“I didn’t mean to spook you,” he said, sitting on the edge of my desk.
I glanced pointedly at the chair across from my own. “Who said I’m spooked?”
“Baby keep you up last night?” he said, looking down at me. I would never understand how a man who spent hours on his pecs each week could so blatantly fail to address his nose hair situation. Russ was the co-director of medical development—a title that had been created just for him after he protested when I was promoted to the same position first. However, he was sharp as a scythe and had taught me a lot about the art of closing a difficult “give,” as we referred to charitable donations made to the university’s hospital and medical school. As such, I tolerated more of his antics than I probably should have.
“He’s six , Russell. So no, he did not,” I said, as though my champion sleeper of an infant had not evolved into an elementary-aged insomniac with a chronic bedwetting problem. Sanjay felt this was the result of my coddling Miles; he said I had created a reward system in which our child was given attention and affection in exchange for destroying any semblance of REM sleep I might have otherwise enjoyed. I didn’t know what else to do—I couldn’t lock him in his room and insist he roll around on wet sheets until morning. And Sanjay was such a heavy sleeper that by the time he was conscious enough to be of any use, I was already wide awake and finished with putting Miles back to bed.
Russ regarded me skeptically. “You just look tired.”
I leaned back in my chair to escape the cloud of his coffee breath. “You know when you say that you’re basically telling someone they look awful, right?”
“You don’t look awful. Just like you could use a night or two in a hotel room away from your kids.”
I was not about to point out how inappropriate this comment could come across. “I’m swamped, and you and I already have a meeting on the books today. What’s up?”
Russ clapped his hands, and I had to force myself not to wince—long-term sleep deprivation had made me skittish. “George Blatner just called. He’s in town and wants to swing by tomorrow morning, which means we’re going to need a proposal polished and ready before then. Medical initiatives, potential impact, supersad patient story—the whole nine. I’d write it, but I’m closing with the Rosenbaums this afternoon. And you know Adrian can’t handle it,” he said, referring to our staff writer, who took days to draft a single page.
“I’m on it,” I said, because that’s what I always said when there was work to be done.
Russ grinned. “Pediatric cancer’s a goldmine—I’m willing to bet Blatner will drop close to a mil. You’re welcome.”
“Russell?”
He looked at me expectantly. “Yeah?”
“Please shut the door on the way out.”
This meant I had even less time to get through the day’s work than I had budgeted for, and just a few minutes to prepare for my nine o’clock meeting with my boss, Yolanda. Yet I still pulled my phone out of my bag and texted Jenny.
Please end it for me
Jenny usually wrote back right away, even if I texted late at night. But nearly an hour passed before I heard from her.
No can do, my love
Pretty please? There’s a free latte or three in your future if you do
They don’t serve coffee in heaven
Your point
Then I added, Russ dropped another unexpected project on my desk.
Another hour passed before she wrote back.
You could quit
It was such an un-Jenny-like thing to say that I actually checked to make sure I was looking at the right chain of messages. Yes—the text was from her.
Everyone had an off day, I reminded myself. Then I wrote:
I wish
To which she responded, Don’t wish. If you’re not happy, make a change.
Now that sounded more like Jenny, who spouted inspirational quotes the way some people recited Bible verses. Still, I couldn’t say I agreed. Change was a privilege reserved for people whose families didn’t rely on them for food, shelter, and health insurance. I thought she’d know that by now.
I stared at my phone screen, which was lit with a photo of Stevie and Miles frolicking on the beach during our last family vacation two years earlier, wondering how to respond. Jenny meant well, I reminded myself, so I texted her a heart symbol and set the phone beside my keyboard so I could continue chiseling through my workload.
But rather than working, I imagined myself in front of the ocean. Only this time I didn’t fantasize about being alone. Instead I was with Stevie, Miles, and Sanjay. And in this fantasy, my children were building a sandcastle together instead of competing to see who could tear the other’s limbs off first; and my husband, who was happy and fulfilled—or perhaps just gainfully employed—was gazing at me from his beach towel the way I often caught Matt looking at Jenny.
Which is to say with a look of love I had not seen in quite some time.
