My cell phone vibrates from where it’s sitting on the table beside my two piles of paper. It’s Lana, texting about the bridesmaids’ dresses. She’s petrified that I’m going to choose a dress for my bridal attendants in a color tone that’s too deep for her complexion, or worse, something with an empire waist, which she says makes everyone look slightly pregnant.
I type out a quick response.
Me: Epiphany. Everyone picks her own dress. Thinking it should just be some shade of silver/gray. Thoughts?
This is going to be a wedding that leaves everyone content. I won’t have the drama this time around. The conference room suddenly feels especially chilly as I think about the importance of keeping this version of my life from spiraling out of control like the last draft did. I will not be a prima donna about this wedding, and I will make sure nobody gets hurt.
My phone buzzes again, and I glance at Lana’s response:
Lana: OMG obsessed w u!!!!!!
I smile, imagining her squeal of delight. Lana will surely launch into some intense, multipronged dress hunt now that I’ve given her personal authority, but that’s the kind of mission she loves, so no harm there. I’ve always had a soft spot for Lana, ever since we were kids and she persuaded me to become blood sisters. I shudder now, thinking about all the germs that must have passed between our grubby hands that summer afternoon in my backyard. But Lana is absolutely pulling her weight as both my bridal attendant and my friend. I don’t have a maid of honor this time. Shara, Noble’s wife, has become so devout in her observance of Judaism over the last few years that she would be uncomfortable with many of the mainstream wedding activities, like raunchy bachelorette parties. Even so, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by asking Lana in her place. So, instead, I’ve asked no one. Lana gets it, and she has taken it upon herself to perform as the acting maid of honor anyway.
I flip the next page in my pile and find a shelving schematic that appears to be a diagram for how the chewing tobacco will be laid out in a 7-Eleven store. I pause to study it, as the crux of our client’s claim is that the defendant unfairly commandeered all the most desirable shelving space at the relevant retail locations. The page looks pretty standard—unfortunately, not any sort of smoking gun—so I add it to my growing pile and flip to the next page.
Liam McIntire walks in, followed by Darren Pool. These two guys have become my closest friends at the firm, in light of the many hours we’ve been forced to sit in the conference room together, enduring endless eye-strain and mind-numbing documents.
“I’m trying Atkins again,” Liam announces without preamble as he takes his seat opposite me at the glass conference table.
“Cutting out scotch?” Darren asks as he adjusts his Clark Kent glasses and then grabs a full box of documents for himself from the stack against the back wall. All we seem to talk about in this room is alcohol and diets. If we get into any deeper conversations, it’s hard to focus on the documents in front of us, but without the small talk, the dreary routine of this discovery project can be crushing.
“I’m trying to avoid the paunch.” Liam rubs his belly, which is admittedly rounder than it was when I first met him a few months back, after our different law firms merged. “All these weddings, the cocktail hours—what’s a man to do? At least Meredith has the good grace to wait until next winter to have her wedding. I should be in tiptop shape by then.”
Yeah, you and me both, Liam, I think. He’s got eleven months to drop some pounds. I’ve got eleven months to drop some baggage. Baggage named Wesley.
Liam and Darren banter back and forth, trading lighthearted insults about each other’s waistlines. As I continue flipping pages, I find another schematic for shelving like the one I saw moments ago, but this one is covered in handwritten notes. I pause to read them over, and they seem pretty innocuous, listing which subgroups of tobacco products the sales rep wants shelved in that particular store. But the note scribbled across the bottom stops me. “Continue with category management plan to eliminate competitive products,” it says. “Control facings and positions to make our placement larger and force out competition.”
I think I’ve found our smoking gun, and I realize, with a horrifying thud, that I don’t really care, at all. This is what I slaved away for in college? Making sure I could get into an elite law school, to secure a job at a top firm, to find a piece of paper that shows one cancer-causing company treating another cancer-causing company unfairly?
“Eureka,” I say, as I stand with the document in my hand, failing to muster the enthusiasm I was going for. I hear Aaron’s voice in my head telling me that I should look for a different job, and I actually begin to wonder if he is right. I can still be an independent woman on a lower salary, especially considering how well I’ve been saving since I started at the firm two years ago.
Liam and Darren are both out of their seats, reading over my shoulder, and my mind is still running wild. I remember how I once thought about working at the Anti-Defamation League or some other nonprofit, like a shelter for battered women or a foster-care facility. If I could get through these documents a little more quickly, I could get back to my asylum case, and then maybe I could even take a little time to research alternate employment.
“Okay, you two,” I say as I notice they are fist-bumping in a show of joy about this document I’ve discovered. Clearly, this job is bringing them more satisfaction than it is me. “We still have all those boxes.” I realize I’m whining. “I can’t spend more weeks in here, so let’s keep going.”
Five hours later, I finally turn over the last page in my pile of papers. The two first-year associates who are supposed to be reviewing along with us never showed, and I’m wondering how they managed to weasel their way out of joining today’s tedious soiree. Even so, between the three of us in the conference room, we have found another eleven documents that show a clear pattern of antitrust law violations and patently prohibited behavior by the defendant. I’m disgusted that the other party thought to delay providing these documents for discovery, perhaps hoping we would lose our patience reviewing everything and never seek their production. This whole sphere of legal practice feels foul to me, and I want out.
