Darkness Drops Again

by Melissa E Manning

Zara stands up and commands, “We don’t have much time so start getting ready.” She then tosses me my cell phone and informs me, “Patrick texted back. He’s fine with you staying over again.”

  I let the facial recognition open my iPhone to read my texts. There are a couple from Patrick responding to Zara.

  That’s fine. I can handle the boys today. And tell Zara those losers don’t deserve her. Love you.

  Reading those last two words feels like Patrick stabbed a knife straight into my heart. A text from less than an hour ago is more practical:

  Remember Sunday lunch at my parents. Will you meet us there?

  The monthly family gathering at the Shaw house. Usually one of the things I look forward to. At least there will be plenty of people there to minimize any awkward alone time. I text back quickly:

  Yep. See you there. Give kisses to the boys.

  I decisively put all thoughts of Patrick away as I enter Zara’s walk-in closet to get dressed for the day. Turns out when you don’t spend all of your money on daycare, you use it to buy super cute clothes.

  ***

  Sitting on Zara’s couch eating veggie sushi feels like the perfect ending to a surprisingly relaxing day. Zara signed us up for the Purva Karma at the Peninsula Spa, which involves two massage therapists using multiple different body oils to achieve the “ultimate in tension release.” Sure, it was almost five hundred dollars, but I may never need a man again. No wonder Jennifer Aniston insists on staying at that hotel when she’s in Chicago. The Purva Karma is far superior to Brad Pitt and Justin Theroux put together!

  The night got even better when we stumbled across old episodes of The Practice on Netflix. Zara and I obsessed over this show during our freshman year of college. Both wanting to be attorneys at that time, we idolized Lara Flynn Boyle’s ultimate badass character. She was hot, smart, ruthless, and got to flirt with Bobby Donnell aka Dylan McDermott. Unsurprisingly, Zara and I did both follow legal paths. Although Zara didn’t attend law school, she’s happily employed as the director of legal recruiting at a large firm. As Zara returns from the kitchen with a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc to finish off our dinner, I remember that spring is the start of her busy season. She’s responsible for wooing the stars of the top law schools to choose Brown & McKay as the place to begin their promising legal careers.

  “Is your summer class full of youthful candidates wearing rose-colored glasses and dreaming of becoming the next Alan Dershowitz?” I inquire.

  “Give me a break,” Zara responds, rolling her eyes. “These millennials are so entitled. They just want to know how much money they can make putting in as few billable hours as possible.”

  “Well, they need that money to pay for their expensive blow habits,” I point out, referencing one of the stickier situations Zara had to disentangle in her years babysitting third-year law students. A certain cocky Harvard student slipped Zara a one hundred-dollar bill at a firm-sponsored happy hour and asked her to score him some coke. Zara had to walk the tightrope of making sure the junkie law student didn’t receive an offer from Brown & McKay while maintaining a friendly relationship with Harvard, which expects all of their law students to receive offers at the end of the summer.

  “Ugh!” Zara pushes herself upright so she can reach the coffee table. “Knock on wood there are no Bryces in this year’s summer class.”

  I giggle. “But seriously, I say more power to them,” pausing to take a sip of my cool, crisp wine. “Maybe the millennials can finally figure out a way to get the heads of these firms to take work/life balance seriously. When firms realize they can’t find anyone willing to work twenty-five hundred hours a year, even for exorbitant salaries, maybe they’ll become a bit more reasonable about their expectations.”

  Zara laughs heartily spilling a few drops of wine on her red and green plaid flannel pajamas. “Not likely. They’ll always be able to find people like you. People willing to kill themselves in order to see the word ‘partner’ underneath their name.”

  “Ouch,” I wince.

  “That’s not a dig,” Zara hastily assures me. “It’s just a fact. There will always be ambitious people.”

  “Yep,” I say bitterly. “People like me willing to flush a wonderful marriage and family down the toilet in search of a title.”

  “Hey now.” Zara puts down her glass and shoots me a serious look. “That’s not what I was saying and you know it’s not true. You work hard, sure, but so does Patrick. And you’re a wonderful wife to him and mother to those adorable boys. He’s the one who flushed your marriage down the toilet by screwing a coworker.”

