Ask Again Later (4 page)
Authors: Jill A. Davis
“You make it sound like there are people out there volunteering to get cancer,” I say. “As if it were a home-renovating project.”
“Well, I wasn't trying to offend. I just don't want anything to do with it; that's all,” Mom says.
The way she dismisses it makes it sound like dismissing it is an option.
Check here: ( ) Yes, I would like to have cancer.
Or here: ( ) No, thank you. I do not wish to take advantage of the cancer offer at this time.
“On the phone you said you wereâ¦dying. Did the doctor actually say that?” I ask.
“Well, of course not! That's no way to run a business. People wouldn't pay their bills,” Mom says.
That doesn't sound accurate, but she does manage to raise a point that has never occurred to me. It's one of the things I love most about her. Her illumination of how the fringe population thinks.
“So we're not going to talk about it?” I say. “Well, what can I do? How can I help, Mom?”
“Oh, Emily, just be here,” Mom says.
“Okay,” I say. “I'm here.” I hold her hand.
“That's nice, honey,” Mom says. “I didn't mean
here,
here. I still need to sleep. Maybe you could go watch TV, or read.”
She pulls her silk sleep mask down over her alert eyes.
“Okay,” I say. I walk toward her bedroom. I stop and turn. “Mom, I'm really sorry that this is happening to you. I'm sorry if you're scared.”
“Okay,” she whispers. Her whisper is confident. Why can't I be more like her? Lost in the illusion that life is an illusion? She was awake all night, yet she can't even be bothered to share any details with me now that I am here. Now
I'm
here, all alone in her living room, with her cancer!
I go into her bedroom. I close the door just enough so she won't hear me cry. I sit on a Queen Anne chair and look out the window. I can see the steps of the Met; they are wet from melting snow. We used to have picnics on those steps when I was little.
I'm crying because she's in dire straits and even now we can't have an authentic relationship. And even if I wanted one, I'm fairly certain I'm not capable of having that kind of relationship with her. I feel like I'm hitting a tennis ball against a backboard. The ball keeps bouncing back to me, but I'm the only one working.
Later I poke around her medicine cabinet. There is some Xanax. I check the date on the bottle. Yesterday's date. I shake the bottle. I'm not sure why. There's noth
ing else of note in her medicine cabinet. No Advil, no Tylenol. Just natural toothpaste and eleven different face creams. All of the pots of cream and tubes of lotion mention that it takes a minimum of thirty days of use for benefits to begin to showâ¦like there's a man, woman, or child alive who has the discipline to apply this stuff thirty days in a row.
I try on some of her lipstick and look in the mirror. It does not work on meâtoo severe. I look at the photographs on her dresser. I don't recognize any of the beautiful people in the photos, and I start to think it's very strange that my mother has so many friends I've never met. All gorgeous. All wearing tuxedos or elegant gowns. Only then do I realize that she never put personal photos in the frames; they still contain the black-and-white stock photos that are displayed in stores. I bought a few of these frames for her. I should have added photos before giving them to her. The distance may be greater than I'd ever thought. There are so many reasons to cry.
Eventually, I go to the kitchen. Open the fridge. I cut up fruit, and while I'm putting it into a bowl, I realize that I have a job and that I never bothered to call my office to say I wouldn't be in today. I never called Sam. I dropped everything and came here.
“It's Emily. Is Sam in?” I ask when his assistant answers.
“Everyone's in the conference room,” she says. “They've been in there all morning. Want me to slip him a note?”
“No, thanks, I'll be in,” I say. What would the note say exactly? Sorry you poured your heart out on my answering machine and I have not bothered to call back; oh, and my mom has breast cancer: she doesn't speak to her own mother, my sister can't stop shopping long enough to check in, so I'm the only family she has.
I check on my mother, who is now sound asleep. I write a note, telling her that I'll be back soon and that there's fresh fruit in the fridge. I don't want her to wake up while I'm gone and be afraid. I put a framed photo of one of the strangers next to her davenport. To keep watch. It seems like it could be a scene from a horror movieâwhere the photo comes to life and possibly attacks her. It occurs to me she might wake up startled if the photo is the first thing she seesâso I move it back a respectful distance.
