she can hear the door of the DeWitt House open and close.
“Hello?” someone shouts up.
She stands up, relieved. Mr. Mitchell, or Mitchell, as the DeWitt household and everyone else in town calls him, is actually one person in the DeWitt world Hannah sort of wants to see. She tightens her robe and ambles down the stairs.
“Hannah! I heard you were home.” She makes a move to hug him, but he steps back politely and puts out his hand. Hannah blushes at her misstep. A seventy-year-old black handyman hugging the thirtysomething stepdaughter of his rich white employer? Not going to happen.
He looks at her robe. “Just getting up?”
“Still on Pacific time.”
“Hmmm,” he says. Hannah smiles. Mitchell has always been an unabashedly judgmental gentleman. “I was about to eat my sandwich.
Why don’t you sit with me on the porch?”
She nods and follows him outside. The DeWitt House
“The neighbors called my cell phone. They said you were breaking in, and that you were in their moop heap, whatever the hell that is. They asked if I wanted to have you arrested. These people are Ecstasy dealers, Hannah, and they thought you were out of control enough to be arrested.”
“Well, thanks for saying no. I guess.”
“I should have you arrested, you insane woman.” His voice cracked. He sat down on the vinyl visitor’s chair, running his hands through his hair. He didn’t look good. The scar on his cheek was particularly purple that day, something that happened when he wasn’t in the sun enough. His green custom-made shirt had egg on it, and he needed a haircut. “I don’t know what to do about you. You just . . .” He paused. “You are very, very bad for me. I cannot be around you anymore. But I’m so worried you’re going to drive yourself into the ground, sweetheart. Like, six feet under.”
“I won’t.”
He nodded and leaned back, crossing his legs.
“I called Daisy,” he said after a moment.
Hannah shook her head.
“I had to.”
“You didn’t have to do anything.”
“Hannah, wake up! ” He was yelling now, the veins on his temples emerging like angry little rivers running down either side of his forehead.
“You have lost everything. Get it? I can’t be here for you anymore.”
“What do you—”
“You’re going home,” he said. “It’s either that or some kind of center. Daisy and I agreed.”
“Daisy,” Hannah repeated. “And you.”
Hannah pictured her mother on the porch of the DeWitt House, white wine in hand, writing the next day’s activity in her planner.
It would be a warm, soft night on the peninsula. DeWitt would be in the house somewhere, listening to pop country music. She could hear the phone ringing, the soft tones of a pleasant greeting. Jon, how are you, honey? So good to hear your—
Hannah balled the sheets up in her hands.
“One month.”
“Why did you call her?” she wailed. “Fuck you!”
“Yeah? Hell with you, too, for making me do it. You know I actually thought about having you committed?” Jon’s voice cracked again, and suddenly he was next to her, his arms draped over her legs, his head in her lap. She put her hands in his hair.
So soft, she thought. Such nice, soft hair.
“It’s OK to say ‘fuck,’ you know,” Hannah said. “It feels really good sometimes.”
He shook his head. “I love you, Han. But I can’t do this, you know? I married someone who’s not right. In the head, I mean.
You have any idea how much that sucks?”
So this was how Hannah’s husband got her to go home again. He broke down, cried, and begged. It didn’t take long for Hannah to relent. After all, she’d hit bottom. As she sat in the hospital, comforting her crying husband, this much was finally obvious. She’d fallen off her own balcony, and now no one was left to help her get back up.
Hannah gets up and dusts herself off. From far away, she can hear the door of the DeWitt House open and close.
“Hello?” someone shouts up.
She stands up, relieved. Mr. Mitchell, or Mitchell, as the DeWitt household and everyone else in town calls him, is actually one person in the DeWitt world Hannah sort of wants to see. She tightens her robe and ambles down the stairs.
“Hannah! I heard you were home.” She makes a move to hug him, but he steps back politely and puts out his hand. Hannah blushes at her misstep. A seventy-year-old black handyman hugging the thirtysomething stepdaughter of his rich white employer? Not going to happen.
He looks at her robe. “Just getting up?”
“Still on Pacific time.”
“Hmmm,” he says. Hannah smiles. Mitchell has always been an unabashedly judgmental gentleman. “I was about to eat my sandwich.
Why don’t you sit with me on the porch?”
She nods and follows him outside. The DeWitt House
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