“Maeve, just the person I was looking for,” Elizabeth croons. “I was worried I missed you. I can never keep track of what hours you’re in anymore what with all those daycare emergencies.”
Real nice. I try to keep the contempt out of my voice as I sweetly remind her, “Now Elizabeth, you know I’m in from nine to six every day. And when there are emergencies, I’m always available on email, as per firm policy.”
Our firm just announced an obnoxious policy that requires associates to respond to all partner and client emails within two hours of receipt. No exceptions. That includes weekends and evenings. So much for work-life balance.
“Well, call me old fashioned, but I prefer to meet with my associates in person rather than just exchanging emails with them,” retorts Elizabeth through her signature hot pink lipstick.
Elizabeth is always impeccably dressed. She must be in her late forties or early fifties and has the post-baby bump most of us mothers sport, but she makes the most of her figure in pencil skirts, bright blouses and designer heels. She must also get keratin treatments because her shoulder-length bob is always impossibly straight and frizz-free. One look at her makes my go-to black stretchy pants and grey cable-knit sweater feel wholly inadequate.
“Anyway, Maeve, I was wondering when I was going to see the first draft of the Gibson motion to dismiss. It is due in fourteen days, after all.”
At this point, I’m doing those kegel exercises recommended by my obstetrician like my life depends on it. Which it kind of does. I’m not sure people who pee themselves in the hallway get promoted.
“I’ve been working on it today and will have it to you by the end of the week, no problem,” I promise while attempting to both keep my legs tightly locked and simultaneously slip along the wall in the direction of the bathroom.
Elizabeth puts a hand on my arm to stop my departure. “Oh, that won’t work. I need to go out of town this weekend and want a chance to edit it before leaving. Please email it to me by the end of the day tomorrow at the latest.”
Shit! For that to happen, I will have to write most of it tonight so tomorrow can be devoted to fine-tuning. Another night with little to no sleep, but at this point I would agree to anything that gets me to a toilet within the next minute. This must be why torture isn’t an effective method of eliciting the truth.
“Sure, Elizabeth. End of the day tomorrow it is.”
Elizabeth flashes me a Cheshire cat smile and releases my arm. I proceed the remaining way to the bathroom in a half squat so I can keep my legs and thighs clenched together. Not exactly the picture of the glass ceiling shattering, feminist badass I aspire to convey.
Thirty seconds later, I’m enjoying the immense feeling of relief in my bladder region when what catches my eye? Surely that can’t be, and yet there it is, gray pubic hair. How can the hair on my head be retaining its mouse-brown hue when my pubic region has multiple silver strands? Is my vagina aging at a more rapid rate than the rest of me? Jesus, that’s a depressing thought. Surely Marcie’s nether region is gray free and tight. She probably can also sneeze without fear. Demoralized by my aging vagina and shortened deadline, I grab a diet coke from the vending machine and head back down the elliptical-shaped hall to my office. All those researchers comparing the effects of diet coke on your body to that of heroin can go blow themselves for today.
I finish the second of four arguments when I risk a glance at the clock. WTF! How is it five-fifty already? In order to pick up the boys from daycare at six-thirty, I have to be in a cab no later than six. My goal is five forty-five, but that rarely happens. I quickly record my time on my ubiquitous yellow legal pad and power down my laptop. I throw on my staple black, knee-length winter coat I picked up at J. Crew four years ago and am out the door. Six o’clock departures are rather on the early side for associates, so I embark on my Mission Impossible-style exit designed to avoid any partner offices. I take the corridor by Jeanine’s desk which leads to the inner hallway of paralegal offices before dead-ending at the elevator corridor. As long as the elevator comes quickly, my departure should go undetected. But, of course, as waiting for the elevator stretches from one minute to two I hear the unmistakable sound of four-inch heels clicking toward me. I punch the elevator button three more times in a futile attempt to hasten its arrival, but not before Elizabeth turns the corner and spots me.
“Maeve,” she says with concern, “I certainly hope you are leaving yourself adequate time to finish that motion by tomorrow.”
The elevator ding saves me and I shout a quick, “Of course, you’ll have it tomorrow,” before slipping through the doors.
