Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

When asked to comment, Chandler’s lawyer, Raina Chandler-Farley, said, “Ollie is innocent on all counts. He has devoted his life to nurturing his students’ spirituality and has never cared at all about materialism.” When pressed about the allegations of marijuana farming, Chandler-Farley said tersely, “No comment.” (Page Six knows that this means: “guilty mother-effers!”)

Both Chandlers are offspring of the much-revered author Richard Chandler, who made headlines with his own Nobel scandal last year. We can’t help but wonder if the elder Chandler sees this latest development as divined by the universe or if he’s making calls to bring in the big boys and help save his youngest, the prodigal son. Calls to his publisher went unreturned.

“I need to know what you want me to do about your apartment,” Raina says when I reach her.

“What do you mean? Can’t they just take the pot plants out?”

“Yes,” she replies, like this is the dumbest question in the world. “They are obviously not leaving the pot plants in your closet to get your winter boots high.”

“Great then.”

“Not ‘great then.’ Because Ollie is the subject of an FBI investigation and because they indicted him today and because he is such a moron that he had illegal drugs on the premises, they consider your apartment a crime scene.”

“A crime scene for romance,” Vanessa says because we’re in the car on the way home from the mountain, and I’m on speakerphone.

“What?” Raina barks. “Who is this?”

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” I say.

“This family is a goddamn mess, that’s what’s going on. And naturally, I’m handling it.” Raina’s phone beeps twice, and she mutters, “Hold on,” and then it’s silent.

“Man,” Vanessa sighs. We’re stuck in the snarled traffic again on the commute back to the hotel. “You can’t make this stuff up.”

I don’t answer because I’m still pissed off.

“Listen. I know you’re mad about Theodore. But that’s the point of this trip. Of the book. Of the dare. You have to leave your comfort zone if you’re ever going to rejigger your own master plan.”

I stare out the window and try to look angrier.

“Come on, Willa. I’m your best friend. You need to trust me.”

I clench my jaw, and then Raina is back.

“Sorry. Grey has a stomach bug. Of course. Of course he does.” She inhales. “Here are your options. One: come home and deal with this.”

“We just got here!” Vanessa says too loudly, then adds: “Hey Raina, it’s Vanessa.”

“Well, your landlord is saying you’ve defaulted on your lease.”

“What?” I say. “How?”

“Yeah, um, illegal growth of marijuana plants pretty much gives him an out.”

I rub my face. “So then what?”

“Option two: move your stuff to storage. Option three: pray that your brother didn’t actually do any of the crap they’re saying.” Her other line beeps again. “God! Hang on.”

She clicks over, but the line mistakenly goes dead.

“Hey look,” Vanessa points to the car a lane over. “It’s marijuana mom! Now she’d support Ollie.”

Indeed it is. The MOMS FOR MARIJUANA minivan is just ahead. We inch up, trying to catch a glimpse.

“Ugh. I should probably go back to New York and help.”

“Hold up. What’s the easiest thing to do?” Vanessa asks.

“Go back to New York and avoid Theo.”

“Interesting,” she says. Then, after a pause: “So what would your revised master plan tell you to do, the opposite of what is easy?”

I sigh. I hate this stupid exercise. It runs counter to every instinct that I’ve spent my life adhering to: the instincts that tell me to tuck my head, make no sudden movements, linger in the shadows. Though admittedly, I have terrible instincts for just about everything.

“The opposite of what is easy would be to stay.”

“So?”

I know what I have to do.

“My new Master Universe Way will be to stay.”

I feel sick just saying it out loud.

Vanessa laughs and reaches over to squeeze my hand.

“See, just like that, we’ve changed your destiny.”

Though Seattle natives swear that it doesn’t rain in the summer, it is, in fact, damp and drizzly the entire next day, which is just as well because I’m too sore to move. Vanessa decamps to the hotel lobby to start writing, and I loiter in bed, mostly dodging Raina’s phone calls but also dodging life

I have gotten what I know about Oliver’s situation from TMZ and Page Six, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s my brother and I trust him or if it’s because he pulls off doe-eyed innocence so well (“Namaste, my friends”) or if it’s just because my dad has brainwashed me to conclude that what is meant to be will be, but I believe Oliver’s claim of naiveté. I believe him when he stands next to Raina and a publicist I didn’t even realize he had (“Ollie has a publicist?” I text Raina), as they hold court outside Yogiholics, and Ollie rubs his prayer beads and says in a very calm but totally unpatronizing voice that he doesn’t believe in capitalism and if anyone is the victim here, it is him, his practitioners and the other devoted few who were also duped by Yogi Master Dari when he asked them to donate to his cause.

It’s true that the right thing, not just the easy thing, would be to go back to New York. Yes, to fly back immediately, even though I can offer no real counsel. Maybe I could offer my siblings some comfort, but truth told, they hadn’t exactly enveloped me with sympathy when my own life fell apart. Raina slipped me a bottle of Xanax while I was packing, and Oliver stuffed a “healing necklace,” whatever that is, in my toilet kit. But those aren’t exactly the pillars of support that one’s looking for when one finds herself at rock bottom.

There’s a knock on the hotel room door and a muffled voice calls out:

“Room service.”

Vanessa had mentioned that she’d send up breakfast, so I limp my way out of bed, my hamstrings creaking, my lower back explosive, the space between my shoulder blades a minefield. I try to pull on my sweats but it just isn’t worth the agony of bending over, so I wrap the hotel robe around me in a loose knot and shuffle to the door.

I shouldn’t have quit those Sunday runs with Shawn , I think. Maybe I can start running again. Email him and tell him we should start running again. Rewrite our Master Universe Way together. Program our Together To-Do! app for tri-weekly runs. That seems nice. That seems lovely.

I know that I claimed that we mutually decided running wasn’t worth it. But really, it was me. We were married now, who needed to stay in shape? Wasn’t it so much better to honor Sunday as God intended? As a day of rest? Shawn pointed out here that he didn’t realize I actually believed in God, and that he couldn’t help but wonder if I wasn’t religious only when convenient. And I sat on the couch and thought about the fact that maybe he was right. But I still didn’t want to go running.

Later that afternoon, when he went out to Hop Lee for Chinese food, it occurred to me that I had my own religion: that everyone in my family had been indoctrinated into the cult of Richard Chandler, and believing in that (or disbelieving, if you were Raina) was enough. It was already exhausting to spend your days rationalizing and theorizing and putting everything in its logical place, so if I didn’t believe in God, actual God, well, who could blame me? My dad was God. That’s what everyone had told me, anyway.

“Room service!” the man echoes again.