Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

“And none of it had anything to do with Molly or Liz or that poor little boy.”

“No. But it still doesn’t mean you have no brain and no heart.” He grinned at her. “The trick is to be more aware of what you’re doing, as well as why you’re doing it. Emotions can create problems that don’t need to exist. Express them to the right person at the right time and then let go of them. That’s my advice,” he said, with a judicious nod.

They looked at each other, and then the muffled rumbling returned—a distant racket, but getting closer; echoing, vibrating like a train on a track heading their way . . .

“Don’t tell me. That’s the sound of the train I missed to a life less ordinary.” Elise frowned at the flat affect of her voice. “Not that I’d know what to do once I got there.”

She looked down at the grass-green jacket and black skirt she was wearing . . . then at the sticklike legs in gaping black boots. She shook her head as she stood up straight again.

She was Daria Morgendorffer. Instantly she felt the cynical, pessimistic and sardonic connection and, despite her recent revelations, she had to admit it was the most comfortable costume yet. She used both hands to feel and examine the large round glasses set nerdishly on her face, then turned around slowly.

As a rule, this persona never smiled unless she had a good reason—a really good reason. Elise had a really good reason.

“Hank Hill,” she droned in Daria’s happy-as-she-ever-got monotone. “My brother from another mother.” Hank stared at her as if she’d just asked what propane was. “Same father, different mothers? Mike Judge and MTV?” She pointed to herself, referring to her character creator and television network, then at him and his. “Mike Judge and Fox.”

“Oh. I see what you mean. I thought you were telling me we were relatives.” He looked relieved. “It wouldn’t be impossible. My extended family is already stretched as broad as daylight—nothing about it surprises me anymore.”

“My family, on the other hand, is as ordinary as white paper,” said Elise. “Father. Mother. Sister. Strangers who clearly carried the wrong baby home from the hospital.”

“Aha.”

“In my dream life I’m the only child of stationary characters, like high-end mannequins, who accept that I’m plain, unfashionable and aloof; arrogant, cynical and cranky. They also travel a lot.”

“You forgot smart, sensitive and logical.”

“Also realistic, honest and doomed to live a lonely life.”

Hank tipped his head to one side, and after a moment she saw the twinkle of Martin’s humor in his green-hazel eyes. “Big fan?”

“Huge. I love Daria. I am Daria . . . Well, before I looked like her. The real me is like her.”

“Yep. I can see that,” he said, in a short, clipped, Hank-like manner. “You both avoid people because they make you feel vulnerable. Those you can’t avoid you push away because it’s hard for you to trust. You’re defensive in a way that makes people dislike you—so you’re not surprised or confused when they do. You mock the world so it’s less likely to disappoint you. The only difference is that she’s a child learning to cope with her life; you’re an adult who should have managed to find more mature methods by now.”

“What?” Elise hadn’t expected the awkward, introverted Hank to be so direct—she’d forgotten about Martin.

“Shutting down and running is no way to deal with your life, Elise.”

“I don’t shut down and run.”

“The hell you don’t.”

“I don’t.”

Hank stepped back to reveal a different point of view.

Costumes on both sides of the aisle lost their color and their shapes melted away . . . and suddenly there was Jeremy, sitting at their dining room table, his laptop open in front of him.

Elise remembered the occasion.

He didn’t look up when she entered the room, but she was relieved to see him shuffling though their unpaid bills—her credit card had been declined at the Piggly Wiggly that morning.

“I’m brewing tea, want some?” she asked.

“No.” He startled her when his fist hit the table and he shouted, “Where the hell is all the money going?”

“What?”

“The money, Elise, the money! Where’s it going?”

“I don’t know,” she shouted back, automatically feeling guilty for keeping them perpetually on the precipice of financial ruin—though she didn’t know why. “My paychecks go straight into our account. You know I’m not having anything withheld.”

“This.” He waved a statement at her. “Bobby’s Hobbies?”

“I bought a couple new tubes of paint and three brushes a few weeks ago.”

“Budget. We have a budget.”

“And they’re miscellaneous entertainment—hardly enough to break us.”

“What’s this . . . Nordstrom?”

“Shoes, but—”

“But I thought we agreed you’d cut back on buying shoes for a while. I remember us laughing about it when you promised to cut back to shoe emergencies only.” He looked at her askance.

“They’re a gift.”

“A gift? For who?”

“For you, if you must know. The Ferragamo oxfords that you liked, I bought them for your birthday. I haven’t bought a new pair for myself in months.”

He had to take in a deep calming breath before he could speak to her again. “The money has to be going somewhere, Elise.”

“Maybe if I take a look . . . I deal with numbers all day, maybe it’s something simple that—”

“What, you’re the only one here who can add and subtract? Look, if you think I’m doing a shit job with our finances you can do them. Here!” Instantly angry again, he shoved a pile of papers across the table to her. “You do them.”

She slowly pushed them back, saying, “I don’t think you’re doing a shit job. I was just offering to help, to take a second look. I’m sure it must be something simple . . . a stray decimal point.”

Mostly mollified, he sighed. “I’ve checked and rechecked.” He shook his head in deep regret. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to dip into your inheritance again.”

“Really?” Her half of the money her grandmother left was not a great fortune, but it was a sizable sum held in a trust that her mother controlled until she turned twenty-five in two years. Her mother, however, was an extremely generous and lax guardian who barely blinked twice whenever Elise asked to draw on the funds. “Again? It’s that bad?”

His expression read: I wouldn’t have brought it up if it wasn’t.

She sighed. “I’ll call Mom later; ask her to transfer more money into our savings account. It should only take a day or two, so I’ll call the bank first thing Monday—”

“ I’ll call the bank on Monday. You need to march yourself into Winston’s office on Monday and tell him you deserve that promotion. Be firm, sweetheart. You’re better qualified, you have more experience, you’ve been there longer . . . Tell him you deserve it.” He flipped his hands palms up. “There’s no reason for you not to get it, Elise. And the way money disappears around here, we’re going to need the raise.”

He closed the laptop and gathered up the rest of their accounting materials and left her sitting there.

Elise turned to Hank Hill and pushed her big black Daria glasses up against the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t know how to tell him I’d already lost the promotion—that took me another week.” She lowered her gaze to the floor . . . where her pride was. “Took a lot longer for me to figure out where the money was going.”

He was sympathetic. “The bastard. I wouldn’t mind kicking his ass for you.”