The Night I Got Lucky (15 page)

Which brought me back to my dad. He might have been the one family member I could have talked to about this. If what Hadley had told me al those years ago was true, he might have understood. Father and daughter, united in guilt.

“What’s it been like?” Alexa said.

“What do you mean?”

“Being vice president. What’s it like?”

We were sitting outside near State and Rush having lunch on a sunny, Friday afternoon. Alexa had cal ed me this time, and after a long, painful week (both emotional y and professional y) I’d quickly cleared my schedule of budgets and board meetings and assistant hand-holding to meet her. I hadn’t been sure
why
she wanted to meet, a mystery that became even more curious as we ate and chatted. Just chatted. About her brothers and sisters and the sil y things they did, about where we went to col ege and how we got into PR. It was a pleasant experience—especial y given the bright, seventy-degree day, the crowds strol ing the street and my desperate need for a girlfriend. This afternoon was smal relief from my agitated mind. But at the same time, I kept waiting for the Mexican curses to fal , for a quick turn of Alexa’s suddenly engaging personality.

But now this question about my new position. This was why she’d cal ed, I supposed, and although Alexa was the last person I wanted to have this discussion with, I thought I owed it to her.

“It’s al right,” I answered.

“Just al right?” She shook her hair away from her face, and I noticed two guys at the next table staring openly. When she wasn’t putting on her tough-PR-girl image, she was gorgeous.

“The role is not exactly what I thought it would be.”

“What did you think it would be?” Alexa leaned forward.

I shifted around in my chair. I didn’t want to sound ungrateful about the vice presidency, but I real y did want to talk to someone, especial y someone in the PR world.

“Being a VP is a bit dul ,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No, I’m not. I thought it would be more exciting and glamorous, but I miss my old job a hel of a lot.”

“Why?”

“I miss the creativity. My new job is al administrative, al the time. It’s looking at the P&L sheets and going to officers’ meetings and arguing about the damn pop machine and making personnel decisions.”

I stopped short, realizing I was sitting on State Street with one of those personnel decisions.

But Alexa blew right by it. “That’s what’s exciting about it!” she said. And indeed, she looked excited just by the topic. “You’re getting to focus the direction of the firm. You’re making real decisions about which of the firm’s resources to put where. That’s power.” I dropped my head a little. Here in front of me was someone clearly cut out to be a VP at Harper Frankwel , someone who would have relished it as much as she succeeded in it.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said in a weak voice.

“It’s absolutely true. That power is something to be respected. Most of the people I grew up with wil never know that kind of power.”

Her talk embarrassed me. My new power had led me like a stumbling drunk bent on breaking something. What I’d broken was Alexa’s career. “Any luck with the job search?”

She shook her head.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got to stop saying that. Someday I might thank you for firing me.”

“God, I’d real y like that.” We both chuckled. “But why do you say that?”

She shrugged. “Not working every day is making me think. And what I think is that I real y want to open my own PR firm like I mentioned before, one that wil work primarily with Hispanic people and businesses.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Wel …” She shook her head discouragingly. “It’s great that I know what I want to do, but I real y don’t know where to start.”

We sat quietly for a moment. The guys at the next table left, smiling at us. Alexa didn’t even notice. The crowds on State were getting larger as the afternoon grew longer and the sun heavier and more golden.

“So, are you dating someone?” I’m not sure why I asked her that question. I wanted to get off the topic of being a VP, and I guess I was hoping she did have a boyfriend, someone to cushion life’s blows.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“You’re married, right Bil y?”

“I am.”

“And do you love him?”

Jesus, what a question. “I do. I love him very much.” I looked at my hands in my lap. I let the guilt swim through me. “We’ve had our problems. He was very distant for a long time, and I sort of let it stay that way.” I noticed, in the back of my brain, that I was talking about very intimate things with Alexa, of al people. “And then we had the opposite problem. We got too close. He was around al the time, and I couldn’t seem to get enough space from him. And I made some mistakes.”

“Sounds tricky.”

“It is.”

Alexa smiled a little. “You know who I always had a thing for?” “Who?”

“Evan O’Reil y.”

