by Amy Faye
Chapter Eleven
The plane ride back was worse than the one going out. At least the way out to Phoenix, I knew that if I died, I'd at least be dying going out to do something new and interesting and doing the work I loved.
If I died on the way back, one, I'd just be going back to work, and two, almost worse somehow, I'd be dying after a crap plane delay. As if the fact that the flight was delayed caused the death. A bunch of horseshit, is what it would be.
To compound matters, the flight hit turbulence and just stayed in that turbulent air for a good quarter of the four-hour flight.
Floating up a few feet and the feeling the air just drop out from under the wings. A horrifying reminder that at any minute, the wings could fly off the plane and then we'd plummet forty-three thousand feet to our deaths.
And there would be nothing any of us could do about it.
There was a certain strange familiarity to the situation. Train-wreck was the usual term, rather than plane-crash, but Mom is exactly that.
Some women mellow with age. They drop the drinking, drop the smoking, and they calm the hell down. It would be a miracle if that happened to Mom. Not that every time she goes a day without a drink, she doesn't try to tell everyone she knows that she's quit drinking, and this time it's for good.
It lasts between twelve and thirty hours before she's back at it. So the feeling that eventually, you're going to come crashing into the ground and there's not a damn thing that you can do about it, is a feeling that she's more than used to.
Somehow the difference between 'your life will be ruined' and 'you'll die in a horrible fireball' seems wider than normal, though, when it comes down to it.
So when I saw the skyscrapers in the distance, my head plastered to the window with just the intention of seeing it coming when we either reach safety or careen into the earth, it came as an incredible relief.
We descended as a team, my stomach twisting and jumping and kicking and thoroughly convincing me that I'd never be completely alright with airplanes. The captain did most of the work controlling the airplane, while the passengers and the flight crew did the harder work as a whole of making sure that the plane continued moving on faith alone.
The wheels touched down, and I stayed seated as the rest of the cabin stood. It would be nicer to just be able to get off the plane immediately, but if I couldn't, then I wasn't about to do something as silly as force myself into a thronging crowd of people desperate to get into the terminal.
After all, I'm not desperate. I've got time. I've got no plans today. Work isn't going to get done. Eric was very clear on that. Don't come in, just get some rest and come in in the morning. No problem, I said. I can do that.
And I can. Easy as pie. Just go home, relax, and don't do anything that would get me into trouble? Well that sounds like my kind of Friday. And Saturday and Sunday, for that matter.
Armed with a full night's sleep, I play back the events of the last week in my head. I play back the research in the New York office. I play back the trip down to Phoenix, talking to anyone and everyone with the possible exception of the guy in the mail room, who I don't believe got more than a snippet of legal advice.
The last day—my face gets hot. I shouldn't think about it. Flirting is one thing. I can flirt. He can flirt. We can flirt together. Men and women flirt naturally.
Talking about going to bed with a man is a very different thing than just a little laughing, teasing, and playing around. A very different thing indeed, but not to worry because I'd stepped well outside that boundary.
The line starts to thin out, as people go past. I let them continue until there's a decently large break in the bodies passing down the aisle, and then I slip out of my seat.
The plane caught a lot of turbulence, sure. I didn't like it one bit. Not one bit. But the seats, on the other hand… they'd been something else. Nothing like the ride down, they were large and luxurious and leather and everything she could have wanted. Like sitting in first class, only every seat on the plane was that nice.
I pull my bag down from the overhead compartment and drag it out. I've got to get down to the baggage claim next, but I'm in no special hurry. After all, nobody's going to take my luggage. Why would they?
And I'm not in any special hurry today. Just to, what? Go home? What's at home that I want to be there so badly?
Nothing. Exactly right. Nothing's there. So I don't need to go and I don't particularly want to go. But I've got to sleep, and I've got to do it in a bed, so… home.
The apartment is quiet. Always is. Nobody talks to me, nobody looks at me. Maybe a 'hello' on the way out the door, but otherwise, nothing. And that's how I wanted it. Besides the fact that I don't want any particular social interaction, I especially don't want to get involved with the people who have to live in the sort of place that I'm paying for.
I drop the bag as soon as I get into the door. It lands on the fake tile floor with a thump, one that nicely approximates the sound of my body hitting the couch when I get into the room.
But that's not how things go, because as soon as I step through the front hall and into the front room, I stop dead.
"Oh," Mom says. She's got a faint smile. "Hey, Autumn. You're home."
I don't know how much she's had to drink, but I know it's more than she should have had, and I know it's more than I want to deal with right now.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you," she says. Her voice sounds almost sad.
"How did you get into my apartment?"
"Oh, uh. That nice man, Mr—Mr whatsit, at the office. He let me in."
I make a mental note to talk to Elliot about personal boundaries and my mother, particularly the fact that she doesn't know how to obey them so he's got to do it for her.
"Well, you've seen me. Get out of here, I've got stuff to do."
"Don't act like that, Autumn."
"Why shouldn't I? This is my apartment. Go home. I'll call you an Uber."
"No—come on. Don't do that. No. Come on."
