WHO ARE YOU STALKING?

I’ll give you a snapshot of my stepmother. We’ll call her, Debbie. Cause that’s her name. My Dad married her when I was about twelve years old. My grandparents didn’t like her. I didn’t like her. I’m not even sure my Dad liked her. He pretended to, like the time when Debbie pointed out how I ate too fast. My Dad would say, Debbie’s right. You should eat slower. When Debbie told me I should exercise cause I was getting “round.” My Dad agreed with her and bought me an Abs-ercizer or whatever those things are that you squeeze into your stomach when you’re watching TV and eating Doritos. Now I’m the one who has to pay for a shrink because I have an eating disorder. Nice!

The final straw between Debbie and me was when she got a Doberman Pinscher. I liked dogs — I still love the little cuddly ones whose nails you can paint and hair you can dye. Dobermans? Not a fan. When I was 12, I was even less of a fan. This dog would jump up on the couch and stare at me like I was a T-Bone steak. I told my Dad about the problems I had with the dog and he said, “Debbie really loves that dog. Just try and cope with it.” Well, I’ll be! Cope? This dog was circling me like a shark. Then one day Debbie’s stupid dog lunged at me and scratched my back to the point where there was blood. Well, that was it. My Mom wouldn’t let me stay over at my Dad’s house until he convinced Debbie to lose the dog. The dog stayed. Luckily, my Dad’s marriage was falling apart.

About a three months after that, my Dad and I reconciled when he finally separated from Debbie. Later, bitch! And bye to the dog too. This was over fifteen years ago and we never spoke of it again… Until recently. One night at dinner with my Dad, I brought up the old battle axe. I asked him if he had heard anything from her or knew what she was up to. He said he used to pay alimony to her in Jersey, but had no idea where she was now. Well, I had to know.

When I get home a Google stalking I go. I found her pretty quickly, she was a Realtor in North Jersey. Real ritzy homes and crap. I wasn’t pleased. Then I found a photo of her and she looked the same, but 40 pounds heavier — maybe I should send her the Abs-ercizer. Of course, her realtor office had a phone number. I didn’t have the nerve to call though — until I had a few drinks.

“Hi, I was wondering if I could speak with Debbie?”

“Oh, geez, I guess you didn’t hear, but she passed away.”

“Awesome!”