At his name, my body tingled, then the acid churned in my stomach. Stil , I could feel his hands on my face, the back of my neck, my breasts.

“Real y?” I said, trying for nonchalance. I couldn’t imagine the two of them together. Evan went for thin, waspy girls much younger than him, and Alexa…wel , Evan just didn’t seem her type. But then I suppose a hot blond guy is most women’s type.

“I think he’s very smart,” Alexa said. “I like the way he thinks about things. Like when he’s in those pitch meetings?”

“You mean when he’s always cal ing Roslyn ‘Roz’?”

“Oh, I do hate that,” Alexa said, laughing. “But no, I like how he listens to people. He sits back and watches the conversation and takes it al in. When he opens his mouth, you respect what he says because it’s thoughtful. Have you ever noticed that?”

“I suppose.” I was usual y too busy noticing Evan’s pecs beneath his French blue shirts.

“And he’s nice to everyone,” Alexa continued. “In a genuine way, I mean.” She looked embarrassed. “I don’t know what I’m going on about.”

I sure did.

When I got home that night, I skipped my usual protocol. I didn’t check the phone messages or the mail. I didn’t flip through the TV channels. Instead, I went straight to my bedroom. I glared at the frog, then I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a pile by my side of the bed, and I slipped under the covers.

It was only 6:00, and the sleep I craved didn’t come. I was depressed enough to want to snooze the next four months away, but my body wouldn’t al ow it. I lay in our bedroom, light seeping boldly through the blinds. I thought of al those people heading out for a spring Friday evening—maybe off to Wrigley Field for a night game, maybe dinner outside at Jack’s Bar on Southport—and yet here I was, in bed. Alone. This was how I wanted it, but I wanted to be unconscious. Unable to feel the questions, the shame, the wonder of whether I could ever truly be happy when I wasn’t happy now, even after I’d gotten everything I’d thought I wanted.

I threw off the covers and sat up. Chris was stil at work. Probably would be for a long while, since I’d told him I was working late in order to avoid seeing him. I’d been doing this for the last few days. I couldn’t bear his sweet face, his unconditional love.

If I could just tel someone about Evan. Hel , about
all
of it—getting what I wanted overnight, how none of it had been like I’d imagined—maybe I could set it right. But I’d exhausted my list of potential advisors, both friends and family. I needed someone who could be objective, who could listen and tel me honestly what in the hel to do.

Blinda. That was the person who came to me then, because this need for an objective viewer of my life was what had brought me to her in the first place. And hadn’t she started al this with her mantra of
look inside, Billy,
and her gift of the frog?

I glanced at the frog on my nightstand as I dialed her number. Surely she was back from Africa by now. The phone rang five times—a hol ow, distant sound—then a click. She
was
there!

But then the whir of an answering machine and Blinda’s musical voice, “I’m out of the office for a while, but please leave me a message. Peace.”

I felt an irrational desire to say,
Yeah, peace to your mother,
and hang up, but I composed myself and asked her to cal me as soon as she got in.

Days went by without word from her. I avoided Chris. I said I had to work, then sat in my empty office over the weekend, listening to the steady whir of the air-conditioning, final y throwing myself wholeheartedly into work, hoping it would chase away everything else. But my mind kept coming back to Blinda and the conversation we’d had when she said she was leaving for Africa. Al I could recal was that she would be out of town
for a while.
What did that mean, exactly? Weeks, months, years?

Frustrated, I dug up the few names of other therapists who’d been recommended when I started entertaining the idea of therapy. One was on East Ohio Street, not too far from the office.

On Monday, I cal ed the number, spoke to a receptionist and made an appointment for five o’clock that same day. I hung up and felt myself breathe ful y with relief. I simply needed to talk to a professional. That was al . Soon I would have this whole mess figured out.

Her name was Dr. Hyacinth Montgomery, “but everyone cal s me Dr. Hy,” she said with a smooth smile. She looked like a presidential candidate—a perfect figure in an impeccable black suit, subtle makeup and a stylish brunette bob.