I try to keep the frown off my face. I've been trying to be more positive. Something about the way you act informing the way you think. Mindfulness and stuff.
"I'm busy, mom. You can't just drop by whenever you feel like it. I just got off a four-hour plane ride, I'm tired, I just want to lay down."
"Well then go lay down," she says dismissively. "I can wait until you're feeling better."
I can feel my teeth grinding. I'm not supposed to do that. I switch the mindfulness bracelet from my right to my left.
"Mom—"
"No, I'm fine. Go, go nap. I'll be here when you wake up."
That's the problem, I think. I know you will.
Chapter Twelve
There are several ideas people have of what real work is. They mirror whatever it is that you do for a living almost exactly. If you're a thinker, then thinking is real work. Working with your hands, that's just for rubes. They don't have to do real work.
If you're a laborer, then working your ass off is real work. Guys sitting on their asses all day, they're just screwing around. They wouldn't know what real work was if it bit them.
If you're an artist… same, same. Everyone else doesn't understand how hard you work.
But I think I'm in a good position to see what real work is. I've worked most jobs. Well. I've never really worked much with artists. A web guy did my website. He seemed to know what he was doing, charged a reasonable fee, and my research told me he was the best choice.
But that doesn't mean that I know what he does. Might be artistic, might be a trade-skill where much of it is learned behavior, and the 'artistic' part is just the last little bit on top of a mountain of actual skill. I use computers the way that most people use firearms: very carefully, and with a good deal of respect for something I don't remotely understand.
Autumn seems to get them a little better. Six years difference apparently made all the difference in terms of growing up surrounded b
y computers. Which is fair enough, I suppose.
It didn't take long to learn that I can let her handle that stuff for me, though. Which is why I'm noticing that she's not handling it at all. She's distracted.
I know how distracted people work, and they don't work well.
"Everything okay, Miss Logan?"
"Huh?" she blinks and turns to me. I like that look. I like every look she's got. I can feel a little shiver run down my spine. An attractive woman is too powerful a weapon to be unleashed on an unsuspecting populace, I tell you.
"You seem on-edge."
She blinks away an expression of frustration, hoping I won't notice it. I'm a lawyer, and a trial lawyer at that. I exist in a realm somewhere between scholar, actor, and cold-reader. It's my job to see little things on people's faces, and I see the expression on hers.
"I've just been having trouble sleeping, sir. Nothing to worry about. I'm taking care of it."
"Make sure you do," I say softly. "But if you need any help with anything, don't hesitate to ask."
She hesitates to ask. Indeed, she hesitates to ask, and then decides not to. Whatever she's worried about, it's not something that she wants to think a whole lot about. I can understand that, but what I can't understand is what's got her so worried.
"It's nothing, sir. Sorry, I'll get back to it."
I smile at her. She's a hard worker, I'll give her that. Or at least, she wants to be. She works her ass off. And if she was anyone else, anyone at all, it wouldn't be a long time before I was willing to seriously consider the notion of going to bed with her.
With her, though… I don't know if I should. On one hand, it would be tempting to give her a taste of her own medicine. A taste of her mother's medicine.
On the other hand, that way madness lies. I'd be making a big mistake, and it wouldn't be long before I'd find out exactly why you don't put your head in an alligator's mouth. Sometimes, you get to make a cute show for the audience—most of the time, you just get bit.
I click my teeth together a couple times. I don't know what is stopping me from pulling the trigger. Something at the back of my mind, some little thing. It didn't take long to formulate a plan. Whether or not I should wait to move forward with it is a stupid question on the face of it. Either I do or I don't.
Yet, now, I'm getting cold feet? Absurd. I take a deep breath. No time to worry about the consequences.
Do it or don't do it. Either way, make the decision now. It doesn't take long. Only an instant.
"Autumn?"
She looks at me, her fingers still moving on the keys. I watch for a moment, a little bit entranced.
"Mr. Warren?"
"You want to get dinner tonight?"
"Sir?"
"Dinner, tonight. You have plans, or do you want to get something?"
"I don't know—I really—"
I can see the questions running through her mind. Whether or not she would be breaking some rule, or something.
She probably would be. Or, more accurate, I certainly would be. I don't know whether or not I'm making a big mistake. But I don't know if I care, either.
"I'd like that."
"Great. I've got a great place in mind. Trust me, you'll love it."
She smiles. She looks tired, but she doesn't look like she's got the smile on for my benefit.
"I'm sure I will," she says.
She turns back to the computer, starts typing again. If she's not careful, Maggie is going to have a serious competitor.
Now that I look at Autumn, Maggie does look quite a bit like her, doesn't she? It's a coincidence, of course. There's nothing to it. Just a strange coincidence.
I settle into my seat and take out a pad and pen. Duty calls once more. My eyes flick across the notes I made for myself, just for such a purpose. I'm not going to make the call until I know exactly what I'm going to talk about. It's more professional-sounding when you don't have to flip through papers mid-sentence.