  I take another sip for courage before retorting, “Well, nothing is flushed yet.”

  Zara’s jaw drops. “You’re not seriously staying with Patrick after Friday night, are you?” She throws one of the couch cushions at me and scolds, “Maeve, you’re better than this.”

  I was prepared for this reaction. I knew this day of decadence was a pre-divorce-filing present. I didn’t challenge her assumption because I wasn’t ready to deal with her disappointment. But I knew eventually this had to be said. “Zara, nothing has changed since I called you last weekend. I knew Patrick was cheating then and I was committed to winning him back. I still am.”

  Zara’s shock quickly turns to anger. “Then why the hell did you show up weeping on my doorstep at four a.m. if you’re just going to continue letting Patrick treat you like a doormat!”

  I close my eyes to absorb the impact of Zara’s words. We’re silent for a couple of minutes while I compose myself. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a mess this last week and have been leaning on you so heavily. That wasn’t fair and it won’t happen again. I won’t keep putting all of my emotional crap on you. But I am going to keep my family together,” I say firmly. “Those three are the only family I have.”

  After a few minutes of awkward silence pass, I add lightly, “Jesus, Beyonce didn’t file for divorce when Jay-Z cheated and she’s fucking Beyonce.”

  Zara manages a weak chuckle before noting, “Yeah, but I don’t think Patrick is worth half a billion.” A minute or so passes and I can tell Zara is struggling with her next response. I also know Zara has never chosen the tough love approach when it comes to me. I see her shoulders slump before she concedes, “I’m always here for you, Maeve. Show up at my door at any time. Call in the middle of the night. I’ll be here.”

  With that she gives my leg a quick squeeze and we both pick up our wine glasses to return to the fictional drama of The Practice. But after a bit Zara can’t help but add quietly, “You of all people should know growing up in a two-parent household doesn’t always guarantee Family Ties. Sometimes it turns out more like Breaking Bad.”

  ***

  I arrive at the Shaw house on Sunday morning after enjoying a slow three-mile jog along The 606. During the half hour I was on the converted train track, I thought back to when I started running. It began simply as an excuse to escape my house. But as I kept at it, I started to revel in the strength and confidence running gave me. As I pushed my screaming legs mile after mile, I started to believe there may come a day when I wouldn’t cower in fear of my father’s rages and my mother’s meltdowns. I would finally choose to fight back. While that ultimately hadn’t worked out with my parents, I needed the same strength and courage to fight now. Fight for the kind of family I had prayed for as a child.

  The exact type of family I had married into. Mary and Cormac have lived in the same bungalow on Marshfield Street in Lincoln Park for the last fifty years. Of course, when they bought their house the average price was less than six figures. Now, all of the new builds are firmly in the seven-figure range. As soon as I walk through the doorway, Declan and Seamus run, or in Shay’s case, toddle, into my arms as if it’s been a week since they last saw me. Cue mom guilt. Looking around, it appears the rest of the family has already arrived. Patrick and his brothers Connor and Aiden are sitting together on the living room couch watching SportsCenter. The couch is a relic from
the seventies, velour with a farm scene pattern, but still comfortable. It fits well in the room with its faux wood wallpaper. Aiden’s daughter Erin runs by holding her bear lovie and searching for Mom. For some reason, I’ve never bonded with Aiden’s and Connor’s wives. I’ve always felt, maybe unfairly, they didn’t approve of my decision to continue working after Seamus was born. Susan and Allison were both teachers who quit their jobs shortly after having their first child. It made sense given the cost of daycare. And they are amazing moms who volunteer at all the school events. I pale in comparison. I’ve always gotten along well with Patrick’s sister Megan, a yoga instructor. But since she lives in Denver, we only see her over holidays.

  I give Patrick a little wave as I pass through the living room and let him continue his in-depth analysis of the pathetic goalie who has been subbing for Corey Crawford as of late. That the Blackhawks are unlikely to make the playoffs has been the main topic of Patrick’s family group texts. As I enter the kitchen I see Mary with her apron over her house dress at her usual spot in front of the sink washing dishes. Through the window she watches the children play at the park that abuts their house. Mary loves washing dishes. She told me once she found the repetitiveness therapeutic. I grab a drying towel and take my usual spot next to her. Mary, who is all of four foot eleven inches, looks up at me with a kind smile.

