Convince Me

by Nina Sadowsky

  I was pumped. We were going to be changing the very nature of gaming. I didn’t understand all the technical details, but I knew I was happier than I’d ever been.

  Shackles had been cut from my wrists and ankles. I was building something I believed in, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. If Justin and I hadn’t randomly met briefly all those years ago back when we were both just starting business school, if he hadn’t remembered my (pretty normal) acts of friendship toward him so fondly, if he hadn’t decided to come back to L.A. after finishing up his MBA in New York, if, if, if…

  Those early days were heady. We took pride in putting together a talented team and Justin’s enthusiasm and energy spilled over onto everyone. We all knew that we were making entertainment, but we were lit up with a messianic glow, convinced somehow that we were also fulfilling some extraordinary higher purpose. We worked hard and played hard together, becoming regulars at a rotation of local places, forming deep friendships as we built the company.

  Molly appears in front of me with a refresh of my drink. She really is a great girl. I’m man enough to recognize that my irritation with her isn’t really about her at all. I pull her in for a quick squeeze and a kiss.

  The launch, Convincer’s long-sought goal, is now only weeks away. Dread lodges in my gut, and a shudder passes through my body. Can I pull this off alone?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CAROL

  I devoted my life to protecting my son and yet here I am at his funeral. Yet more proof that life is both painfully short and tragically unpredictable.

  In fact, in my experience, it’s exactly when you think you’ve got a situation wired that the fates throw a curveball to keep you on your toes.

  One such example: When Justin was just shy of seventeen, his class took an “outdoor education” trip to the Catskill Mountains. For them, four full days of tugging ropes and swatting insects. For me, four full days of freedom from my role of “Justin’s mother.”

  I arranged to take the days off work. Booked myself a hotel room in the city. I wasn’t just thinking about prowling for a pickup, although that was penciled in to my agenda. I also bought a ticket for a Broadway matinee, and planned to do a little shopping. Mostly I relished the idea of being alone and anonymous in the midst of the buzzing New York hive.

  My first day had been entirely satisfactory. I dropped Justin off at his bus and drove right to my hotel, where I had arranged early check-in. I took a long, luxurious bath in the spa tub in my suite, and then went for a walk, soaking up the energy of the city. I stayed hidden behind sunglasses and didn’t engage much with other people. When I did, to buy a sandwich at a deli or to inquire about the price of a scarf, I adopted a vague accent and pretended I spoke limited English.

  I was hiding in plain sight and I loved it. That night in the hotel, I ordered room service and watched movies, went to bed early and slept well.

  The next day was more of the same. I went to the Met and wandered the permanent collection, then walked for miles, happily observing the street theater in Manhattan: vendors selling knockoff designer purses, tiny well-dressed ladies-who-lunch toting tiny, equally well-dressed dogs, briskly moving businessmen, determined-looking suit-clad women going even faster than the men and in heels, a rainbow coalition of nannies with their young charges, a string of schoolchildren crossing a street escorted by their teachers and linked together by a bright purple rope.

  I was deeply and happily in my solitude when my phone rang. The caller ID revealed a number I didn’t recognize. Some primal instinct overrode my temptation to simply dismiss the call. “Hello?” I answered with some trepidation.

  “Carol, this is Ronna Markson from the high school. Justin is fine, but…”

  My breath snagged on the word but. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” The words shot from my mouth.

  “He’s fine. He’s got a gash on his head, but we’ve been to the emergency room and they were able to close it with butterfly stitches. He’s fine,” she repeated. “But we don’t think he should stay for the rest of the trip. Just in case he has a mild concussion. He’s fine.”

  I checked out of the hotel immediately. Got in my car and drove. Over the course of the three-plus-hour journey to the kids’ campground, I fretted over Justin’s well-being. I also irrationally excoriated myself for trying to escape the responsibility of my child, even briefly. I know now it didn’t make sense, but somehow I convinced myself that if I had stayed at home in my identity as “Justin’s mother,” none of this would have happened.

  By the time I reached the campsite, tired, stressed, guilty, bladder bursting, I was on the verge of tears, which fell freely as soon as I saw my boy. Pale faced and lacking his usual exuberance, a thick white bandage covering half of his forehead, he seemed frail, young, and vulnerable.

  “Oh, baby,” I crooned, pulling him into my arms. “Poor thing. How did it happen?”

  Justin didn’t respond, but Ronna did. “Some of the other boys say he started it, actually, throwing rocks, acting like a bully. He got hit when one of them fought back.”

  “Did you see him start it?” I demanded, my blood instantly boiling.

  “Uh, no, but…”

  “I see,” I said coldly. “You’re very willing to believe these other boys over Justin, aren’t you? My son is the one with the head wound, and somehow he’s the problem? Clearly, you don’t know my son very well. He is incapable of being a bully.”

  I glanced over at Justin. I could see the hurt in his eyes, the wounded embarrassment at this false accusation. “Come on, baby, we’re leaving,” I soothed him. “I won’t let you spend another minute here.”