After a quick dinner of chicken nuggets and fruit followed by a bath to hose off the excess ketchup, the boys are snuggled next to me in the oversized recliner rocker in Seamus’s room. We are reading Chugga-Chugga Choo-Choo for the umpteenth time. While every rhyming line has been seared into my memory, I don’t complain. These fifteen-minute reading sessions before bed are the only times I feel like a good parent most days. I’m not begging Declan to eat two bites of broccoli, wrestling with Seamus to put on his snowsuit, or running out of daycare with a quick kiss on their heads. I’m present and relaxed. I put my nose into Seamus’s wet messy hair and breathe in the Burt’s Bees baby wash. Nestled in my other arm is Declan. Small for his age at not quite five, Declan has delicate features and sports his required glasses to correct his farsightedness. Declan is such a serious boy. Even though he is fully focused on the tale of the train’s adventures around the playroom, I can’t help but give him a little squeeze. And right then my phone starts ringing. Patrick’s regularly scheduled FaceTime chat to wish the boys goodnight.
As Patrick’s tired yet handsome face fills the screen, Seamus starts bouncing up and down in excitement. Seamus adores his daddy and both his chubby little arms start flailing in excitement each night during these calls. Declan is also a Daddy’s boy and I worry that part of his quiet demeanor is actually sadness over not seeing him enough.
Patrick, who up until Friday I thought I knew so well. A lump forms in my throat, but I force a happy tone.
“Hi, Daddy! Declan, can you tell Daddy about your day?” I prompt in an attempt to keep my part of the conversation to a minimum.
Declan always takes a few beats to collect his thoughts before speaking. “School was fun, but I got a boo-boo on my leg.”
Shit! Of all the things Declan could bring up. As Patrick is less than thrilled with our current For Your Child daycare/preschool, I rush to diffuse the situation. “It was nothing serious. Dec’s pant leg just came up on the slide and he got a bit of a slide burn. Want to show him, sweetie?”
Declan pulls up the leg of his Superman pajamas and shows Patrick a minor red mark. Patrick blows him a kiss to make it better and Declan seems pacified. I switch hands so the phone is now in front of Seamus.
At fifteen months, Seamus is unable to hold up his end of the conversation so I take over. “Daddy, Ms. Ann at school reported Seamus said ‘ball’ four times today, but he won’t do it for Mommy. Can you say ‘ball’ for Daddy, big boy? Ball? Ball?”
“Da Da Dada,” Seamus babbles.
I laugh. “We know you can say Dada, little man. Can you say ‘ball?’”
“Dada.”
“Okay, well I don’t think we are going to get a ‘ball’ tonight,” I concede. “I’ll keep trying tomorrow.”
Though these chats usually last more than two minutes, I feel my cheerful facade start to crack and rush to put an end to it. “Can we say goodnight to Dada, boys? It’s beddy time.”
A mixture of “night, Daddy” from Declan and “Da Da Da” from Seamus fills the room as Patrick waves and blows kisses.
Patrick, surprised, asks, “You going to call me later?”
“Not tonight, hon. I still have a few hours of work to do.”
Patrick looks disappointed. “Oh, that’s too bad. Zara texted me today. She said you had one of your…ummm…err”—Patrick awkwardly searches for a word bef
ore landing on—“attacks and I wanted to check on you. Are you feeling okay?”
I can feel Dec’s worried eyes scanning my face and I rush to reassure him…and Patrick, “Oh, yes. You know me. I’m such a worrier.” I attempt a light chuckle. “I have a busy week at work and started to stress out. Zara talked me through it. I’m fine now.”
Patrick looks unconvinced. “Okay. It’s just that Zara made it out to be a bit more than that. And it’s not like it’s the first time it's happened. Maybe you should consider talking to someone about these events. Like a professional, maybe.”
I make a mental note to kill Zara next time I see her. There’s a reason I lean on her and not Patrick during these times. And she knows why. Looking to end this interrogation, I strike a conciliatory tone. “Okay, hon. I’ll give it some thought. Have a good night.”
