I leave his office and close the door behind me. I wait until I am halfway down the hall, well out of view, before I do my first victory dance at APT. A mean, mean Running Man.
Sixteen
To: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
From: Ruth Wasserstein, [email protected]
Subject: Thank you!
Dear Emily,
I am now on e-mail! (I want to put a smiley face here. My granddaughter taught me how, but now I forget. So please insert smile here.) I know I am about a decade behind on this stuff, but I got a new laptop for my birthday. It is tiny, tiny, tiny. I don’t know how such a little machine can do so much.
First of all, I wanted to thank you so much for the flowers!!!! They were beautiful, and my apartment still smells lovely. I hope you don’t mind, but I clipped one of the roses and brought it to Jack’s new room. I know you’ve been checking in with the nurses but thought you would want to know from me that he seems to be doing a bit better. He has been having more good moments than we saw last weekend, and we even played a few rounds of poker!!! (Insert smiley face again.) Don’t tell him I told you, but I kicked his you-know-what.
Anyhow, I am excited to be part of the Internet superhighway conductor. My penmanship was never any good, so I feel like this finally levels the playing field. And it moves so fast. I am going to type this and then you are going to get it. It’s amazing!
I look forward to seeing you soon.
Your friend,
Ruth Wasserstein
To: Ruth Wasserstein, [email protected]
From: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
Subject: Re: Thank you!
Ruth! Welcome to e-mail!!! I am glad you enjoyed the flowers.
I have big news for you: I quit my job!
What do you think? Feel free to lie and tell me this is the best decision I have ever made. By the way, love your e-mail address. Do you think I should change mine to [email protected]?
To: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
From: Ruth Wasserstein, [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Thank you!
I think you should change it to [email protected].
Congratulations! Seriously, I am very proud of you.
Now that you are going to have a lot of free time, do you have any interest in joining my new book club? Hope you don’t mind, but you will be the only one under seventy-five.
To: Ruth Wasserstein, [email protected]
From: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Thank you!
I am honored that you thought of me. I would love to join. What are we reading?
To: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
From: Ruth Wasserstein, [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Thank you!
A biography of Margaret Thatcher.
Just kidding.
We are reading Bridget Jones’s Diary. We all saw the movie last week and fell in love with Colin Firth. There is just something about barristers, isn’t there? I should have retired to London.
To: Jess S. Stanton, [email protected]
From: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
Subject: Still no word
Haven’t heard anything from Andrew, and it’s been a few days. What do you think that means?
From: Jess S. Stanton, [email protected]
To: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
Subject: Re: Still no word
It means he hates you. (Just kidding.)
It means he loves you. (Just kidding.)
I have no idea what it means.
Maybe it means he’s busy.
To: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
From: Ruth Wasserstein, [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Thank you!
Ruth, I sent Andrew an e-mail a few days ago and still haven’t heard from him. What does that mean?
To: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
From: Ruth Wasserstein, [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Thank you!
It means he still loves you, dear. That’s what you want to hear, right?
Seventeen
My answering-machine light is blinking. Blink. Blink. Blink. Andrew. I walk across the apartment and pretend to be nonchalant—drop my keys, kick off my shoes, put down my bag—but then I find myself right back in front of the machine. Moth to light.
Embarrassing, this anticipation to hit the button, embarrassing that I am circling around, hawkish, hungry. It’s so cliché to get excited by a silly blink.
No, not quite ready to press play yet. Must shower first. Must clear my head. As I strip off my clothes and turn on the water, though, the anticipation overwhelms me.
I run back. I cover my eyes. I press play.
Of course, it’s not Andrew. In fact, it’s better that it’s not Andrew.
“Hey, Em. Can you take Jack to that doctor’s appointment? If not, I’ll arrange for a car service and a nurse to take him. Sorry I got tied up. I know I promised, but you know how it is. Busy running Connecticut. Please call me back to confirm. Thanks. I owe you one.”
If I had the opportunity to erase three little words from the universe, ban them from ever being strung together again, I would, without a doubt, pick “busy running Connecticut.” Not “I love you,” not even “no offense but,” though everyone knows that’s a thinly disguised insult. Instead, I would pick “busy running Connecticut,” because although my dad uses these words as an excuse, they are nothing more than a choice. Apparently I can’t compete with the good people of the Constitution State. This is nothing new; my dad missed my thirteenth birthday party, the first birthday party to which I invited boys and the last one my mom ever threw for me, because he was too busy with important legislation changing the official fossil of Connecticut to Eubrontes giganteus.
I listen to my dad’s message four more times. The repetition helps to reduce its sting. I guess it doesn’t matter, really, whether he comes with me or not. I was planning on taking Grandpa Jack to his appointment anyway. This is probably a good thing, I tell myself. He would have just gotten in the way. So what if he let you down a little bit. Grow up, Emily. Be a grown-up.
I attempt to reason with the sadness that seeps over me. A mute, numbing sadness that deadens your fingertips. The sort that’s the hardest to fight because it feels very much like nothing. It feels like reasoning with a refrigerator.