  “Oh, Maeve, honey. So glad you could make it.”

  “I wouldn’t miss one of your Sunday lunches, Mary. I’ve already got my eye on your spiced apple cake. Diet be damned.” I laugh.

  Mary lightly smacks me with her dishrag and scolds, “Don’t let me hear you talking about dieting. You’re too thin as it is. Now, how is our sweet Zara doing? Patrick told me you stayed with her last night because she’s having some boy trouble.”

  Zara has attended a few Sunday lunches and Mary always dotes on her. “Oh, she’s fine,” I say truthfully. “She just needed some pampering and is back to her usual fiery self.”

  Mary looks thoughtful and we clean and dry a few sauce-pans in silence before she continues, “You know boys come and go, but family is forever. Whether that be family you are born into or the ones you adopt as your own. Look at you and Zara. You both didn’t have siblings, so you adopted each other. And just like you were a part of this family long before you and Patrick were married.”

  I look at the ceiling to compose myself. Mary drops the coffee mug she was washing back into the sink and puts her arm around my waist.

  “There, there, Maeve,” she comforts. “No need to get upset. I’m always here for you.”

  I wonder if that’s true. Would Mary still think of me as a daughter if Patrick and I were divorced? Or would Marcie take my place by the sink washing dishes? Before I can go down this rabbit hole, I feel Declan’s hand on my leg. And then a warm, moist mass sprays across the bottom of Zara’s boot-cut jeans. Declan, now crying, has just purged his breakfast of what looks like eggs and sausage onto me.

  Declan belatedly informs me, “Mama, I don’t feel good.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” I pick him up while Mary tries her best to salvage Zara’s jeans. Patrick comes into the kitchen a few seconds later carrying Seamus.

  “Shit, Maeve,” he says, assessing the damage. “You want to go home?”

  Seeing an opportunity to avoid Patrick a bit longer, I decide to appear magnanimous. “That’s okay. I’ll take the boys home. You enjoy the game with your brothers.”

  “Are you sure?” He hesitates. “What if Dec gets sick again? I should be there to help.”

  “I can handle it,” I assure him with a large smile. “You’ve taken care of them all weekend. I need a little snuggle time with my guys.”

  “Well, if you’re okay with it, I did bring my suitcase in case lunch ran late. I could head straight to the airport from here.”

  Perfect. I can use the next couple of days to reconfigure my marriage-saving game plan. I give quick kisses on the cheek to Mary and Patrick, take Seamus’s hand, and am out the door and into a waiting Lyft in less than five minutes. Bet our driver wishes he’d taken a pass on this ride, as the smell of vomit wafts from my jeans. With one boy in the crook of each arm, I consider my next move. After the events of Friday night, I think something dramatic is in order to recapture Patrick’s attention.

  Chapter 10

  Since daycare will not take Declan less than twenty-four hours after a vomiting incident, I drop the boys off with their grandparents and am sipping coffee from my Yeti while navigating traffic down to the Cook County Circuit Court. I always feel like such a stereotypical mom driving my maroon Honda Odyssey. I try to counteract the effect by listening to what the “cool kids” like on the radio. Currently, that’s “God’s Plan” by Drake. I sing the line about only loving my bed and mamma to Seamus in the bath to make him laugh. Yeah, I’m hard like that.

  I arrive at the courthouse better known by its location as “26th and Cal.” A large, square, brick building with eight columns strangely located in the middle of the facade above the large entrance doors. The neighborhood is a bit on the sketchy side, so I park in the jurors’ lot across the street. Entering the front doors, I flash my attorney registration card at the security guards so I can bypass the long line and metal detector and proceed toward the courtrooms. I spot Ethan and Tom Gaines waiting for me by the benches outside the last courtroom on the right. I would guess Tom to be around fifty-five years old and six four with a linebacker’s build. Ethan must be telling the truth about Tom’s book of business because here he is in criminal court surrounded by legal aid attorneys in Target suits wearing a custom-made Michael Andrews Bespoke creation, a two-button navy twill suit with a coordinating vest that costs more than what these lawyers pull down in a month. I had been feeling pretty confident about my own Calvin Klein gray sheath dress with black pumps, but no longer.