The die is cast, then. I'm almost certainly violating every professional ethical standard. I'm fairly certain as well that there aren't many standards discussing getting revenge on your former kid sister for what her mother did to you, ten years ago now. That's an oversight they'll have to correct.
Because it's a huge ethics violation, but he's going to do it anyways.
Chapter Thirteen
I've never liked to leave early. It's a sign of weakness. That there's some priority you hold higher than the job. I never liked to create that impression. Hated it, even.
I like to push myself. A lot of people do. It's important to me that I show people that they need to take me seriously. There might be some deep down reason.
Maybe it's because I'm a woman, and one time someone assumed I must be someone's girlfriend. I think his name might have been 'Ethan,' the guy I was supposed to be waiting for.
Then again, the guy who thought that was an accounting major. Or maybe he was trying to suss out whether or not I had a boyfriend. Both make good sense.
Or maybe it's because of who my mother was, a woman who never was taken seriously, and never needed to be taken seriously. Anyone who knew her would look at my face, see the exact same looks, the exact same expressions—in many ways, I am my mother's daughter.
Then they'd assume that we were anything alike as people, and they'd instantly write me off.
Or maybe it's neither. Maybe the fact is just that anyone who wants to really excel at their profession puts in as much work as they possibly can, and I'm not special at all.
I don't know.
But I do know that today I don't have the option—perhaps the luxury—of staying late. Sadly. I would really rather stay here than go home, regardless of whether or not they get me a bonus or something at the end of the month, because I've got someone waiting for me back home, and it's not someone I was really looking forward to spending a ton of time with.
My mother's always been a frustration. I don't know how nobody else seems to see it. She puts on her smile and she pouts when she doesn't get her way and the world just seems to give her anything she wants. If she were twenty years younger, she would be past the age where it was cute.
Now it's embarrassing. Humiliating, even. A woman in her forties who continues to act like a spoiled child, and to make matters worse, she always seems to find someone willing to indulge her.
Well, it always comes to an end eventually. In the end, they all realize that she's not the victim of circumstances who never did anything wrong, the way she paints herself.
Her life is the result of a series of decisions she made. For herself. And nobody can take that away, no matter how much they might want to. She's got to realize that she can't just keep screwing up and expect other people to clean up after her.
Her latest husband—I really liked Ron, he seemed like a great guy—has finally realized the game, and he's gotten sick of it. The way they all do.
She's playing the victim, of course. He was mean to her, he never let her drink, he never let her spend any money, even though it was all her hard-earned money.
Money she 'earned' by… who knows. She doesn't have a job. Hasn't for years. And to the best of my knowledge, she has no under-the-table income. I'm not aware of her having any money, but she insists that it was her money to spend.
Likely it was his money that was hers to spend, a little, at her discretion. Then he'd gotten wise to the fact that whenever she's up, she doesn't just buy a new pair of shoes for herself, to look nice.
She ends up with a new puppy, or a new Lincoln, fresh off the lot, with that new-car smell. Then it's a song and dance trying to get her to take it back, trying to get the salesman to be reasonable. She's sick, you see, she doesn't really know what she's doing.
Risk-seeking behavior, they call it.
She wants to unsettle things, and she's got no sense of what is or isn't a bad idea. So anything that pops into her head, if it seems good for a moment, she does it.
I take a deep breath and I w
onder what she's done this time. She doesn't burn bridges. Not badly. Not bad enough that she can't come back from it. Which is why I'm more than a little concerned that she seems to be hiding out at my apartment.
If I could at least know what I had to watch out for, I could at least… prepare, or something. But no; she won't tell me. Of course she won't. That would make my life far too easy.
Instead, I've got to just assume that something's come up, and she's lying when she says that everything is totally fine.
I pop my head into his office. The red-headed secretary has been a lot less friendly since I started working there. I think she's annoyed that Eric's been paying me attention, but maybe I'm just reading into it.
Maybe she's going through a nasty breakup, or something. Either way, she doesn't stop me going in.
"Hey, Mr. Warren?"
"Autumn. What's up?"
"I need to leave at five today. I've got some stuff to take care of at my apartment."
He nods, ever so slightly. "That's fine. Still on for tonight?"
I nod back. "Yeah, no problem there. Where should I meet you?"
He gives me an address that I don't immediately recognize. I write it down on a scrap of paper and pocket it. I'll just get a taxi ride, either way.
Something makes me want to tell him. How much I could tell him without sounding like a liar, that's up for debate. But I want to tell him whatever I can.
I keep it to myself for now. I can't get him involved in family stuff. He might not remember me, but he'll remember Mom. And she'll remember him.
I'd like someone else to take some of the weight off my shoulders. It's all I've wanted for years, someone to come along and—it's horrible of me to say—take my mother off my hands for a little while. Just, you know, shave off the edges a little.
But I can't. Nobody can. And then the question becomes, who else should have to carry that burden, and the answer is pretty obvious at that point.
I don't get to just dump her on other people because it's convenient. They have to want to get involved. That's the difference between Eric and Ron. Ron wanted to get involved in Mom's mess. He'd married her, for Pete's sake.