Daydreamer

by Brea Brown

  Libby.Foster:

  Same here

  I type, then erase, any mention of my plans. I don’t want to say anything until I talk to Gary. Well, I want to tell him everything, but I know it’s not wise. I have to exercise some uncharacteristic self-restraint.

  Jude.Weatherington:

  I ws supposed to b n town next week, but…

  Libby.Foster:

  Now you’re not?

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Nope. Change in plns

  Libby.Foster:

  Bummer

  What happened?

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Too busy here

  Ws jealous of G’s coffee service

  Haven’t had a dcnt cuppa in days

  Libby.Foster:

  Yeah, I brew a mean pot of joe

  And I’m okay at some other more complicated things, too

  Jude.Weatherington:

  I know

  Libby.Foster:

  How busy are you?

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Sooooooooooooooooo busy

  Incredibly

  Sleep? Waht’s that?

  Libby.Foster:

  You’re not too busy to IM tho

  Jude.Weatherington:

  I’m gd at prioritizing

  And delegating

  Libby.Foster:

  Oh, so someone else is writing this for you right now?

  Jude.Weatherington:

  No. Smone else is doing my real work

  Libby.Foster:

  Get back to work

  Slacker

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Sigh. TTYL

  I know if I “talk” to him too much, I won’t be able to resist telling him everything. And I have to keep in mind that he may have moved on, like Lisa and Zoe suggested. It would be beyond mortifying to be rejected on instant messaging. Best to just act like nothing’s different, even though my life’s about to change forever, no matter what happens with Jude.

  30

  After three days of tracking down the elusive Gary, I set up a formal meeting to talk to him. At the meeting, he was distracted and perfunctory… until I told him I was giving him my notice. That got his full attention. While I had it, I told him I was quitting to “explore other opportunities,” but that I wanted my last big assignment to be finding an administrative assistant for the London office.

  “Jude and the other guys really need someone to do the day-to-day things that no one else wants to do,” I’d said, purposely using the exact words he’d used when I overheard him talking to Jude. I managed to maintain eye contact, keep a straight face, and not blush, too, which was a major accomplishment for me.

  Of course, the statement was lost on him. He probably thought I was brilliant for realizing my place and feeling the same way he does. But sure enough, after that, his buzzing cell phone, dinging computer, and the papers scattered on his desk started calling out to him again. He readily agreed that I should work with a placement agency in London to find someone, and he agreed that I’d spend my last week of employment with the company over there, training her.

  He dismissed me with, “Just work with Jude and keep him informed. I know he needs someone, but I’m too swamped to deal with it myself.”

  “That’s exactly what I figured,” I said cheerfully. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  On my way past Lisa and Zoe later, I gave them the thumbs-up, causing them to squeal like high school cheerleaders. Leslie poked her head out of her cubicle. I flipped her off. It felt good. What are they going to do? Fire me?

  I immediately sat down at my computer when I got to my desk and fired off an email to Jude:

  Hey,

  I’ve been put in charge of finding someone (a.k.a., an admin) for the London office. I’ll be working with a temp agency there to find him/her. Any specific qualifications you want me to list? I’ll be writing up the “advert” today, so shoot your ideas to me in an email.

  Libby

  An hour later, I got this response:

  Woo-hoo! Just make sure she (or he) knows how demanding I am. And how to make a decent cup of coffee.

  J

  My fingers twitched with the urge to type a response telling him everything else, but I didn’t. I didn’t have time, anyway.

  THURSDAY, APRIL 8, 9:22 A.M.

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Any lck w/ the admin search?

  Libby.Foster:

  You want to lick an admin?

  Jude.Weatherington:

  U know wht I mean

  And yes, sort of, by teh way

  Libby.Foster:

  Inappropriate

  Jude.Weatherington:

  My apolgoies

  Stress will do that

  Libby.Foster:

  I have three candidates lined up

  I’ll email you their CVs

  Do you want to sit in on the phone interviews? I can conference you in

  Jude.Weatherington:

  No, too busy

  I trust you

  Libby.Foster:

  Bad idea

  Just kidding

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Who’s training the new hre?

  Libby.Foster:

  Me

  Is that OK?

  Jude.Weatherington:

  There?

  Libby.Foster:

  No, there

  Jude.Weatherington:

  In Lodnon? seriously?

  Libby.Foster:

  Y. In London

  Jude.Weatherington:

  when?