As I end the call, I wonder briefly what Patrick will do with the rest of his night now that his family obligations are out of the way. Putting that aside, I finish our story and lay Seamus down in his crib with a kiss. I then pick up Declan and carry him to his room next door. Declan sleeps in an actual tree house bunk bed that Patrick insisted on getting him to make up for Seamus’s arrival. It’s from Pottery Barn Kids and while the bottom bunk is nothing special, the top bunk is enclosed in wood paneling like a tree house. There are four windows for Declan to peek out from and a single open doorway with a ladder to climb in. It is a little boy’s dream bed. Seamus is relegated to Dec’s hand-me-down crib. I wonder when he is going to realize he got the shaft. Not sure if there is going to be any grand gesture bunk bed in Shay’s future either. While Patrick loves him, he was initially dead set against having another baby. But I pleaded for another until Patrick finally caved to my wishes. I experienced the loneliness of only childhood and my son was going to have a playmate even if it killed me. Which on some days I feel it surely will.
A little after two-thirty in the morning, I reach a point where I’m fairly sure any reasonable judge will conclude the borrower did not suffer any actual damages from receiving one monthly statement from her student loan servicer after filing for bankruptcy. And opposing counsel has not met his burden of proof in showing my client has developed a pattern and practice of violating bankruptcy stays. Of course, right as I’m about to power down my laptop, my Jabber pings. Jabber is the work approved IM for quick messages to coworkers. It’s from Ethan.
Welcome to the murder squad.
I’m stunned. I hadn’t thought about Ethan’s pro bono case since our dinner where I felt I had effectively closed the door to any possibility of my participation. I begin to type “what are you talking about” when the status by his name changes to “offline.” Just like Ethan to drop a bomb and log off.
Chapter 5
I sneak out of my room, pad quietly down the hallway, and take a seat. Being rather small for an eight-year-old, I have the perfect vantage point from which to snatch glimpses of the holiday party my parents are hosting for Dad’s work friends while still remaining hidden from view. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my purple terry cloth bathrobe tightly around me. I see Dad’s plump partner, Mr. Mullins, talking animatedly with their secretary, Barbara Meach, his hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon and his eyes fixed on Barbara’s bosom. I see the dark chocolate buffet table filled with appetizers. Deviled eggs, cheese and crackers, spinach dip in a pumpernickel bread bowl, seven-layer dip, and an assortment of cookies all of which Mom is taking credit for whipping up. I, of course, know she paid Mrs. Collins down the street to not only take care of the spread but also to stay quiet about it. Dad emerges from the kitchen. He’s wearing his formal navy blue suit usually reserved for court appearances and seems to be enjoying himself. After clinking the side of his Miller Lite several times with a spoon, he thanks everyone for coming and wishes that nineteen ninety-two will be another good year for their small criminal law firm. Mom takes her place beside him and places her hand on his back. She’s wearing a long-sleeve gray dress adorned with an attached gold necklace. Her hair recently permed. Her eyes a bit unfocused.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, I’m awakened by the sound of glass shattering. Panic sets in. I steal a peek into the living room. It’s late and the party must have been dying down because there are only six or so people still there, including Mr. Mullins and Barbara. I do not see Mrs. Mullins. Dad comes running out of the kitchen toward my Mom. She’s crying and appears to be yelling at Mr. Mullins. I hear her say “son of a bitch,” but her speech is too slurred to make out much more. From the wet mark on the floral wallpaper next to Mr. Mullins’s head, I guess she threw her martini glass at him. Dad grabs both of her arms and begins to lead her in the direction of their bedroom. Mom, stumbling, still manages to aim a few more curses in Mr. Mullins’s direction before disappearing into their room.
Once she is gone, the remaining guests recover from their shock and begin to put down their glasses and locate their coats. All the while whispering to each other. A few minutes later my dad emerges. I hear him apologize for my mother’s behavior which he explains away as the result of having “overindulged in the holiday cheer.” He helps the few remaining women on with their coats and walks them toward the door. As he shakes Mr. Mullins’s hand, he seems to whisper another apology into his ear. Once everyone has left, Dad returns to the living room and starts clearing the buffet of its mostly empty platters. He abruptly stops and walks over to the sofa. He sits, puts his head in his hands, and lets out a long sigh. I think he may be crying though I’ve never seen my dad cry. Not even at Grandma’s funeral. I get to my feet, take a deep breath, and walk into the living room. Shaking slightly, I put my arms around my father and lay my head on his shoulder. He instantly recoils from my embrace and stands up.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Shocked, I say nothing.
