That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  The doctor told my dad they were going to keep Mom overnight for fluids, but the expectation was that she would go home in the morning.

  “Can I stay?” I looked over at the pleather recliner in the corner of the room. “I have all my books, and I can finish my work here.”

  My parents exchanged some sort of a look with each other, and then my father was telling me no, that the hospital would only let one visitor stay through the night, and it was going to be him.

  “Please, Mom.” I turned back toward my mother.

  “Your father’s right. It should be him. Otherwise, he’ll just have to drive back here in the morning to get me. You go ahead.”

  I didn’t want to exhaust her further by arguing. “Fine,” I huffed, “but make him call me if anything changes.” I gave her a pointed look before picking up my bag.

  She nodded slowly, and I bent down to kiss her goodbye, promising that I would be back the next day if they didn’t send her home first thing.

  As I walked out of the hospital, the late-night chill assaulted me anew. I tried to redirect my brain, to force my thoughts away from my mother’s illness and all the frightening possibilities. For now, I could go back to my cheery campus existence and pretend that life was all about keg parties and basketball games.

  After I settled into a cab, I pulled out my phone and saw several missed texts. My friend Gretchen wanted me to meet her at Murph’s, the dive bar we all loved so much, mainly because the bouncers there so rarely carded. Bina wanted me to read over her art history essay. Leslie from down the hall wanted to borrow my copy of Don Quixote. As I continued scrolling through messages, I saw that I also had another text from Wesley, from almost an hour earlier.

  Wesley: Any news?

  If he was asking a second time, I figured he genuinely wanted to know. I quickly tapped out a response.

  Me: Everything ok for now. Heading back to campus.

  It was only a few seconds before my phone vibrated again.

  Wesley: Knock when you get back? Your room is ocupado again. Might as well come fill me in in person.

  I hesitated for a second, hoping I wasn’t agreeing to a booty call. Not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed yielding to the temptation, but I wasn’t quite sure it was time to give it up to him yet. You know, Rules and all.

  Me: Ok, but no funny business.

  Wesley: Funny business? Have we traveled back in time to 1950? Lucy, you got some ’splaining to do!!!

  I laughed out loud at his oddball response and the cabby glanced back at me in the rearview mirror.

  Me: Whatever, freak show. Fine. See you in 20.

  I tossed the phone into the outer pocket of my knapsack and leaned my head back against the plastic seat of the cab. I had twenty minutes to shake off the cancer blues and turn myself back into the lively college coed everyone seemed to think I should be.

  Chapter Six

  January 2017

  I wake up sweating, feeling smothered.

  “Move over,” I mumble, pushing at Aaron, marveling again that the leg of an adult human can function so effectively as both a space heater and an anvil. As I wonder absently how many inches long his leg must be, trying to subtract an estimate of his torso length from his total height of six feet, three inches, I push at him again, prodding him to start his day. “You have to go,” I half whisper as I nudge him.

  “Clive asked me to switch. I’m not on today.” He re-settles himself in the bed, rolling onto his back and taking his leg of steel along with him. The comforter follows his movements, gliding off me as well. I feel sweet relief from the stifling warmth, but it lasts only an instant before the change in temperature becomes too drastic and I’m now suddenly too chilled. I swivel onto my side and he pulls me up against his body, my back flush to his heated chest, as he arranges the duvet over both of us and nuzzles his stubbly chin into my neck.

  Even though I’m frustrated by the extreme temperatures to which I keep falling prey in this bed, I do love nestling into Aaron’s bulk. I feel locked against him—secure, protected, and perfectly arranged.

  I break contact just so I can push the covers away, first with my hands and then with my feet, but then I burrow back into his body, getting as close as I can and trying to savor the feel of him, to interpret it as a welcome offering rather than oppression. Normally, I don’t have to flap around in bed like this just to enjoy the sensation of Aaron’s arms around me, the way his muscular arm lazes across my rib cage. My thoughts flash to Wesley, and I realize that our run-in last night has intruded on my morning, that Wesley is the reason I am suddenly aggravated by Aaron’s embrace. A swell of anger rushes through me, and yet I can’t stop myself from replaying the events of the prior evening in my mind, romanticizing them as I go.

