Hearing herself referred to as one of the “kids” was odd but that was definitely an improvement over “the temp.” She would be moving out of her isolated cubicle and to the open, well-lit creative side.
Near Doug. Jesus, surely she wouldn’t be working directly with Doug? Just being on that side of the office was going to be hard. Did he seriously think that she wanted to sit closer to him while she watched him get on with his life? Listening to the office buzz about his new baby, watching Cathy traipse in and out with her developing belly? Her excitement about her career faded into a fog of anger and resentment, and she had trouble focusing on what Frank was saying.
“Marci?” Frank said, obviously aware that he’d lost her. “What do you think?”
“I’m, wow. I’m overwhelmed,” she said, and then added, “It sounds like such an amazing opportunity.”
“Well, it will definitely be a learning experience,” Frank said. “But listen, I don’t want to put you on the spot today. I’m sure you have a boyfriend or husband you need to talk it over with.” He winked at her kindly. He knew damn well this was the opportunity of a lifetime and she didn’t need to talk it over with anyone, but he wanted to pretend that she had some power in the situation.
Frank was slightly older than the other three partners, the only one who had not gone to college with them. He had sort of a “good old boy” reputation, but Marci could see that what he contributed to the team was deeper than that. His no-nonsense style seemed to keep the firm’s artistic temperaments in check. He was also consistently kind, from what Marci had gathered. There was something to be said for that.
They spent the rest of lunch making small talk—company business, vacation plans, free concerts at Zilker Park. Of course, even in May, it was never too early to begin speculating about Longhorn football. Marci tried to show as much interest as possible in all these topics, but found that she most often felt she was floating above the conversation in a weird sort of haze.
Victoria gave her a lift back to the office, and on the way she apologized for not giving Marci a heads-up about the job offer. In uncharacteristic disclosure, she then began rattling on about everything she had going on in her personal and professional life, everything from a botched six-week relationship that had ended this week to her ancient cat’s inability to control his bowels and her unwillingness to put him down. It was more detail in one ten-minute trip than Marci had gleaned in the previous nine months working with Victoria. It seemed the job offer from Frank Dodgen had inducted Marci into some sort of exclusive club. The whole experience was surreal.
At Victoria’s request, she spent the rest of the afternoon bringing all her current projects to a stopping place, and preparing instructions for the next person. “Even if you don’t start the new job Monday, I’d like to make sure we’re prepared for the next temp.” Marci had completed all of this by 3:00, and rather than wait for quitting time, she updated her time sheet to pay herself for the time she’d spent waiting for Doug Wednesday night and left the office without a word to anyone.
She could not go home, not now, so she went to the Speakeasy instead. She paid the exorbitant fee to park on Fourth Street and climbed the long narrow stairs to the rooftop portion of the bar. It was nearly deserted, but the bartender was already setting up for a long, fair evening outside. In a few hours, Austin’s young professionals would pay $10 each to crowd this patio and look out over the city and the river to the south.
For now, she sat alone in the glaring sunlight with a dirty vodka martini and laughed sourly at her life. How had she gotten here? Painfully, she looked back at all the moments when she could have turned around, saved herself some of this pain and heartache. Each time the opportunity had arisen, she had plowed forward to her own doom.
Like the first kiss. She remembered it with crystal clear precision: they were standing behind his desk, going through piles of paper together late one evening while he tried to reorganize his files to make room for a new credenza with less filing space. Brought together by furniture, she thought bitterly, and pointed at her glass to signal the Speakeasy bartender for another martini.
Her memory brought up the smell of vinegar, the odor lingering in Doug’s office from the sub sandwiches he ordered for the two of them and Elena while they worked. Elena had gone home over an hour before, but being a temp who had no life and craved overtime, Marci had agreed to stay with him until everything was done.
While they worked, she and Doug talked about books, and Southern culture versus Texas culture. They had both noticed that everyone north of the Mason-Dixon seemed to lump Texas in with the rest of the South, or even the Southwest, but the reality was that—culturally, ethnically, artistically, and even geographically—Texas really was a world of its own. He explained his impression of Georgia as a place full of barefoot rednecks with Confederate flags, or aging debutants living in mossy mansions. She laughed at both stereotypes, and told him anytime he wanted to see the real South, she’d be happy to give him a personal tour. It wasn’t like her to be so flirty—that was more like Suzanne—but there was something about him.
In the instant he had leaned toward her over a pile of papers, she had known. In slow motion, his face gravitated tentatively toward hers, and a little voice had warned her that this was wrong. She knew in that moment she was becoming someone she had never wanted to be, the girl everyone was rooting against in all the movies and soap operas. Ironically, it was the fear in his eyes, the battle she could see in his face, which drew her inextricably closer. She had leaned into his kiss, closing the door on resistance.
That stupid kiss would’ve been the time to turn around, she mused, playing with the speared olives in her drink. Just pull back, appear shocked, let him apologize, and walk out of the office. But there had been other moments, too: times when he had neglected her for days and she had almost gathered the resolve she needed to end it. One rainy night in his car she had ended it, but found him standing on her porch an hour later, soaked to the skin and pacing back and forth, his curls matted down over his forehead pathetically.
