by Kate Hilton
“I feel like you’re changing the deal,” I say.
“If that’s how you feel, then we have a serious problem,” says Matt.
I can see Matt’s point of view. I can see the merits of his argument, and I can also see how to take it apart. Matt chose me. He chose me at my most confused, my most unreliable. He chose me despite the fact that I was a proven liar, a betrayer, and a deserter. He loved me first. He took the leap, and I followed, but he must have wondered over the years how much of my motivation was escape. I know I have.
This is what Peter never told me about law school: how legal education is like a virus that infects, that burrows into your brain and rewires it, so that you can never think about problems in the same way again. Any position can be argued. Any position can be made reasonable. You can argue either side, and never be wrong.
We drive the rest of the way in silence. It is dangerous to say more, and we both know it. We are angry, certainly, but also tentative. We are at that moment when you realize you have handled something carelessly, not understanding that it was breakable.
Matt lets me out in front of city hall. “Will I see you tonight?” he asks.
I hesitate. “I hope so,” I say. “But I’m not sure. I need to figure out what’s going on. Can I call you once I know?”
“Sure,” he says. He looks shaken. “I might go into the office as well.”
“All right, then,” I say. I stand at the open passenger door for a few moments, unwilling to walk away.
“You should go,” says Matt.
“I know,” I say. “I should.” But I wait.
“We’ll talk later.”
“I love you,” I say.
“I know you think you do.”
“That’s not fair.”
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” he says, and he reaches over and pulls my door shut.
I watch him pull into traffic and drive away. And then I go and find Peter.
Bonnie is at her desk, which means that we are on high alert. Peter is never off the job, but he rarely asks Bonnie to work weekends. “He asked not to be disturbed,” she says.
“Is he in a meeting?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
“On the phone?”
“No.”
“Is anyone else in the office?”
“No.”
“He’s waiting for me,” I say. “He asked me to drive down to meet with him.”
“I’ll let you know when he’s free,” says Bonnie.
“Free from what?”
Bonnie exhales with frustration. “He’s in the washroom,” she says.
The mayor has his own bathroom attached to his office, so that he doesn’t find himself in awkward situations with the public or the press. “So, five minutes?” I say.
“I’ll let you know when he’s free,” Bonnie repeats.
“For the love of God,” I say. “Do their colons work differently from ours? Is there a special reason why men need thirty minutes and a magazine?”
Bonnie presses her lips together. I hope she is trying not to laugh, but it’s hard to tell with her. And then the door opens and Peter looks out.
“There you are,” he says. “Come in.”
“So,” I say. “MEL? How did MEL get invited to this party?”
“Figuring that out is one of our jobs today,” says Peter.
“It’s so incongruous, their name,” I say. The Mother Earth League has a history of green guerrilla tactics. More than one of their leaders has been sent to jail. MEL refers to them as “political prisoners.”
“I know,” says Peter. “They sound like a geriatric social club, not like a bunch of guys who set fire to aquariums for fun.”
“They were never convicted of that,” I say.
Peter smiles grimly. “I have no idea why they are paying the slightest attention to our little waterfront development, but we can assume it isn’t because they love it.”
“What’s the issue?” I ask. “They should like the waterfront development. It’s not as though it was green space before.”
“They approve of the development in principle,” says Peter. “But they feel, according to their draft press release, that we’ve been ‘inattentive to its environmental impact.’” He hands me a piece of paper.
I scan it. “Parkland, green roof, community garden . . . We consulted on all these issues, Peter. There is a park, but we decided against a community garden in favour of a playground. And the green roof was incredibly expensive. We wanted it, but it was one of the first things to go when we started cutting the budget.”
“It may have to go back in,” says Peter.
“I could use some research help,” I say. “Can we call the intern to come and help out?”
“Her name is Melanie,” says Peter.
“I know,” I say.
“I’ll call her,” he says.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I can get Bonnie to make the call.”
“I’ll do it,” says Peter. “The personal touch is always better, don’t you think?”
{CHAPTER 14}
September 2002 and November 2001
The fall I went to law school felt simultaneously like a throwback to high school and a firm step into adulthood. It was an odd combination. I had a backpack again, full of textbooks. I had a locker. I had required classes, which I attended with the same group of people day in and day out. I got invited to an orientation week that involved a pub crawl. It was as though I had rewound the last few years of my life, been given a do-over. It felt like a gift.