“Were you spying on me?” he demands.
“I…I…” I stutter. I’m grasping at straws. “The glass woke me up. Is Mom okay?”
A look of utter loathing enters my father’s eyes. Whether it is directed at me or my mother, I can’t tell.
Dad then grabs my arm and orders, “Get to bed and don’t come back out. You hear me?”
I search my father’s face for any semblance of love or compassion. Finding none, I walk quietly back to my room.
Chapter 6
I wake up exhausted and emotionally drained, having amassed a grand total of four hours of sleep. Not even four consecutive hours since Seamus woke up fussing at four. Blasted fifteen-month molars. Knowing full well that Patrick wouldn’t approve, I ran downstairs, grabbed Shay out of his crib and let him sleep with me the remaining two hours. Patrick thinks we should have a strict no co-sleeping policy. I don’t agree but usually go along with it…at least when he’s home. When he’s away, I let it slide a bit more. They are only going to want to crawl in with their Mommy for a few more years and I want to savor every last snuggle.
I tiredly fumble my way through dressing and feeding the boys their oatmeal and bananas before dropping them off at daycare. Determined to stick with my challenge, I then come home to run/walk a slow three miles on the treadmill in our basement. As I’m throwing on random but clean business casual pieces, my eye catches our wedding picture on the wall above my dresser. Me in my simple, long-sleeved ivory satin dress with a scoop neckline. In the picture, I’m holding hands with Patrick who's clad in a classic black suit. We’re walking toward the reception tent. It strikes me how young we both look. I guess that’s because we were young. Both twenty-six years old and right out of law and business school. My face is wrinkle-free and glowing, even without a facial. I have a big smile on my face. Patrick looks a bit stiff. I remember him being very nervous during the ceremony. Right up until our vows, that is. Earlier that summer we’d agreed to write our own. Over a few glasses of wine on a patio, it seemed like a brilliant idea. But with work and all the wedding planning it became a source of immense stress for me.
Ultimately, my vows were sweet, but nothing special. Patrick, on the other hand, knocked it out of the park. I still remember him looking me in the eyes and saying, “Maeve, in you I have found a place to call home. I have found compassion and love. I have found a kindred spirit. You are my everything.” To this day, I still get weepy when I recall them.
We were married at the Chicago Botanic Gardens. It was hot that last weekend of August, but there had been rain the day before and the gardens were green and in bloom, the smell of lavender in the air. Patrick’s two brothers gave hilarious co-best man speeches mentioning a few house parties Patrick had thrown when his parents were back visiting relatives in Ireland. His mother stood next to me during her speech and said that while they had all considered me a Shaw for the last three years, I was now officially one of her daughters. Given that my side of the aisle was beyond sparse, having her accept me into their family meant more than she could know. It was the single happiest day of my life before Dec was born. There’s no way in hell I’m giving this all up without a fight.
I arrive at the office right around nine. After three hours of tedious edits on Elizabeth’s motion I’m starting to fade. I unconsciously find myself back on Marcie’s Ernst & Young profile when I’m startled out of my internet stalking by Ethan barging into my office. Although I have pumped in that office twice daily for two six-month stretches, Ethan still never feels the need to do a courtesy knock. I guess a bit of familiarity is to be expected amongst the only two remaining members of our summer associate class. I can still visualize the moment during our initiation when the director of recruiting informed us that of the fifty-two summer associates who had received and accepted offers at Mulvaney Stewart only one or two would eventually be made partner. Both Ethan and I have been passed over for promotion the last three years running. Mine always attributed to a lack of awe-inspiring amounts of billable hours. Ethan’s billables are solid. He just needs to impress upon a few more partners his ability to bring in business. He seems committed to kissing the right ass this year and will probably snag that promotion at year’s end.
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