  Libby.Foster:

  2 weeks

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Ah. V. good

  Must run

  Jude.Weatherington has logged off

  I hold the phone to my ear as I file my fingernails. “Yes, I’d like a passport please. And can you get my attorney on the phone when we’re finished here? I need to talk to her about distributing my parents’ estate. Also, if you could, please put me in touch with a pet relocation service for when I move overseas. Oh! And I need to sell my car. And my furniture. Ha, ha! Yes, everything must go. That’s right. I guess I can have all my clothes shipped later. Who would I talk to about that? Never mind. I’ll give them away to charity and start over across the pond. Yeah, England. I know, right? Totally exciting. If only I could get all these logistics out of the way…”

  Everything is in order, although it was a lot more complicated than in my dreams. After a few weeks of non-stop preparations, all I have to do is wait for the departure date to arrive. Which is easier said than done. It’s driving me insane.

  During the day, I stay pretty busy, but at night, it’s hard to sit still. TV’s no help; everything’s so boring. I go walking around the neighborhood a lot. It occupies my mind, as I attempt to memorize everything about it. I’ve lived here for almost five years, but I never really appreciated it. My two requirements when I moved here were 1) close to Wrigley field and 2) a warm, dry place to sleep each night. Now I see it as something a little more. A lot more. It’s where Jude and I fell in love. We spent a lot of time here, and I don’t want to forget it.

  But we’re experiencing a very rainy spring, so sometimes I have no choice but to be cooped up in the apartment with Sandberg. In those cases, I take the time to study. I’ve purchased at a local bookstore several books about British English. I’m sick of not understanding what Jude says. I took French in high school and as part of my Bachelor of Arts degree at Loyola, so I think I could probably keep up better in a conversation with a Frenchman than I can with the guy I love. Not acceptable. So I’ve been cramming. And laughing at some of the things I thought I understood but really didn’t.

  Speaking of Jude, he’s been relentlessly emailing, IM’ing, and videoconferencing me, under the guise of us discussing the new admin. Today we’re on a videoconference call, just the two of us, going over the plans for my visit to the London office. We’ve just gone through my entire itinerary, from the time I l
and until the new girl’s final training day, when I say breezily, “And then that’s it. I’m outta here.”

  He closes the notebook on the table in front of him and leans back, putting his hands behind his head. “You know, this would all be so much easier if you would just take the admin position here.”

  “Sorry, I’m already busy.”

  “Indeed. Your minions in Chicago need you.”

  I’ve almost forgotten I haven’t told him I’m quitting. And I’m actually kind of shocked that the news hasn’t gotten to him yet. Lightly, in order not to disturb the sleeping butterflies in my belly, I joke, “You weren’t kidding when you said you guys over there have no idea what’s going on in the rest of the company.”

  “What? What’d I miss?”

  “That’s going to be my last day,” I state. “For good. I’m not coming back to Chicago.”

  He processes the news for a few seconds, then ventures, “Not going back… at all?” He sits up straighter and folds his hands on the table in front of him. “Where are you going? What about Sandberg?”

  I laugh at his concern for the cat, of all things. “Sandberg will be there with me. I plan to take a year or so off, travel around the U.K. Do some research for a non-fiction book I’d like to write.”

  He stares at the screen. Finally, he grins and says, “Cor blimey... For a second there, you had me going! I totally believed you!”

  “I’m serious!”

  “Don’t make me call Gary in there to bubble you up.”

  Thanks to my studies, I now know this means “rat me out” and not “wash me,” as I had previously believed.

  I stand and gather all my papers in a pile, clutching them against my chest. “I’m not kidding. In less than a week, I’m leaving Chicago. Probably forever. And London’s the first stop on my tour.”

  He eventually believes me, after he drags a few more details out of me, such as how I’m going to support myself (my inheritance, as uncomfortable as that makes me) and, more importantly, how I’m going to watch my Cubs games this summer (thank God for the Internet).

  When he asks what made me decide to do it, I answer truthfully, “I’m sick of wasting my life. I don’t have anything or anyone tying me to this job or this town anymore. It’s time to move on.”

  He seems speechless, so I laugh and say, “I’m really excited.”

  Distractedly, with his eyes on his hands, he says, “Yes. Right. Well. That’s quite excellent for you. I suppose you’re very busy there, with all your preparations.”

  The group who has the room reserved after me arrives noisily. “Anyway, that’s our cue. I’ll talk to you later. Let me know if you think of anything else I need to know before I leave here Tuesday.”

  He waves limply, then I hit the button to disconnect the call.

  Leslie, one of the participants for the next meeting, says, “Ooh… a little high-tech reunion there?” To the rest of the group, she jokes, “We should check the TV screen for kiss-prints... or worse.”

  A few of them smile faintly, but for the most part her comment falls flat.

  “Grow up, Leslie,” I say wearily.

  “And turn into a dried-up prune like you? No, thanks.” She chomps her gum obnoxiously.

  The rest of the people in the room go back to their own conversations, so as I edge past her, I lean in and say just loudly enough for her to hear, “You know better than that.” When she wrinkles her nose and gives me a questioning glare, I tell her, “I know what you did, okay? So you can end your pathetic little fantasy of having slept with Jude.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I level the most sarcastically pitying look at her and shake my head slightly. “Oh, Leslie. So sad.” With that, I condescendingly pat her arm and walk out.