  Ronna was also eager for us to get on our way, bringing over a release form for me to sign and Justin’s packed rucksack. “You shouldn’t drive all the way back tonight,” she suggested. “There’s a motel in town that’s not too bad.”

  “This isn’t over,” I hissed at her as we departed. “I won’t have my boy unjustly accused.”

  We found the motel, a creaky, weather-beaten place with a tiny diner attached. I rented one room with two beds for us to share; I didn’t want to let Justin out of my sight. He put up a protest, but I suspected he was secretly relieved.

  Over grilled cheese and fries in the diner, I asked again about the events that led to his injury. With his eyes ducked shyly down, Justin told me how he’d defended a smaller kid from one of the class bullies, stepping in to physically block an assault. The bully backed off in the moment, but later ambushed Justin, pelting him with rocks until he was bloody. The kids who saw the attack were too scared to help, and lied to avoid being the next victims.

  “I knew it!” I declared triumphantly. “I knew you couldn’t have been the instigator.” I was outraged. I wanted Justin to name names. I wanted the bully who’d attacked my son expelled from the school, and the kids who lied to protect the bully forced to tell the truth. But Justin refused to give me the names. He pled with me, insisting it would be worse for him if he ratted.

  “I have power now, Mom, don’t you see? I have something over him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I replied. “I don’t know what kind of power you think you get from shielding him. Yes, it’s important to stand up to bullies and I’m glad you did, but you don’t then protect them.”

  Justin shut down. His spine went rigid. He cracked his neck with crisp precision. Finished his meal in silence and crawled into his bed in our motel room as soon as dinner was over. I stayed up most of the night, setting an alarm to ring every two hours so I could doze a bit but also keep an eye on Justin.

  Our drive back home the next morning continued our conversational standoff. Justin would discuss anything with me but the details leading to his assault. If I brought it up in any way, shape, or form, he shut me down.

  Once we were crossing the threshold of our townhouse, he turned to
me and gripped me in a hug. Now that he was taller than me and wider too, we fit together more awkwardly than when he was a little boy, but his scent still felt more like home to me than any physical place.

  “Thank you for coming to get me. Now promise you won’t ask me about the names ever again.”

  I protested, insisting that as his mother I had a right to know, that the school had an obligation to prevent bullying, that other students could be in danger, but no argument I made swayed him. I disagreed with him, but also felt a grudging admiration for the strength of character he was showing, his determination to handle his problems on his own. I decided to let it go.

  I’m pulled from this memory by someone I don’t recognize offering me a plate of food. A hamburger and fries, piled high and greasy.

  The smell takes me right back to that night in the diner and turns my stomach. It was the first time I know of that Justin kept a secret from me, but I also know it was not the last.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ANNIE

  After we were engaged, I became thoroughly swept up in the same kind of bridal frenzy I’d seen descend on any number of my peers.

  I became fixated on my dress. I boldly commissioned an avant-garde designer friend of Justin’s to make me a confection, and then squirmed in frustration as I thought the dress he designed was all wrong, would never fit properly, would never be done in time, would be a disaster!

  My sky-high expectations for the dress seemed to come from my deeply hidden hope that I would be enough for Justin, which itself, of course, signaled to me that I wasn’t and never would be. I pushed this all aside though, and let myself get swept up in the whirl. What bride wants to believe she isn’t enough for her groom?

  enough [i-ˈnəf]

  adjective, sufficient to fill a need or desire

  synonyms: adequate, acceptable, satisfying, suitable

  antonyms: insufficient, inadequate, deficient

  Besides my dress obsession, I was absorbed in pre-wedding trials, tribulations, and delights: narrowing the guest list (Justin wanted to invite everyone in the world, it seemed), picking bridesmaids (and their attire), asking my stepdad to walk me down the aisle, choosing an officiant, flowers, a menu, music, and a pompously tiered cake.

  I asked Bella to be my maid of honor at a champagne-soaked lunch at a Malibu restaurant overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We both cried a little and hugged a lot. She promised to love Justin as much as she loved me and then threw herself into the role, planning my shower, organizing spa and beauty appointments, and holding my hand through every little crisis. I resolved to leave any of her past voiced concerns about our relationship behind.

  I was also super busy at work and had several friends’ weddings to attend, including two destination affairs that Justin and I attended together (Maui and Cabo), so it felt like the eleven months between Justin’s epic proposal and our actual wedding day flew by in a blur of preparation and anticipation.

  Five weeks before our wedding, a heartwrenching story broke on the local news. A notoriously eccentric old woman by the name of Birdie Tonks died in her Hancock Park home. Even though she was wealthy, with both money and four children, she died totally alone save for her twenty-six cats.

  The animals were practically feral; Birdie had apparently been in decline for some time and none of her kids came by much, if at all, in the months, and possibly the years, before her death.

  I knew Birdie a little. We volunteered at the same animal shelter. She was kooky, sweet, a little frail. I always liked her, but I also didn’t think much about it when she stopped volunteering. People came and went all the time. I also had no idea she was an “heiress,” which I learned watching news footage of her corpse being carried from her mansion on a stretcher.