I’ve never been so envious of Aaron’s job as a pediatric surgeon. While I further the questionable intentions of faceless corporations, he gets to mend the brains of helpless infants.
As if my thoughts have conjured him, my phone rings. “Hey,” I answer, leaning back in my chair and surveying the many piles of documents on the table that now need to be returned to file boxes.
“Want to head out to Jersey tonight for a couple of hours?” he asks. “I got your mom those supplements, and we could take your parents to dinner at Herby’s.”
Even though my mom has been cancer free for more than eight years, Aaron knows she worries excessively about a recurrence. He helps her find all these holistic remedies that may or may not have a positive impact on her physical health, but they won’t hurt her, and they certainly help her emotionally.
“Sure,” I answer, already tensing up at the thought of dinner with my parents. I love them dearly, but we’ve never really gotten past all the garbage from when I was in college, when they were going to get divorced but didn’t, when my mom almost died but didn’t, when I almost married Wesley but didn’t. It’s like all we can think of when we’re together is the collective trauma we endured. The only time I manage to be relaxed around them is when Aaron is with us, talking loudly and running interference. He manages to keep everything lighthearted and positive. He has made a sustained effort to drive my parents and me back to a better place, and the truth is, I think it’s working. It’s just slow going.
“Great. I’ll call and let them know. Text me when you know your timing, and I’ll pick you up.”
After we hang up, I feel all warm inside, the way I so often do around Aaron, like I’ve just finished a steaming bowl of wonton soup. Instead of focusing on the nasty bits of my career, the ashy taste they leave
in my mouth, I am filled with gratitude for my fiancé, and then with a nagging guilt about all the time I’ve spent recently thinking of Wesley. It will be useful, I tell myself again, to get myself back to the soup kitchen regularly and determine that Wesley is not the white knight I’ve made him out to be. There is more to life than the vibrancy and passion of the relationship I had with him, and I’m just going to keep telling myself that until I start believing it. I know better than to squander a man like Aaron on useless nostalgia. Don’t I?
A FEW HOURS later, Aaron, my mom, my dad, and I are sitting at a round, cloth-covered table at Herby’s, my parents’ favorite neighborhood Italian spot. Even if Aaron and I weren’t present, my parents, who are in their late fifties, would bring down the average age of the patrons here by about twenty years, but they love the old-fashioned ambience for some reason I can’t understand, and Aaron loves the gnocchi, so here we are.
“How’s that preemie with coarctation of the aorta?” my mom asks Aaron. Ever since recovering from her cancer, she has become somewhat obsessed with medicine. She knows all about these random conditions that have nothing to do with anything that has ever happened in her own life. Accordingly, she often goes all fangirl on Aaron, lapping up details of the surgeries he has performed. He’s more tolerant than I would be and tends to put up with her questions until he can redirect the conversation.
“One of the cutest babies I’ve ever treated,” Aaron answers as the waiter shows up with my penne à la vodka—so fattening, but impossible to resist at this establishment. “His mom is Samoan and his dad is half black, half Swedish. Man, does that combination make for a cute kid.” He refills my wineglass from the bottle of chianti on our table.
“But what about the angioplasty? Did it take?”
“He seems to be doing fine now,” Aaron says. I can tell he’s being deliberately vague.
“Leave him be, Karen,” my dad directs her as he takes the little toothpick full of olives from his martini glass and places it on her bread plate. “You know he’s not allowed to divulge the details.”
“Thanks,” she says as she picks up the skewered olives. She sucks one off the toothpick before adding blithely, “Yeah, yeah, but you can’t blame a girl for trying.”
I hate it when my mom and dad start with this breezy banter. I still haven’t managed to get past my father’s shittiness before my mom’s illness. Maybe if they had clued me in to what was actually going on in their relationship, I wouldn’t have spent a year hating my dad for apparent abandonment of my mother during her time of need. What in fact happened was that my mom’s illness made my father realize how important she was to him. The cancer apparently saved their marriage. They reconciled almost immediately after my mother’s diagnosis, but they made the asinine decision not to tell me. They thought it would be too difficult for me if my mom didn’t make it, knowing how much I had lost. So, instead of telling me that my father’s interest in the woman he’d met during our cruise vacation had evaporated, or that my mother had pardoned my dad’s philandering, they allowed me to remain submerged in anger. They let me seize on my fury toward my father as some sort of life-line, like it might keep me going during my mom’s treatment. Practically speaking, I’ve forgiven him, or them, but the intense anger and betrayal I felt for so many months is hard to forget. Looking at them, all cutesy with each other now, so many years later, still has me feeling all twitchy.
“So, I got a call from Mary at the catering company,” my mom starts, changing the subject. “She said she has a band and florist all lined up and that she’s sure we’ll be delighted with both of them.”
“That’s a relief,” I say, speaking into my penne as I push it around with my fork. My mind has gone off in another direction and, against my better judgment, I ask, “Did Aaron tell you who we ran into last week?”