THE FACT THAT
I forgot I belonged somewhere means something to me. At this moment, it gets me thinking that I really
don't
belong at work.
I walk into the conference room. Gray suits. White shirts. Raised eyebrows and unhappy looks in my direction. I take a seat. I mouth the word “sorry” to everyone who will look. Though some people don't look. They are too incensed that I have the gall to show up late when they've been in this cavernous chamber all morning.
When I first became a lawyer, I loved the extreme detail of it. How language mattered. The way it required my full attention and how, unlike my family, it was explicit in its meaning. I'd found the demanding job that needed me as much as I needed it. It was a dream come true. The family I never had.
With time, you'd think too much of a good thing could only get better. But in my case it's become suffocating. It's devoured all other parts of my life. I couldn't have said this yesterday. I couldn't have admitted it, or maybe it was not yet true yesterday.
I mouth the word “coffee” to Jenny, the assistant. I know what you're thinkingâfetch your own coffee, lady. How sexist to expect young and spry Jenny to get coffee. It's the other way around, of course; Jenny gets coffee only for men. In law school, I didn't imagine this would be one of my more difficult precedent-setting arguments. Jenny's paid to be a floater. That means seamlessly filling the gaps. Floating from one task to the next without interrupting the flow of work and ideas. Jenny pretends she doesn't see me. Instead of aiming to be helpful and largely invisible, she pretends I am invisible. I wait until we make eye contact. Then I make a pouring motion. Still, I get the freeze. Jenny looks away from me quickly and begins removing imaginary lint from her skirt. I wait. I pounce again. I mouth the word “coffee,” then make a pouring motion, followed by a sipping, oops, too-hot-don't-sip-too-fast motion.
“Jenâ,” I start to say.
“Jenny! Can you stop pretending you don't see Emily and get the goddamn coffee, so she can quit it with the pantomime routine?” Donald says. “For the life of me I'll never understand how the hell being paid to pour coffee landed on par with abuse.”
Donald is a man who does not wait for life, and does not waste time on pleasantries. Donald is a doer. He gets shit done. It must be so satisfying to be Donald.
I can already predict what form the ugly retaliation will take: scalding hot, instant decaf, with nondairy creamer? I miss my coffee machine. I miss my home. I wish it were yesterday instead of today. Too often, that is my wish.
RIGHT AFTER THE MEETING,
Sam says: “Rhodes, let's meet in my office.”
“Okay, coach,” I say.
He doesn't close the door. He leans against his desk.
“I'm sorry,” I say.
“What happened?” Sam asks.
I'm imagining what sort of excuse might appease himâor meâin this situation.
I could tell him the truth, but even the truth doesn't quite get me off the hook. I should have called him as soon
as my mother fell asleep. I should have called and said, “More tin-foil swans, please.”
“You need to talk to me,” Sam says. He reaches for my hand and lifts it up to match the palm of my hand against the palm of his hand. Our fingers are stretched out. His hand dwarfs mine. I imagine future generations using this position as a method to determine who might make a suitable mate for life. It's as good a measure as any.
“You know what I was thinking when I was sitting in that meeting?” I say.
“Let me guess. âJenny, where the hell's my coffee?'” Sam says.
“Well, that, too. But I was wondering when I decided it was okay for this job to consume my life,” I say. “How did work become my central focus? Not my central focus. It's my only focus. I have nothing else.”
“That's what happens when you're good at something. You want to spend all of your time doing it,” Sam says. “But you've been here for sixty-three days in a row; maybe you just need a break.”
He's right. I am good at my job, and being good at something is meaningful. But the more time I spend perfecting what I'm already good at, the less time I spend on things that I'm not good at. You see where this is headed, don't you? A lopsided life. I
do
need a break.
“We both know if I take that
break
âI'm the
girl who needed a break
. It's one more reason for me not to make
partner. Partners don't need breaks. I'm living under the constant threat of not making partner. It used to seem kind of exciting and elusive. Like hunting. Now it just makes me feel bad,” I say. “I'm thirty years old. My mother just told me she has cancer. Why am I spending all of my time here?”
