“Okay, you’re right.” I released a slow breath.
“Come here, let me massage you.” Charles pulled the rolling chair toward him.
A moan escaped me as Charles began kneading my shoulders. “Charles, I don’t have time. And I thought you had to go, too.”
“Oh, his assistant texted me. He pushed back our start time thirty minutes.” He glanced at his watch. “But it is five till nine, so let me get out of here.”
Five till nine? I wanted to scream. How had the time gotten away?
“Dangit,” I muttered, swiveling around in the chair to pull the paperwork off the printer.
“Well, have fun at your event, babe.” Charles leaned in to kiss me again. But he bumped my cup of coffee before making contact, and hot coffee spilled all over my dress and the paperwork I’d just printed.
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” I screamed as I jumped up.
Charles grabbed a Kleenex and immediately began rubbing.
“Stop! You’re making it worse,” I said. Charles backed away at my outburst. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just let me reprint this paperwork and go find something else to wear.”
Charles eased out of the room and I prayed that I could get the papers printed, change my clothes, and get downtown in the next hour.
It was 9:45 and my heart was pounding.
My dream was fifteen minutes away from being deferred. Again.
“Come on, come on, come on!” I screamed at the car in front of me. I pounded the steering wheel as I screamed at the little old lady who couldn’t decide if she was going to go left or right.
I’d stopped for gas—rushing so I’d only put $5 in, which hadn’t even turned my warning light off. But I just needed enough gas to get downtown.
If I miss this conference because of my family . . .
I pushed down the lump in my throat and the mist trying to cover my eyes as I glanced down at the GPS. I knew the way to the convention center but had turned on the GPS just to track my time. It had my arrival as 10:19, and I was praying that I’d be able to shave off some time.
My prayers hadn’t been answered.
“Move!” I screamed at another car that had cut me off and slowed my speed race by twenty miles an hour.
“Breathe, Aja. Breathe,” I mumbled. I’d been talking to myself the whole ride, trying my best to keep my nerves in check. “I know they stressed no late entries, but they’ll have a grace period.”
They have to have a grace period.
The GPS had been right on target because it was 10:19 when I pulled into the parking garage of the convention center. My hands were shaking in nervous anticipation. I drove around the second floor, and all the parking spots were taken, so I drove up to the third floor. After circling around and watching the clock on my dashboard turn to 10:26, I pulled into a handicapped space.
“Screw it,” I said, deciding I’d just have to pay the ticket if I got one.
I parked and prayed for a miracle as I darted through the garage, across the skywalk, and into the auditorium.
The check-in desk was empty and my heart dropped.
“Excuse me,” I said to a woman I saw standing at a table near the second entry. “I’m here for the ‘Living Your Best Life’ event. I’m registered.” I fumbled for my phone to pull up my ticket.
The woman looked at her phone like she wanted to remind me of the time. I wanted to scream that I knew what time it was. “I am so sorry,” she said. “There’s no late entry. They’ve already started filming.”
My chest began heaving. “Is . . . is there any way they can let me in?”
She flashed a sympathetic look. “I am so sorry,” the woman repeated. “We even gave a fifteen-minute grace period. But that’s why we have you submit the waiver, so we can make sure you are clear on the policy.”
I wanted to explain to her my hectic morning, ask her if she was a mother and wife and understood how families could suck the breath out of you. Maybe if she could relate . . .
“I can submit a request to see if they’ll give you a partial refund.” She had the nerve to smile.
“I don’t want a refund.” My voice cracked. “I just want to go in.”
The woman patted my hand. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
I nodded, unable to form a “Thank you anyway” as I scurried to the ladies’ room. I dipped in a stall as my chest heaved. I’d never had a panic attack, but I imagined this was what one felt like.
Every time I tried to do something for me, something happened. Every time I took two steps forward, life pushed me three steps back. All my life, I’d given everything I had to my family. All I wanted was this . . . this day.
I’d obviously wanted too much.
I buried my face in my hands and sobbed.
The Stolen Daughter Page 22