If I had been a little stronger, any of those moments, if I could have listened to my own judgment, I would not be here now. My suffering could have been my choice, and perhaps even healing now, instead of this.
She thought about Frank Dodgen and the job offer: everything she’d been hoping for, the entire reason she had been wasting away in that particular cubicle for the past nine months. Yet, it tasted bitter to her now. Why had the job suddenly appeared now, when Doug knew how long she’d wanted it? It occurred to her that perhaps he would have been able to get this job for her months ago, but of course it was safer for him when she was on the other side of the office and he could pretend he thought her name was Megan. All this time, reading her writing, giving her praise and encouragement while they holed up alone in her little apartment.
Her phone vibrated on the table. Doug’s cell. Calling, perhaps, to announce gleefully that he was having twins? Or that her new job would be directly underneath him, and that they could work side by side every day, she the doting young protégé and he the patient teacher? Perhaps the next offer would include overtime pay for serving as a babysitter for Doug and Cathy.
She took another swig of the drink and signaled the bartender, whose name she had overheard as Randy. He glanced at the clock, hesitating for a split second before mixing her another drink. She remembered Jake tending bar for a year after college and telling stories about the precarious situations when someone was clearly taking in too much too fast, but of course not wanting to put a big tip in jeopardy by turning down a customer. When he brought her the drink Randy said, “Can I get you something to eat?”
“Yeah. I’ll have two extra olives.”
A concerned look crossed his face but he said nothing else. Clearly, Randy was choosing his battles. Marci had already resolved to take a cab home, and at this moment she wanted to think as little as possible.
In addition to her intense
pain, what she wanted most to avoid was the choice in front of her, if you could call it that. Deep down she knew that the martinis would only take her so far, and she would have to decide what to do on Monday. Take the job and do her best to ignore the overwhelming heartache? Continue her temp assignment for another week, month, year? Start over at another assignment, trying to explain to Stella that she had to leave because they offered her a promotion? None of it seemed acceptable.
Ten weeks, ten weeks, ten weeks. It kept running through her mind and she imagined with horror a sonogram pinned to the bulletin board in Doug’s office. She remembered when Beth had her first child a few years back that Beth’s name was always printed at the top left corner of the squiggly black and white image. Marci had always thought this was strange because the picture was of the baby, not Beth. She could not keep out the image that flashed into her head: a blurry little ghost on black filmy paper and the words “Cathy Stanton” in neat little white letters.
How big were babies at ten weeks? She knew Beth had told her at each stage how big the baby was, but she could remember none of it. She did remember that ten weeks wasn’t really ten weeks, somehow, that pregnancy age was weird. Was it more or less?
Randy dropped off a basket of bread. “It’s on the house.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Do you know what the deal is with pregnancy and weeks?”
“What?”
“You know, it’s so many weeks, but that’s not really how many weeks. It’s some kind of thing...” She was surprised at how incoherent she sounded to herself. She didn’t feel that drunk.
“Oh, you mean the age of the baby versus the gestation age,” Randy said, understanding her somehow. Marci looked closely at him for the first time. “I’m a medical student,” he explained.
“They measure the weeks from the woman’s last menstrual period, but the baby itself is a couple of weeks younger than that. You know, because of the time between the period and ovulation.”
Marci nodded as though she understood this completely. He continued, maybe happy to be discussing something other than sports or failed relationships. “So if you’re twelve weeks along —”
He stopped, suddenly pale and looked at her empty glass. “You’re not, are you?”
“Not me. My...a friend.”
“Oh. So, anyway, if your friend is twelve weeks pregnant, the baby is actually ten weeks old, so she actually conceived ten weeks ago, not twelve.” He waited a minute to see whether she were going to ask him something else and when she didn’t, went back to the bar.
So if twelve weeks was ten weeks, then ten weeks was eight weeks...
Her heart lurched. She pulled out her cell phone, ignoring the voicemail icon, and brought up the tiny calendar, unable to stop from counting backward. Eight weeks ago would have been just after her birthday. Doug had given her the necklace, told her he loved her, and sometime in the next few days, he had gotten his wife pregnant. Her stomach churned ominously. She reached for the bread, but it felt dry and chewy in her mouth. She could not swallow.
In seconds, she was up and stumbling toward the dark entry to the narrow stairwell, grasping the railing to avoid falling. A group of young guys were making their way up to the roof, talking animatedly. At first, they did not step aside for her and for a split second she thought she would fall into them and they would all go careening down the stairs together. But the second in line noticed her face and tugged frantically on the sleeve of the friend in front of him. “Move, move, move!”
They all plastered themselves against the wall to make way for her, looking horrified, and she could not stop to express gratitude. The pallid old restrooms were almost halfway down the long stairwell. Had they been even three steps farther down, she would not have made it. She had no time to lock the stall door or even wipe down the toilet seat before she fell to her knees, wretched and vomited clear liquid, which burned her throat and elicited sympathetic whispers from a couple of waitresses primping in front of the mirror. “Been there, honey,” one said.