We were studying law as it had been studied for decades. We read cases about cricket matches and broken windows, about explosions in train stations, about snails in bottles of ginger beer, about poachers and foxes and trespasses and easements. I read excerpts to Matt over the phone at night. He loved these old cases too, although he claimed to have forgotten everything he learned in law school. I was living with my mother, sleeping in my childhood bedroom, studying at my old desk. Matt was working late every night. On the weekends, I’d stay at his apartment with him, but during the week we rarely saw each other.
On September 11, there was a memorial service at the law school. The dean made a speech about law’s essential role in protecting our security and freedom in a changing world. He said that we were the best and the brightest, and that we were part of living history. He said that we could change the world. My classmate Olivia turned to me with tears in her eyes. “I feel like it’s our generation’s chance to do something real, you know? Something that matters?”
I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak. Olivia made me feel old before my time. I no longer dreamed about making a difference. I only wanted to be financially independent. I wanted an education that delivered earning power and mobility. I wanted to be safe.
Matt and I commemorated September 11 in our own way. We had dinner with Matt’s friend Will Shannon, who still worked at Matt’s old firm in New York.
“Avery,” said Will, rising from the table. “It’s great to finally meet you.” He brushed both of my cheeks with a kiss, gripped Matt’s hand hard, and pulled him in for a half-hug. He was the most handsome person I’d ever met in real life. I was old enough to wonder if that was difficult for him. “I’m thrilled to see you guys. You have no idea. I hope you’re drinking.”
“You bet,” I said.
“I like you already,” he said.
“It’s been way too long,” said Matt. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been travelling a lot for work,” said Will. “I’m one of the lucky ones.” We all understood what he meant. A lot of lawyers were struggling that year. People were cautious, consolidating what they had, minding the store. There wasn’t much appetite for change and expansion, and that meant less work for the lawyers who managed deals. The anxiety permeated every level of the profession, right down into the law school. Already, first-year students were fretting about their job prospects, angling
for research jobs with professors, volunteering for clinics, checking footnotes for the Law Review. I didn’t care about any of those things. I went to class, and I went home and studied.
“What are you doing in town?” I asked. “Are you here for work?”
“A wedding, actually,” he said. “But I came a few days early to check on the kids in the Toronto office.” He grinned at Matt.
Matt had ended up writing the New York bar exams. He passed on the first try. The firm was expanding into Canada, and Matt negotiated a one-year assignment in the Toronto office, citing family reasons. By then, I’d written the LSAT and applied to law schools—none of them in New York—and our relationship was still in its infancy. I understood that Matt was buying us some time, and time was what I needed. But we knew that New York could recall him at the end of the year. So far, we hadn’t talked about what that would mean for us.
“The kids are doing fine,” Matt said.
“I can see that,” said Will.
“Will,” said Matt. “I’ve wanted to thank you for advocating for me. I know the firm wouldn’t have let me come to Toronto without your support. I really owe you.”
“No worries,” said Will.
“I’m not supposed to know,” said Matt, “but Margaret told me, last time I was in New York, that you were supposed to be assigned to the Toronto office. They wanted someone with more experience than I had. They were only going to send one guy. You told them to give me the job.”
“It didn’t take much persuasion,” said Will. “And look how well it turned out. Being in New York suits me, and being here suits you. But if you want to think I’m responsible for all this, you can buy dinner.”
Matt laughed. “It’s business development. The firm’s buying dinner.”
“You guys met at the firm?” I asked.
“When I was a summer student, the year before I met you in the café,” said Matt. “Will was a very impressive, experienced associate.”
Will laughed. “I knew marginally more than you did. That didn’t stop them from making me a mentor, though. They’re very keen on mentorship, at least in theory.”
“Will was supervising this heinous document review,” said Matt. “There were twenty of us in a boardroom going through boxes of files for weeks at a time.”
“Soul-destroying labour,” said Will. “So I took them out drinking every night. Most of the team gave up on the drinking portion of the file after a few days, but Matt stuck it out.”
“Someone had to do it,” said Matt.