  Instead of remembering all the nastiness of our breakup, the hurtful accusations and excruciating unraveling of us, I keep picturing Wesley’s eyes, greener and sharper than I had remembered. And his food. My God, flavors so sensual and ethereal, each dish was like a love affair, the exquisite combinations so astonishing that they became illicit, lawless. But that was always the very nature of Wesley—exquisite, thrilling. I think of fireworks, explosions so fierce in their beauty, exhilarating and dazzling, but necessarily fleeting, a phenomenon not meant to last but all the more beautiful because of its ephemeral nature. Maybe that was what I had with Wesley, something that was never meant to last. If only I could recategorize him in my brain, label my time with him as an intense experience that was meant to be remembered, learned from, even, but never revisited. As I snuggle into Aaron, I close my eyes and notice with relief that my body does feel right next to his, as though I have landed where I belong.

  Less than a minute later, my alarm is buzzing, harsh and grating. I swat at the clock on my mirrored night-stand.

  “Well, you may not have to get out of bed, deadbeat, but I have some very greedy tobacco executives who are depending on me for their next windfall, so I’d better hit the shower.” I roll away from Aaron and make my way toward the bathroom.

  As I wait for the shower to warm up, I look around my little bathroom with the black-and-white penny tiles on the floor and the fluffy white mat. The oval rug is too long for the three-foot space it occupies, part of it curving up against the wall. As usual, the space is a mess, too small for all the cosmetics and personal hygiene products I am always experimenting with, because surely that next eye cream is going to make all the difference. I notice how many of the items mixed in with my hodgepodge of paints and lotions belong to Aaron. His Braun electric toothbrush is too wide to fit in the built-in toothbrush holder, so it’s propped up in a corner by the sink. My eyes drift over the glass bottle of shaving oil he recently purchased from the vintage apothecary shop down the block, then his Right Guard, some stray collar stays, and a stethoscope that definitely doesn’t belong in the restroom. My prewar apartment is adorable, and it’s conveniently located near lots of hip restaurants and funky shops on the Upper West Side, but I understand why Aaron is pushing for me to move in with him into his much larger, airier loft in Gramercy.

  I pull off the T-shirt I slept in and catch a glimpse of myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. I wonder if my body still looks the same as it did when I was with Wesley, whether he would still be drawn to all its different parts, so fascinated by idiosyncrasies like the deep curve in my lower back or the small scar on my left knee. I turn sideways to evaluate my reflection. My stomach is still relatively flat, thanks to my penchant for hot yoga and all that time I spend in warrior pose. I lift one of my breasts, letting its weight settle into my hand, and I struggle to remember whether Wesley had been as interested in my midsize bust as he had been in the firmness of my ass. I turn my back to the mirror, twisting to see my reflection over my shoulder, wondering if I would still pass muster, but then I think of the sweet doctor snoozing in my bed at the moment, and I want to smack myself for my dis-loyal thoughts.

  It would be the height of foolishness to waste what I hav
e with Aaron just because I can’t stop thinking about my ex-fiancé, picturing how he looked in his chef’s uniform last night and wondering what he would make of my naked body. I was so sure I had changed, that I was no longer the girl Wesley knew, but now I am second-guessing myself. If I get my head back in the game with Aaron, perhaps I can force Wesley out of my mind, shove him away, toss him into a drawer like an old travel souvenir, where he will simply collect dust and cease to matter. I don’t want to relinquish Aaron, to surrender him as another casualty of my mistakes.