I throw a frozen meal into the microwave and eat from the plastic tray compartments, as if I am on an airplane. Though I usually ignore the vegetables on the far right side of the container, I force myself to eat them today, because this is what adults do. We eat green beans. I lie on the couch and numb myself with a marathon of reality television. Tonight I make sure to watch only those shows in which someone gets eliminated. I find it soothing to see people care so much that they have lost, to watch the mistaken belief that their world only stretches as far as the cameras can reach.
“I can take him,” I tell my father over the phone a few hours later.
“Thanks, kid. I’m sorry about this,” he says, and rustles some papers in the background. “Things are crazy here with budget stuff.”
I hear more crinkling sounds, and I recognize the trick; it gives the impression that you are so busy that you can’t stop working for even a quick phone conversation. I use it all the time on partners at APT.
“No problem. I was planning on going anyway.” I throw on my Yale Law School sweatshirt, but wearing it makes me feel younger and student-y, so I take it off again and put on a cardigan instead.
“Will work give you a hard time for sneaking out early? I don’t want you to get in trouble,” he says.
“It shouldn’t be a problem.” My father doesn’t need to know that I quit; quitting will be viewed as nothing less than failure.
“Well, thanks, Em, I owe you one.” Owe me one what?
I want to ask. Owe me one parenting occasion? Next time I find myself unemployed and lonely and devastated about Grandpa Jack, I’ll remember to cash in.
“By the way, we need to talk about Thanksgiving,” he says. My stomach twists. No, I feel like my father just stuck his fist down my throat and squeezed my bowels. I had conveniently forgotten about Thanksgiving and the exhausting marathon to the other side of January.
“Okay.”
“Well, how about we go to my club in Connecticut? The food will be good, and you’ll see some people from the neighborhood that you haven’t seen in years. It will be fun.” He tries to sound enthusiastic, but it rings false. My father knows I am not a big fan of his “club.” It’s the kind of place in which Groucho Marx and Woody Allen would have been happy to claim membership, because, of course, they couldn’t. Well, not until very, very recently, and even now they might feel a bit “ethnic.”
“What about Grandpa Jack?” I ask. “We can’t let him spend Thanksgiving alone.” The rustling of papers in the background stops, and my father clears his throat.
“Of course. You didn’t let me finish. You take the train out here and we’ll lunch at the club; then I’ll drive us back to Riverdale and we can spend the evening with my dad. I’ll have my assistant arrange to get a small dinner catered there for the three of us. What do you say?”
“Sounds fine.”
“And, of course, Andrew is welcome to join us. I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“He can’t. He’s going home for Thanksgiving.” I add another lie onto the pile.
“Too bad. I would have liked to talk to him about the new health-care plan we’re kicking around.”
“Yeah, well, some other time. Listen, I’ve got loads of work to do, big motion due in a couple of weeks, so I gotta go, Dad.”
“Me too, sweetheart. Bye.”
And my dad and I both hang up to the sounds of the other rustling papers.
Eighteen
Today is my last day of work. My desk has been emptied. Its guts upended and labeled and sent off to the records center. The walls are now bare, except for a few protruding nails where my degrees once hung. My pictures and mugs and books are all packed neatly into two cardboard boxes. Seems weird that I have so little to take with me after five years that the sum total of my experience here can be carried home on the subway. There should be more somehow.
I wonder if I am carrying those five years on my body. The lines that are etched into my forehead and sprout from the corners of my mouth. Wrists that now get sore when it rains. A few extra pounds, some of which sits in packets under my eyes. Perhaps, for a while at least, it will be the mirror that triggers memories of my time at APT.
Before I head downstairs, I check my e-mail again for the tenth time today and about the hundredth time this week. The screen tells me I have new mail, and I take a deep breath before opening my in-box. Please don’t be spam. I cross my fingers; I click.
To: Emily M. Haxby, [email protected]
From: Andrew T. Warner, [email protected]
Subject: Re: Sorry
Hey, E. I am so sorry to hear about Grandpa Jack. (Kate told Daniel…) If there is anything I can do, please let me know. He has been like a grandfather to me these past two years, so if how I am feeling is any indication, you must be hurting right now.
As for the party and particularly for my voice-mail message, I’m sorry too. Neither of us is very good at saying what we really want to say, I guess. I wish I knew what I wanted to say. That would make everything easier. Wouldn’t it? But I don’t. Have been trying to figure it out for the past two weeks, or maybe since Labor Day, and have come up dry. Instead, I think it is probably time I just said good-bye.
Peace,
A
At first, just the fact that Andrew took the time to write an e-mail back is enough to bring waves of relief. He doesn’t hate me. It feels almost intimate seeing his words on my screen. Words meant only for me. I like being the E to his A. I picture him sitting at his black Ikea desk, a relic from college that has seen him through final exams, the MCATs, and now a farewell e-mail to me; he carefully crafts each sentence and considers its implications. His sign-off is perfect, really, though I would have preferred an XO or even a love. I know I haven’t earned either. But Andrew has, and I wish I could rewrite my original e-mail and re-sign it Love always, Emily. I am not sure why I think this would have made any difference, but to me it matters.
