Down the Rabbit Hole

“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—”