Never in her life had Marci felt so alone. When the heaving stopped, she went to the sink and splashed water on her face, pulled herself back up the stairs, and asked Randy numbly for a Coke to wash the bile taste out of her mouth.
“Closing out?” he asked. She nodded.
“I’ll call you a cab.” It was not an offer, and it did not occur to Marci to object. She took the plastic cup full of soda and walked to the opposite side of the patio, where twilight painted the busy little city in sort of a soft trance. She floated above herself and downtown Austin as she looked over the railing at the traffic below.
As she stared down at people coming and going from work to home and back out to the clubs and restaurants downtown, her body began to lean forward. Somewhere in the back of her brain floated a simple but dangerous message. It would be so easy. This could all be over.
A car horn blew and she snapped back to herself. Her heart pounded. She hurried back to the bar, signed the credit card slip and followed a hostess, whom Randy had apparently recruited, downstairs to where the cab waited for her.
It took forever for the cab to weave its way off Fourth Street, but once it did she seemed to arrive at her apartment stairs just seconds later. She staggered up, stood mindlessly in the kitchen for a few minutes, deciding whether to eat something, and then just fell into bed without even removing her shoes.
Marci awoke at 1:15, sweating and stiff from sleeping in her work clothes. When she sat up, her head swam dangerously and the room spun around her. She used her hand to steady herself against the mattress. The phone was not difficult to find, lying in the middle of her bedroom floor, where she had apparently thrown it as she fell into bed. It told her there were now three voicemail messages, but she did not check them. None was from the person she had to call now.
It was 2:15 in Georgia, she realized as it rang. Too late to hang up now.
“Hello?” Jake’s voice was rough and sleepy.
“Hey,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. “It’s Marci.”
“Hey, sweetheart...You okay? It’s late.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Jake, I have to get out of here. I...” She teetered on the edge of it and then courage failed her. “I lost my job,” she finished feebly. Her cowardice was ridiculous. Jake was one of her closest friends. She didn’t owe Doug anything anymore, least of all discretion.
“What? Marce, you’re not making sense. Have you been drinking? Are you safe?”
“I’m fine,” she said, failing to convince even herself. From nowhere, sobs engulfed her throat and she could barely speak. When she managed to get it out, it was barely a whisper. “I just—I just need to come home.”
Thirty seconds of silence stretched out; she cried helplessly and half-wondered whether Jake had hung up, or perhaps decided this was too absurd to be reality and fallen back asleep. But when he did speak again his voice was controlled and coherent. “Can you pack tomorrow? Do you have someone to help you?”
She nodded, and then realizing this was a phone call, squeaked, “Yes. I’ll ask someone.”
“Okay,” said the voice that had reassured and supported her for more than a decade. “I’ll rent the truck and see you Sunday morning.”
Chapter 9
Athens, Georgia – June 1994
The summer before her junior year of college, Marci sat at an iron patio table outside Blue Sky Coffee on College Avenue, smoking a cigarette and pretending to read Anna Karenina. This charade was hardly necessary, both because she had read the book three times in the past year, and because anyone who might care what she was reading had either gone home until September or was at the beach, soaking up the last days of a break before the summer quarter started.
These weeks were a quiet time in Athens, when the population of the city shrank by two-thirds and the only residents remaining were the townies, university support staff, and graduate students too busy, or too poor, to leave. For the last two weeks Marci had been living
alone in a four-bedroom apartment off Riverbend Parkway, one of only two people occupying the entire building until Sunday, when a few more of the residents would grudgingly return to take up their summer studies.
Her solitude for the last two weeks had been primarily self-inflicted. She had, of course, the option of going home to her parents’ between quarters, or taking the summer off entirely before her junior year, but something pulled her to stay. Theoretically, she was prepping for an intense summer of three full classes, or at least this was the reason she gave her dad to explain that she was not making the hour-long drive to their suburban Atlanta home during the break.
But the reality was harder to explain: having something to do with the relaxed, chatty demeanor of normally surly downtown vendors, and the absolute quiet in the grey dusk of the oversized apartment. This was a college town’s twilight time, and Marci felt more at home here now than she did during the crowded football Saturdays or the commotion of the semester.
She couldn’t deny that the wedding invitation tucked into the back flap of her book had something to do with her avoidance of home, too. Wedding chatter and forced squeals of excitement were not high on Marci’s priority list just now.
She pulled out the invitation and read it again:
Mr. and Mrs. James Lionel Walker
request the honor of your presence
as they celebrate the marriage of their daughter,
Elizabeth Lynn
to
William Raymond Sewell, Jr.
Saturday, August 25th, 1994
Four o’clock in the afternoon
First Baptist Church, Marietta.
Reception to follow.
Leave it to Beth to make sure her wedding invitations were in the mail two and a half months early. Now mid-June, Marci had done nothing about getting the bridesmaid dress Beth had instructed her to buy. She supposed that now the invitations were in the mail, there was probably no getting out of purchasing and wearing the forest green taffeta explosion Beth had so proudly shown her in the bridal magazine over spring break.
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