  As I approach them, I extend my hand to Tom. While I’m not happy about this assignment, I won’t let my personal feelings get in the way of me schmoozing someone who could play an integral role in me obtaining partnership.

  “Thank you for requesting that I be staffed on this case,” I say in what I hope sounds like an ambitious tone. “I’ve read through the case summaries and reviewed the crime scene photos. Pretty sordid stuff. But charging a mother with the premeditated murder of her only daughter seems unwarranted. And their heartless pageant mom theory is weak. I’m excited to finally meet Tammy and hear her side.”

  Tom firmly shakes my hand while declaring in his deep, baritone voice, “She’s heartless. They got that right.” Tom drops my hand before reconsidering his position and adding, “Doesn’t mean she did it, mind you. But she’s no Tami Taylor.” With that he retrieves his coat and Tumi briefcase from the bench.

  I was prepared for this. Well, maybe not for the Friday Night Lights reference, but for the rest of it. Tom has a reputation for being a hard ass. Many associates avoid him, but I never held his rumored rudeness against him. Tom is African American and was a federal prosecutor before deciding to make money by moving to Big Law. It isn’t easy being a minority lawyer now, let alone thirty years ago when Tom was making a name for himself. I assume he had to be tough as nails to climb the ladder as quickly as he did.

  I follow Tom and Ethan as they stride into the courtroom. It’s empty save for the deputy on duty. Tom announces he’s going to meet our client Tammy Sanford in the holding cell. The deputy nods and returns to his magazine. Oddly enough a copy of Marie Claire. Go figure. We exit the courtroom through the farthest door and enter a hallway leading to the lockup. There are two large enclosures, one for the male and one for the female prisoners. The men’s cell is first on our right. We arouse their interest immediately, figuratively and literally. Tom comes into their view first and a few yell comments about him being a “fancy ass lawyer” while others ask him to take their case. The second I come into eyesight the heckles switch to overtly sexual. “Nice ass.” “You ever been fucked by a real man?” Etc. I risk a quick glance into the cell
and notice an open urinal that is currently being used by an inmate. I also notice a man at the bars with face tats sticking his tongue between his index and middle fingers and simulating oral sex.

  Feeling like I’ve taken more than my fair share of shit from men as of late, something inside me snaps and I shock myself as I turn to Face Tats and say, “Why, now that you mention it, I don’t believe I have been fucked by a real man. Can I give you my number and you can call me in what…say, five to ten years?”

  There’s a moment of shocked silence before raucous laughter fills the jail. Even Face Tats is laughing before yelling something that sounds like, “Give me a pen, sweetheart.”

  Tom, on the other hand, is pissed. He walks back, grabs my arm and hisses, “Please control yourself,” while quickly escorting me to the women’s side.

  Embarrassed, I scan the women seated on the benches against the wall to find Tammy. I don’t see her. Tom looks to the far left corner of the cell and calls to an overweight woman with stringy dyed blond hair and three-inch brown roots. Just like her daughter, I note. She looks up, but doesn’t react until she spots Ethan. Once she locates him her face lights up and she shimmies her way over to the bars. I realize the reason I didn’t recognize her is because she’s at least fifty pounds heavier than she was in her mugshot. In the picture she’d appeared a bit gaunt, perhaps from worrying about her heroin-addicted daughter. Seems like now she’s eating her sorrow. Can’t say I blame her.

  While Tammy is pointedly making a beeline to Ethan, Tom steps in front of him and cuts right to the point. “Tammy, as you know, we are here today to set a trial date. Most likely the judge will want us to proceed within the next three months, but we’ll push for as much time as he’ll allow so we can retain and prepare our expert. We won’t be able to talk after the hearing as I’d hoped because something popped up on another case that requires my attention. We’ll come to the jail on Thursday. Does that work?”