I'm Fine and Neither Are You(5)

“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.