  When her youngest daughter discovered her mother, Birdie had been dead for over a week. The discovery of the body brought forth the three other siblings, eager to pick over their mother’s estate. While Birdie’s four children found their own petty squabbles to engage in (there was both gossip and lawsuits), they were equally eager to dispose of the “kids,” which was how Birdie referred to her beloved cats.

  Word got around our network of animal rescue volunteers. Many of the cats were older; most of them faced certain death if they went into a shelter. One Wednesday night, over a dinner of take-out ramen, when I was trying to get Justin to make a decision about his boutonniere, a frantic text conversation began circulating. Word was, the cats were going to be put into a shelter by the end of the week unless someone offered to take them.

  My distress over this news took my appetite away. “How can people be so heartless?” I demanded. “What’s wrong with them? I never even heard Birdie mention her actual children, but she talked about her kids all the time.”

  “You can’t save everyone and everything, Annie,” Justin said. “Even though it’s a noble trait and one of the reasons I love you.” He smiled at me. “Anyway. What would we do with twenty-six more cats? For that matter, think how traumatized Cinnamon Toast would be. Used to being the favorite for so long—mass adoption would be a crippling blow. She’d need kitty therapy.”

  C.T.’s tail twitched in agreement. “It’s just so sad,” I replied. “But maybe we’ll be able to figure something out,” I added, “we” referring to my text group of shelter volunteers. “Everyone’s going to reach out and we’ll reconnect tomorrow. We’ll place as many as we can.”

  “We’re getting married in five weeks.”

  I looked at Justin quizzically. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I’m just saying. We’re going on a honeymoon and we already have C.T. to board. It’s not the time for another cat.” He kissed me then, long and deep. When we broke apart, he committed to a delicate purple orchid for his lapel on our wedding day.

  The next day I had to review materials for one of MediFutur’s most promising new products, a virtual reality heart surgery program that would allow surgeons to train while experiencing the actual sensations they would feel in the operating room.

  The resistance of flesh and muscle, the delicacy of working around veins and arteries, all of the complexities of the surgery as if done on a living, breathing person (along with built-in complications that could be programmed with the touch of a button). Surgeons could experience these sensations over and over again without putting an actual human life at risk.

  We were launching the product at a big medical convention in Las Vegas. My job had been partly prepping the material for the launch (press release, posters, banners, product specs, demonstration videos, etc.) and partly keeping any whisper about the product from getting out before the launch. My bosses wanted to make a big splash in Vegas.

  Proofs for the specs had come back riddled with typos. I was already in a shitty mood over Birdie Tonks’s cats. I wanted to get home to Justin and so tucked the specs into my tote, figuring no one would ever be the wiser.

  Then to my horror, in the elevator leaving the office I ran into Hayley Hayter, the very person who’d emphasized the importance of keeping MediFutur’s proprietary material on-site. I was sure Hayley must have thought something was seriously wrong with me, I was so awkward.

  Now I was at our kitchen table plowing through the mistakes with a red pen and a mounting sense of rage at other people’s incompetence, resentful that I’d had to bring so much work home, uneasy about sneaking the specs out of the office.

  A long, frustrating night loomed ahead of me, after a gulped take-out dinner, during which both Justin and I had been distracted.

  I let out a long sigh.

  Justin came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Wow. You’re tense.” He began to give me a massage.

  I shrugged him off. “Not now, sorry.”

  “What is that you’re working on, anyway?”

  I covered the specs with my arm. “
Sorry, top secret!” I tried to keep my voice light, but I knew I sounded strained. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I capitulated. “But I can’t share. All you need to know is that they’re such a fucking mess I’m going to be at this for hours.”

  “I’ll leave you to it then.”

  I could hear the hurt in his voice. I turned and pulled him back toward me for a kiss. “I’m sorry, baby. I promise I’ll make it up to you later.”

  He ran his hand up my neck and twined it in my hair in a way he knew made me hot for him. “And I promise to take you up on that.”

  Another kiss and Justin left me alone. I went back to work.

  A couple of hours later, my phone began to blow up. One text after the next. I set my pen down and checked my cell.

  Did you hear? An anonymous donor got all of Birdie’s cats a home on a farm in Chino!

  Whaaaaaat? Great news!

  Any idea who it was?

  Not one of her stupid kids, that’s for sure. They should all rot in hell. Cat killers.

  Look on the bright side. At least the kids were saved!

  Yes!

  My terrible mood evaporated, just like that.

  “You’ll never guess,” I bubbled, bursting in on Justin in the bedroom. He looked up in surprise from the book he was reading. I proceeded to share: all of the cats saved, and kept together too. On a farm! “It’s what Birdie would have wanted. I’m so glad.”

  “I did it for you,” Justin said. I blinked at him. I had no idea what he was talking about. “I relocated the cats,” he continued. “You were so upset about it and I can’t have my beautiful bride stressed out before our wedding, can I? Work is twisting you up enough as it is.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? Joking?”

  “Absolutely not,” he declared, looking slightly offended. “I thought it would make you happy. I meant it as kind of a wedding gift.” He crossed his arms over his chest.