“Cancer? Oh, Emily. I'm sorry,” Sam says. “How is she coping?”
“It's hard to describe,” I say. I've never been able to describe her accurately and now is no different.
“I really am sorry. Please let me know if there's any way I can help,” Sam says.
“Thanks,” I say.
“About you and me, Em,” Sam says. “This morning, I pretty much laid it all out thereâon the phone. The woman who has never been tardy or sick in four years chooses today as the day not to show up. Doesn't even call. If you were me, what would you make of that?” Sam asks.
“Everything is different today,” I say. I want to claim some newfound ability to see things more clearly. But it's not true. I just see things differently.
He drops my hand. Not sure why he held it, just to let it go. A subliminal reinforcement of what I'm doing to him? Mano a mano. Very cagey, amigo. His directness is startling and frightening and exciting. It's also completely foreign to me.
I stare at him.
“The thing that's always concerned me about you is that you live your life with one foot out the door. It's unsettling,” Sam says. “Worse than that, it's familiar. It reminds me of Susanna.”
Okay, that is officially the most hurtful thing he's ever said to me. I think I might cry because it also happens to be true. I do live with one foot out the door. But if I cry, he wins, right? I'm not sure what he wins exactly. The satisfaction of articulating my dysfunction better than I can? All I know is I can't lose this one. Maybe I really am a lawyer at heart. Why is winning even part of this exchange?
“That's really unnecessary and really unfair,” I say. “I've made solid decisions in my life so I don't
have
an ex-spouse to compare
you
to.”
“You're right. No ex-spouse for you,” Sam says, smiling.
“Why are you smiling?” I say.
“A spouse, or even an ex-spouse, would have required you to have made a commitment to someone,” Sam says. “That's not an area of strength for you, is it?”
He takes a deep breath and walks away from me, toward the window.
“I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean for this conversation to head in this direction. Emily, I've thought for a long time that we were going to end up together, so I didn't really care so much about the when of it. Now, though, the long road is starting to seem like the infinite road.”
“You don't get to pin this on me,” I say. “It's really convenient. But do you know how many times we've canceled plans because of this place?” I say. “You're no more ready to have a relationship than I am.”
“You're completely wrong about that,” Sam says. “We're almost finished with this project. Let's go skiing. Maybe Vermont or Lake Placid?”
Negotiating 101. He's calling my bluff.
“So we can live our life on vacation a few weeks each year?” I say.
The more I stand there, the more resentful I become. I hate it that I never leave my office when it's light out. I hate it that I spend my weekends stressing about what will be sitting on my desk come Monday. I hate that the lines have become so blurry that I don't know if I'm a workaholic, or if I'm using this job as an excuse to spend time with Sam or as an excuse to avoid spending time with Sam away from work.
“You're quitting your job, aren't you?” Sam asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Grow up!” Sam says, slamming the door. For privacy? Too late for that. Anyone not watching us before is watching now that the door has been slammed. “That's not how you quit a job!”
“It's my job, I'll quit how ever I want to quit,” I say. If I'd thrown in a “nah-nah-nah,” the regression would be complete.
He stares at me for a few seconds. It seems like days. I feel like collapsing and crying. Just getting it all out.
“Emily, you're supposed to quit the shitty things in your life, not the good things,” Sam says, walking toward me.
He's right about that. All those years in school and no one ever mentioned practical life and how to manage it. The topic never even came up. That's beyond an oversight. It's blasphemous. What do I need to know about statistics and Latin when I don't even know the basics about how to interact with other people?
I know what I'm doing, and I still can't stop. I've studied my mother's communication style my whole life. I feel stuck with it. I could see the disbelief on Sam's face when I was talking to him. He was incredulous and angry. I never learned how to be either one. His responses are appropriate. It's foreign and terrifying and endearing.
His arms are around me. I stand still, absorbing the closeness for a few seconds so I can refer to it later when I start regretting my next move. I step away from him, open the door, and race down the hall. Tears well up in my eyes, and I wait until I'm in the elevator before I start crying.
I push the button for the lobby, and then start sobbing. A tissue is being waved over my shoulder. So much for being alone.
“Thanks, Donald,” I say.