Her office was wood paneled and lined with books like an English library. A vase of white tea roses sat on the coffee table next to the patient couch. The effect was elegant, but I missed the cracked Asian pot and the wooly red and orange sofa in Blinda’s place.

“Please, sit,” she said. “Now tel me what brings you here.”

I explained that I already had a therapist, someone I’d been seeing for a few months, but that she was out of town and I needed to talk to someone.

“Fine,” she said. “That’s just fine. What seems to be on your mind?”

“Wel , uh…” The words dried up in my mouth. How to explain this? Best to just get it out, I decided. “I was seeing my therapist because I was unhappy with some aspects of my life.”

“Mmm, good,” Dr. Hy said.

“So, there were these aspects I wanted to be different,” I continued. “They real y weren’t anything earth-shattering. I wanted my husband to pay more attention to me, I wanted to be promoted at work, I wanted my mother to stop living her life through mine, I wanted to get over my father, who took off when I was young, and I had this somewhat irrational hope that this guy at work would have a crush on me.”

Dr. Hy laughed, a soft tinkle of a laugh. “I think those are al valid wishes.”

Confident now, I charged on. “I told my therapist al of this, and she asked me if I’d done enough to make these thing happen. Then she told me to look inside for my happiness.”

Dr. Hy nodded, a smal smile of agreement.

“But she also gave me this frog,” I said. “I should have brought it to show you, but the point is, she gave me this frog and told me that in the Chinese culture the frog was believed to bring good fortune. I didn’t think much of it, and I put the frog on my nightstand. When I woke up the next morning, everything had changed.” I held my breath, waiting for her reaction.

There was a crease between Dr. Hy’s eyebrows now. “How do you mean?”

Too late to turn back, I thought. I’m paying her. I might as wel blurt it out. “I got everything I wanted overnight,” I said. “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s absolutely true. The very next day, my husband was great, the guy at work had a crush on me, my mom was in Milan, my dad was just gone from my head and I was a vice president.”

The crease deepened. “Overnight, this happened? Do you mean ‘overnight’ as a figure of speech?”

“No, no,” I said. “Literal y, the day after I saw her, after I got this frog, my whole life changed.”

“Maybe it just felt like that.”

“No, it did. I know how odd this sounds, but please, trust me.”

Dr. Hy leaned forward. “Just to make sure I understand you, you’re saying that your therapist gave you a frog, an icon of some sort, and the next day your life was very different. You’d gotten everything you wished for.”

“Exactly.”

“Were you on any medications at the time?”

“No.”

“Do you use drugs or alcohol extensively?”

“Wel , I’ve been known to have one too many glasses of wine on occasion, but no.”

“And Bil y, do you real y believe that your life was entirely different in one day?”

“It absolutely was. I woke up that morning with the frog on my nightstand, and it had al changed, just like that.” I snapped my fingers for effect. “Please. Can you help me straighten this out? I’m not sure where else to turn.”

“Are you taking any medications now?”

“Just vitamins and stuff. Why?”

“Have you ever been prescribed antipsychotic drugs?”

“What? No! I mean, I guess I can’t blame you for asking, but I am not psychotic.”

“Of course not, and I wasn’t suggesting that. It’s simply that on these drugs many people feel more…” She paused, as if looking for a word in her mind. “Stable.”

“I’m perfectly stable.” I paused. “Wel , I’m pretty stable anyway. I just don’t want my life to be like this anymore. I want to have some say in it. I
thought
I wanted to get everything overnight

—I mean who doesn’t?—but it hasn’t been as great as I’d hoped. And I feel like everything is preordained somehow. Like I didn’t have a hand in it. I think it has something to do with the frog or Blinda, but I can’t figure it out.”

“And where is this Belinda now?”

“It’s Blinda, not Be-linda.” I wasn’t sure why this mattered, but I felt the distinction needed to be made.

“Okay, sure. And where is
Blinda
now?” The way she drew out Blinda’s name made it sound as if she thought I had an imaginary therapist, the way children have imaginary friends.

“Africa. She used to be in the Peace Corps.”

“How long has she been in Africa?”

“It seems like a long time, but it’s real y been a few weeks.”