“No, but maybe if you called us half as often as your handsome fiancé does, you could have told us yourself.” My mom looks at Aaron and adds, “You wouldn’t know it from the way she behaves now, but she used to call me every day, often multiple times a day.” She relays this tidbit for the billionth time as she pushes her tortoise-shell glasses up on her nose.
“Mom.” It’s a command. I’ve told her over and again that I work long hours and my life no longer allows for random phone calls where we do little more than catalog our activities for the day and listen to each other breathe. And, like I said, a lot has gone down over the past few years, and sometimes talking to my mother requires me to rehash too many painful memories.
“Okay, sorry,” she relents as she reaches her manicured fingers toward the next olive on the toothpick.
“Who’d you run into?” My dad tries to get us back on track.
Aaron takes over, responding before me. “Remember I told you Lana and Reese were taking us out for our engagement?”
“Yeah.” My mom nods at him, her high cheekbones more pronounced as she sucks on the olive in her mouth. I’m now anticipating the many potential pitfalls of this conversation and wishing I could withdraw my last question. I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place.
“Turns out the swanky hot spot they took us to is owned and operated by none other than Meredith’s ex. It’s a lucky thing I’m a confident guy, because that man cooks some damn good food.”
The penne in my stomach turns to rotting clay. I drag my eyes away from Aaron and reluctantly meet my mother’s gaze. All the color has drained from her face.
“He’s back?” she asks.
“He’s back,” I respond, trying to keep it light in front of Aaron. “I’m glad for him,” I say casually. “It’s nice to see someone achieve their dream, especially when I spend my own days slaving away for cash instead of ideals.” I’m hoping this statement will get us off the topic of Wesley. My parents love to discuss career goals with me. Since we can no longer talk about my academic pursuits, my professional trajectory is the next best thing.
“I don’t understand why you don’t apply for a clerk-ship with a judge,” my mom says, taking the bait and re-hashing a conversation we’ve had a million times.
“I told you, it won’t solve anything. It’s a great job, but it’s only a one-year appointment, and at the end of that year I’ll be right back to wondering what to do with myself. It’s fine. I’m good at the firm. The pay is right, and the pro bono case is exciting and worthwhile. If I do a good job, I can get more pro bono work. It’s all good.”
“I think Meredith should go into public interest law,” Aaron tells them. “I keep saying it, and she keeps ignoring me.” He winks at me, and I know he’s just playing.
Even so, I, too, am a bait-taker. “Well, I just don’t think it’s fair that I have to take a pay cut if I want to do something more meaningful.” I realize I’m pointing my fork at him and put it back in my bowl as I continue. “You get to do critical work, life-changing work, and then laugh all the way to the bank.” Turning toward my dad, whose dark eyes are fixated on his tuna steak, I say, “You guys should have told me to go to med school.” I make a mock mean face just for effect.
“You’re a germophobe.” My dad.
“And you hate blood.” My mom.
“And biology.” My dad.
“And needles.” My mom.
“Whatever.” And just like that, I’m a teenager again. Aaron’s presence has somehow worked its usual magic, and I’m relating to my parents like I used to, like we didn’t have an acute period of harrowing events a few years ago that drove a wedge between us all.
I look over at Aaron with appreciative eyes. The smattering of freckles across his nose gives him a boyish appearance that makes him seem free-minded, nonchalant. But I’m certain he knows exactly what he’s doing. He didn’t waltz into Dartmouth on football skills alone. That man has a hustler’s brain; he’s always thinking. And right now, he is using his sweet grin and strategically placed comments to help bring my parents and me back together.
The conversation turns to the pros and cons o
f different career choices and what each of us dreamed of being when we were young children (professional break-dancer, veterinarian, airline pilot). It’s jaunty and pleasant, but I can feel my mom’s eyes on me all through the meal, and I know what she’s thinking. She wants to talk about Wesley, see how his return has affected me, ask why I didn’t mention it to her sooner. Mainly, I think she wants to know if I’m all right. Or maybe she wants to know if Wesley’s homecoming is going to cost her the soon-to-be son-in-law to whom she’s so attached.
Chapter Nine
December 2012
As I waited for Wesley at the café on Eighth Street, scribbling notes in the margins of my criminal procedure textbook, I felt relieved to be three-quarters of the way finished with my fall semester finals. The second year of law school had been less daunting than that awful first year, when I had been sure I would fail out, but I was still neurotic about my grades, and my nerves were accordingly frayed. Even so, I had it better than Wesley, who had lost nearly all the money he’d saved for culinary school thanks to some questionable investments and the recession of 2008. He was working as a line cook in a swanky restaurant in Gramercy Park now, saving a new pile of cash and accumulating more back-of-the-house hours.
I picked up my mocha latte and watched my engagement ring sparkle in the winter light. The massive yellow diamond had belonged to Wesley’s great-grandmother Florence, and his parents had insisted that we use it. Truth be told, I wasn’t much into the yellow, teardrop-shaped stone, but I knew it was valuable, both emotionally and financially, so I tried to enjoy it in the spirit in which it had been intended.
That's Not a Thing Page 9