  I conjure up Aaron’s suggestion about moving in together, sifting it around again, chewing through the possibilities. Maybe his idea has legs, footing that I didn’t appreciate at first. Considering the situation on a practical level, I could save a boatload of money on rent if I gave up this apartment, and I’d have much more space for my profusion of beauty products in Aaron’s bathroom, with its double sinks and long vanity. Cohabiting, sharing closet space and electric bills, maybe it would bring us close enough to plug the holes in my heart, the unsealed edges where a pest could still burrow its way inside. If I can do that, figure out a way to quell my reaction to Wesley, to exterminate these lingering thoughts, then maybe I can keep my new fiancé. I step into the shower and let the hot water nearly scald my back as I try to forget the smell of hazelnut churros.

  IT’S SUNNY OUTSIDE, but frigid in a way that makes my eyes water. I walk to the corner subway station, pulling my wool peacoat more tightly around my body and weaving past a group of schoolchildren who are being poorly shepherded by a frazzled young woman. I am focused on Moe’s case, already devising strategies to evade antitrust-related tasks this morning so that I can redirect my efforts toward asylum research. It’s true what Aaron said, that I initially hoped to find employment at a place like Legal Aid or a similar nonprofit. But I really do enjoy earning the salary that a heartless, impersonal corporate firm can provide. Not that I care so much about being able to afford luxuries, but it’s comforting to know that I will always be able to take care of myself, even if I have sudden, extreme expenses, like bills for cancer treatment. It would be poor planning not to account for my genetic predisposition.

  Perhaps if I found more charity work outside the office, I might feel a modicum of relief about the soulless nature of my usual work. I think again of the soup kitchen where I spent so much time in college, where I actually connected with some of the people I served. I remember one specific prepubescent girl who came to the church every week with her mom and baby brother, though now the child’s name escapes me. I used to show her my People magazines. We’d look through the pictures together while her mom nursed her baby brother. The family ended up moving down South—Raleigh, if I remember correctly—where there was an aunt who’d agreed to take them in. I wonder if I should go back to the soup kitchen, get to know some other little girls, do a better job of remembering their names. Despite the oppressive number of hours I work per week, I think I could secrete some time on Sundays to get up to that church. In fact, I decide, I will try to go this coming Sunday.

  When I finally reach my stop, I climb the crowded steps of the subway station, emerging on Fifty-first and Lex with a renewed sense of optimism. I don’t have to be a one-dimensional corporate attorney. I can still find ways to make myself proud without having to quit my lucrative job. I ride the high of my new outlook as I glide through the marble lobby of my office building and slip into a nearly full elevator just before the doors close.

  I arrive on the twenty-seventh floor feeling reinvigorated. Not even the presence of my office mate, Nicola, already seated at her desk next to the window, is going to get me down. As a lowly second-year associate, I have been relegated to the smaller desk, closer to the door. Also, Nicola hates me.

  “You’re here early,” I say brightly as I glance at my cell phone to make sure I’m not actually late.

  “I’m cutting out early for my flight to Miami tonight,” she tells me without looking away from her computer screen, “so I thought I’d bill some time this morning.” Nicola did tell me that she was going down to Florida to celebrate her sister’s recent divorce with some sort of reverse bachelorette party. I kind of thought she was kidding, but I guess not. She glances over her shoulder at me and gives me a quick visual once-over, likely disappointed in what she sees, whether the inexpensive clothing I’m wearing or my hasty grooming for the day, and then she turns back to her screen.

  I drop my leather tote on the floor and hang my coat on the back of the door, thinking to at least review Moe’s I-589 form before I return to my billable work. Nearly seven months have passed since Moe arrived in the United States. He stumbled through a meeting with an immigration officer at JFK and, despite his limited English, managed to convince the officer that he had the requisite “credible fear” of persecution in his country of origin to warrant initiating asylum proceedings in the United States. The clock has been ticking since that date, and we have only five months remaining until he must file his full application for Asylum and Withholding of Removal with the immigration court. I’m anxious about treading too close to the deadline, as I’ve read about mistakes with issues as simple as court docketing that have cost applicants their refugee status.

  Something about my meeting with Moe has been troubling me since he left the office, but I can’t put my finger on it. As I open the Redweld folder containing my case notes and power up my computer, I hear a knock behind me. I turn to see Alexandra Pervez, the senior associate on the chewing tobacco case, standing in the hallway with a rolling cart full of manila folders beside her.