THREE
Sanjay called just before five, minutes after I had finally started writing the proposal I would be presenting the next morning. There would be no time to edit it, but just as well; I would be spared one of my supervisor’s infamous revisions in which nouns were forced into verbitude. In Yolanda’s world, you were expected to logic a problem, then inbox her the answer.
“Hey,” I answered. “What’s up?”
“Just reminding you that you’re picking the kids up from camp today.”
“Crap.”
“You forgot.”
I could barely remember my middle name half the time, let alone events he failed to put on our family calendar. “I did,” I confessed. “Is there any way you can do it?”
“I have a jam.” As a teen, Sanjay had dreamed of being the Indian Stevie Ray Vaughan—hence our daughter’s name—and had recently joined a local garage band in what I assumed was a last-ditch attempt to recapture his youth before turning forty. “Remember?”
I was tempted to make a crack about how I was too busy keeping our family afloat to stay on top of his leisure activities. But then I glanced at the three lines I had just typed in an otherwise blank word processing document. If I left work at five and actually paused for dinner and to tuck in the kids, I would be up until at least eleven trying to wrap up the proposal. I could ask Russ for help, but he was probably already out golfing. If memory served, he was playing the back nine with Yolanda. How was it that everyone else managed to find free time?
I was nearly ready to curse with frustration when I remembered that Cecily was in camp with Miles and Stevie this week. Jenny would be happy to pick up the kids for me. “I’ll handle it. Have fun with your band,” I said to Sanjay, and though I had not meant this to come out as bitter as it sounded, I hung up without saying so.
I called Jenny from my office line. When she didn’t pick up, I sent her a follow-up text and returned to the proposal. By 5:15 I still had not heard from her, which meant I should have left at least seven minutes earlier in order to make it to the kids’ summer camp before they began charging me a dollar per child for each minute I was late.
I emailed the document I had been working on to myself, grabbed my purse, and speed-walked out of the office, praying no one would see me. The official end to our workday was five o’clock, and the department liked to flaunt this so-called perk when recruiting new hires. But ever since I was promoted, my coworkers gave me the side-eye if I was spotted leaving before the night janitor arrived. This frequently made me wonder just how much I really needed a fancy title and an extra eight thousand dollars a year. (On the latter count, the unfortunate answer was a lot .)
Russ did not seem to be subject to the same scrutiny. Maybe it was because he was a man. Or maybe because he waltzed through life expecting that things would go his way—and they mostly did. I sometimes wished I had it in me to emulate him and loudly announce I was going to a VERY IMPORTANT MEETING every time I left the building.
I made it to the parking lot without a single questioning glance and had just begun contemplating which route would get me to the kids’ camp fastest when I realized my car was no longer where I had left it that morning.
Was there another area designated for electric cars? Maybe stress had short-circuited my mental compass. But as I looked beyond the concrete wall, the glowing sign for the buffalo wings bar where my colleagues insisted celebrating every birthday and business deal was blinking back at me—exactly as it had been that morning.
“This cannot be happening,” I said aloud. I knew talking to myself made me look crazy, yet I usually did it anyway, which suggested that I should be more concerned about my mental health than how my muttering looked to other people.
“What can’t be happening?” Russ came sauntering out of the elevator, swinging his keys on his finger. He stopped abruptly and cocked his head. “Uh-oh. What’s wrong, Penny?”
I will not cry, I told myself. I will not cry. I will not . . . I felt a single tear escape the corner of my eye, which I quickly wiped away. “Aren’t you supposed to be golfing?”
“I got held up in a meeting,” he said. “So, what happened to you?”
“My car is missing,” I said.
“Well, can you Uber?” Russ grinned at me. “You do know what Uber is, don’t you?”
“It’s not a good time for jokes, Russell. I’m late to get my kids, my car has been . . .” Now that my aging hatchback was no longer occupying the parking space, I could see the sign on the wall that clearly stated nonelectric vehicles would be towed at the owner’s expense. “Impounded, and—” I had to stop because I was about to blurt out all sorts of vulnerable things to a man who probably ate baby bunnies for breakfast.
Then I had an idea. Granted, it was a terrible idea, but I was low on options and out of time. “Russell, can you drive me somewhere?”
From his expression, you’d think I just asked him to whisk me off to Wyoming. “I’m already late.”