  31

  At the end of my last session with Dr. Marsh, he claps his hands together. “So… this is it, huh?”

  “This is it!” I agree, shrugging my shoulders up near my ears and standing.

  “When does your plane leave?”

  “Tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I have to be at O’Hare at 5:45.”

  “Are you going to sleep tonight?”

  “Probably not,” I admit with a grin.

  He smiles, then says quietly, “Well. You seem like you’re prepared for what you need to do.”

  “I am,” I reply confidently. “Very. And, like I said, I know it may not turn out the way I’ve dreamed it will. But no matter what happens, it’ll be forward progress.”

  He nods.

  “And I’ll have all of Europe to explore and get lost in if I have any sorrows to drown. At least I won’t be confined to my bed. And I won’t have to deal with any nosy co-workers gawking at me.”

  He stands and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Good attitude.”

  I shuffle my feet a little and almost chicken out, but then I just do it. Stepping forward, I put my arms around him. He readily returns the hug, to my surprise. Just as quickly, I step back.

  “Thanks for helping me be a little more normal. Don’t read anything into this—psychologically, I mean—but you’re the closest thing to a Dad that I’ve had, and it’s been important to me.” I haven’t reached for the tissues once during this session, but now I feel like I might need them.

  He nods professionally. “You’re welcome. It’s always rewarding to see a client make as much progress as you have.”

  “Aw, shucks.”

  “Now, get on that plane and don’t ever look back,” he advises.

  TUESDAY, APRIL 20, 2:19 P.M.

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Pick you up at Heathrow tmrrw nite?

  Libby.Foster:

  I’ll just take a cab

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Sure?

  Libby.Foster:

  Yes. I’ll be tired. And it’ll be late-ish

  Jude.Weatherington:

  It’s no bother, really

  Libby.Foster:

  I’ll be fine. Thanks, though. I’ll call you Thursday

  Jude.Weatherington:

  OK

  Safe travels

  Several minutes pass. The status line keeps saying, Jude.Weatherington is writing… but nothing else pops up until finally:

  Jude.Weatherington:

  Itll b good to c u

  I sit there wondering what he really wrote and decided against until Lisa knocks on the wall and pops her head over the partition. I quickly close the IM window, but not before she sees it was up.

  She smiles slyly. “Mm-hmm. Somebody a little excited for your arrival?”

  I duck my head as we walk to the break room for our afternoon pops. “I think we both are.”

  “I don’t blame you. But Zoe and I expect a full report as soon as you have access to a computer.” She pauses, then says, “Well, maybe not a full report. We just want to know the basics. You know, how the trip went, how the talk went, and if you got laid.”

  “Thanks for respecting my privacy.” I smile.

  “It doesn’t have to be a long email,” she allows.

  We’re still laughing when we get to the break room, but I stop as I realize this will be our last trip like this.

  “What?” she asks, alarmed by my sudden seriousness.

  Feeling foolish and maudlin, I answer, “Nothing. Aww… we’re outta Kit Kats!” hoping to pass off my sentimentality as disappointment.

  “You’re hopeless. And I hate you. You eat, what, one of those a day? And look at you! Tiny waist and big boobs. No wonder Jude’s all over you.”

  “No, he’s not!” Only in my dreams.

  “Well,” she smirks, “he will be. You’ll only have to lick your lips, and he’ll take that as invitation enough.”

  “Lisa!” I blush while I try and fail several times to get the pop machine to take my dollar.

  “Come off it. You’re not the innocent little virgin anymore.” She takes the dollar from me and gets it to go into the machine on the first t
ry while I gape at her.

  “What?” she asks when she turns around and sees my face. “It was easy.”

  “You knew?”

  “Knew what? How to put a dollar into a vending machine? Yeah. Mommy 101.”

  I narrow my eyes at her, trying to figure out if she’s being intentionally obtuse. I decide she is. “How’d you know I was”—I look around to make sure we’re really alone, and whisper—“intact?”

  She throws her head back and gives one of her familiar barking laughs.

  I hit the button for a Dr. Pepper and wait for her to respond.

  Finally, she says, “‘Intact’? What is this, 1928?”

  “Just keep your voice down,” I mutter from behind my can. “Or does everyone already know?”

  More soberly but still grinning, she answers, “No. Don’t get all purse-lipped and uptight. I just knew. I inferred, let’s say.”

  “You haven’t been reading my emails too, have you?”

  “I know you’re kidding. Or else we’re not friends anymore.” She buys her own Diet Coke and confides, “Some people have gay-dar. I have the virginity equivalent. Zoe was, too, when she first started working here, if it makes you feel any better. But she’s made up a lot of ground since then.”