  “Hey, Mer.”

  I’m not sure why she thinks we’re buddies or when we got on a nickname basis with each other. Our interactions are generally limited to whatever orders she spews in my direction and the embarrassingly deferential nods I offer in response. I try to affix a polite smile to my face while I wait to see what she wants.

  “Great news,” she starts. “Defendants ‘found’”—she makes air quotes around the word—“an entire file cabinet of documents that they failed to turn over. There was some water damage or something, so the pages couldn’t be scanned in digitally. I’ll send these down to the conference room on eight, and you can get the review team back together to go through them. Okeydoke?”

  Her tone would imply that she is inviting me to meet for muffins and manicures, not sentencing me to more hours of document review. I thought I was finished flip-ping through the thousands of pages of accounting drivel and random office notes that were provided to our firm by the other side in connection with this tedious case. In a perfect world, someone on our team would find the crucial straw in the wind, the scribbled message that directed the defendant’s employees to break a slew of antitrust laws in the name of beating out the other corporation. The chances of that discovery are slim, at best, and in the meantime, five young attorneys are being condemned to so many more hours of torture, with only the occasional paper cut to break up the monotony.

  “Okay, you got it,” I tell her with a fake smile, because it’s not like I have a choice.

  After she leaves, Nicola snorts from behind me. “Back to the dungeon, huh?”

  I don’t answer as I push myself out of my chair and head to the little pantry down the hall. I pop a single-serve coffee pod into the machine and tilt my head to the side, trying to crack my neck. So much for working on Moe’s application today. The tension in my shoulders refuses to unlace as I think about the country conditions report and expert statements I still need to finalize before we can submit the paperwork to the court. I had been hoping to learn more about Mae La, the overcrowded refugee camp in Thailand where Moe lived before he traveled to Bangkok, the city where he boarded his first flight.

  As I pass the open door of my office on the way to the elevator, I can hear Nicola singing that old Will Smith song “Miami,” and I feel a powerful urge to throw something at her. While she’s enjoying mango margaritas in front of some art deco hotel tomorrow, I will def
initely be back at the office, taking care of the asylum work that I won’t be able to do today. I remind myself that Nicola is single and seems to have a very narrow social life. She puts in many more hours than I do, so I shouldn’t begrudge her the limited time off. Even so, I feel pissy about the number of weekend hours I’m going to spend working. I suppose I should have known better than to expect pro bono work at Harrison, Whitaker & Shine to mean anything other than extra time and additional complications. Look at me, living the dream.

  WHEN SUNDAY ROLLS around, I’m feeling less catty, appeased by the progress I’ve made assembling supporting documentation for Moe—which, in light of the recent upheaval in US immigration law, is hardly a small feat. I’ve also compiled a list of additional questions to ask him at our next meeting, which I hope will fill in the remaining holes and leave us in great shape to move forward with his application. Aaron is on call at the hospital all weekend, so I decide to take the day for myself and head up to Crossroads Church, the building that houses Community Kitchen. As I ride the subway uptown from my apartment, I’m flooded with memories of the many hours I spent at the soup kitchen during college.

  When I started volunteering at Community Kitchen long ago as a freshman, I thought it would be a short-term project, a splash of good karma to help me out while my mother was battling her breast cancer. I quickly grew attached to the entire concept, though—the program’s mission, the interactions I had with the people, the relief I found in helping others. There were several children who showed up each week with their mothers or fathers, and some elderly folks, but mostly they were able-bodied people who just couldn’t catch a break. I had been surprised that many of them were not actually homeless, just people who had fallen below the poverty line for one reason or another. Though they could afford rent, or even clothes for their children, they often didn’t have enough money remaining for food. Then, of course, there were the mentally ill, the addicts, the runaways—so many people who simply couldn’t make it on their own—and Community Kitchen helped them all, no judgment, just beef stew and apple juice. I was proud of myself for being a part of that back in college, and, thinking about it now, I am sorry to have given it up.