I read through the e-mail again and again and end up memorizing it by accident. My instinct is to write back immediately, if only to prolong our contact. I would almost rather the agony of waiting for a response from him than having nothing to wait for at all. I don’t feel ready to let go. Andrew is right; I was never any good at saying what I wanted to say, or even knowing what it was I wanted in the first place.
I realize his words contain an implicit decision. Instead, I think it is probably time I just said good-bye. I hold out hope for a few minutes on the word “probably,” as if this suggests some wavering on his part. But after I read the sentence out loud to myself, I know I’m mistaken. I asked for a good-bye, and I got one. The stillness of my office feels suffocating, and I try to fill the void by tapping a pencil against my desk. Good-bye, Andrew, I say to myself, like a chant to the beat. Good. Bye. An. Drew.
Though I want to send him a new message, I hold back. Because I still don’t know what I want to say. I just know that there are words out there I wish I could take back, words that I wish I could unsay. Words like “yes” and words like “good-bye.”
“You’re going to be missed,” Carl says later, at the farewell party Kate has organized for me in one of the conference rooms. There are about forty or so people here, all eating jumbo shrimp and sipping wine in my honor. I recognize only about half of them. Lawyers can’t resist free food.
“Thanks. I have a feeling this place will go on without me.” Though, to be honest, I feel uncomfortable imagining Monday. I don’t like that everyone here will shuffle back into work and go about their business, not giving a second thought to the fact that my office now sits empty. I will be forgotten the moment I get on the elevator tonight.
“Your leaving doesn’t have anything to do with…well, it doesn’t have anything to do with any misunderstanding in Arkansas, does it?” he asks.
“There was no misunderstanding, Carl. I think you were perfectly clear, actually. And you know what? I’m sure Carisse did a great job on writing that motion. She has shown her dedication to the firm.” I raise my wineglass in a half toast, ceding victory to Carisse and Carl. For once, I am saying exactly what I want to say.
“I am not sure what you mean by that,” he says. I shrug my shoulders and let his statement hang there, unanswered. I realize with a rush of excitement that I have no obligation to talk to Carl anymore; I can derive no benefit from kissing his ass.
“Bye, Carl,” I say, and I walk away.
I wander through the party and find that it’s less awkward than I expected. I had pictured small talk and uncomfortable good-byes. The kind where you internally debate whether you should shake hands or hug, and whether it is worth pretending like you’re planning to keep in touch. I spend most of my time talking to the people I like, the ones whom I’ll actually miss.
My favorite litigation partner, Miranda Washington, comes over to say good-bye. She is a black lesbian, the sort of attorney who sends human-resources directors into orgasms over how many boxes they can check off on diversity surveys. Because of her, the APT brochures boast about its multifaceted partnership. We have black lawyers! Gay lawyers! Women lawyers!
Despite the diversity P.R., though, the partnership wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of her joining their ranks at first; they didn’t quite know what to make of her. But in the end, as always, they voted with their pockets. Miranda is a former investment banker and brought APT a huge book of business from her Wall Street days.
“Doug told me you took Carl down. I just wante
d to say I’m proud of you. It’s about time someone spoke up,” Miranda says.
“Thanks,” I say, and look down at her feet. She is wearing pink Converse sneakers with a conservative pin-striped suit. “Not sure if I took him down, really. I didn’t fight the good fight, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s not true. Between you and me, you got what you asked for vis-à-vis that asshole over there. It will hopefully be official at the next partnership meeting. I’ve been trying for years, and no one listened. So thanks.”
We both look over at Carl. He is talking to Carisse in hushed tones, and his hand rests on her shoulder. They look like they might break into a waltz. For a moment I actually pity Carisse. I pity both of them.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?”
“Anything,” I say.
“Why did you come to work here to begin with?”
“I don’t really know. Partially to pay off my student loans. But that’s not the whole truth.”
“What is?”
“Lack of imagination, I guess. Taking a big-firm job was what everyone else was doing. The sad part is, and I know this is going to sound embarrassingly naïve, but I started out wanting to do something else. I used to want to change the world. At some point, I actually thought it was possible.”
“I can tell. You look like you have do-gooder blood.”
“Thanks, I guess. Not so much anymore.”
“Well, maybe it’s time you started.”
“What? Changing the world? Come on.”
“Yeah. Seriously, if I hear that you end up taking exactly the same job from some firm across the street, I’m going to personally kick your ass. Go do something real. Go change the world. Why shouldn’t you be the one to do it?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Okay, maybe not change the world. That sounds like hard work. But how about a little tiny corner of it? Promise?” she says, and holds up her little finger. “Promise you’ll at least try?”
The Opposite of Love Page 14