“He impressed his mentor with his ability to drink late and function the next day,” said Will. “It’s a key life skill for lawyers.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said as Will topped up our glasses. “Matt won’t ask, so I’m going to.”
“Avery,” said Matt.
“What are the chances that Matt will be able to stay in Toronto after the one-year trial period is up?”
“Does he want to stay?” asked Will.
“He might,” said Matt.
“Under normal circumstances, the firm would want you to come back to the mother ship for at least two years before letting you settle in a regional office,” said Will. “But we’re still not operating under normal circumstances. People like the Canadian office. It’s stable. There’s an appetite to grow it. And we’re still trying to find places for all of the people we offered jobs before 9/11. So I’d say there’s a chance that you would be allowed to stay, particularly if your mentor recommends it.”
“Will his mentor recommend it?” I asked.
“Absolutely, if that’s what Matt wants,” said Will.
“I’m trying to figure that out,” said Matt. “What’s the potential career damage if I stay?”
“It’s hard to know for sure,” said Will. “It’s always better to have allies in the head office when discussions about partnership talks begin. That seems far away now, I know, but it comes up sooner than you might think. There’s a risk of being out of sight, out of mind. Toronto is a small office.”
“So you think I should go back?” said Matt.
“As your mentor, probably. But as your friend? There’s more to life than making partner at a law firm, based on the general happiness levels of law partners I know. It’s a cliché, but 9/11 changed my perspective. The internal politics of law firms are pretty much bullshit, and a waste of time. If being here makes you happy, that puts you way out ahead of most lawyers, and certainly the vast majority of the lawyers in the New York office.”
“Thanks, man,” said Matt.
Will nodded. Matt nodded. Information appeared to pass between them in the manly silence.
“Were you in New York on 9/11?” I asked, attempting a return to verbal communication.
“Yeah,” said Will. “I was. I was at home, not far from Matt’s old apartment. We’d been working late on a transaction, and we were supposed to reconvene at ten o’clock. I was drinking a second cup of coffee, reading the paper. I was taking my time. I was tired. And then I was more wide awake then I’ve ever been in my life.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean. Were you able to stay in your place?”
“No,” said Will. “I moved uptown. My aunt Lil had a place on the Upper West Side that she wasn’t using and she insisted that I stay there. I ended up staying for over a year.”
“That’s a nice kind of aunt to have,” I said.
“She’s my great-aunt, really, and yes, she’s pretty incredible. I’m seeing her this weekend at the wedding.”
“Is it a family thing?”
“No,” said Will. “My old roommates are getting married to each other.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
“It is nice,” he said. “They are really nice people and they have a nice, happy future ahead of them.”
“That’s a lot of niceness,” I said. “You must be looking forward to it.”
His eyes met mine, and I saw approval in them. “Clever, I see,” he said.
“I have the LSAT score to prove it,” I said.
“It’s one of those events that I should be thrilled about,” said Will. “But because of something I did in my early twenties that was very, very stupid, I am instead dreading it. And I would have found a way to avoid going, except that it would have been obvious to everyone that I was doing exactly that, so I’m overcompensating and making a speech about what an ideal couple they are.”
“Are they?” I asked.
“Is anyone?”
“You are so asking the wrong woman,” I said. Matt’s head whipped around. “Except for us,” I said. I squeezed Matt’s hand.
Will took a long drink. “The bride, Sophie, is terrific. You’d like her. The groom, A.J., is a solid guy, and he loves her, and he’ll do his best.”
“You liked her,” I said.
“I had my chance,” said Will. “See ‘I did something stupid in my early twenties,’ supra. I’m certainly not suggesting she’d be better off with me. Far from it.”
“For what it’s worth, I did something stupid in my early twenties, too,” I said. “And I lived to tell about it.”
“You callously broke someone’s heart that you actually liked, and made it impossible to have a relationship with him in the future?”
“I took it a step further and married him,” I said. “Let’s just say that if he ever gets married again, I won’t be invited to make a speech.”
It was my mother, eventually, who broached the subject. “You aren’t going back, are you?”
“No,” I said. It was the first time I’d admitted it aloud. Matt hadn’t pressed me, and I hadn’t offered.
“It’s been two months, Avery. It’s time to face the music.”
“I’ll call him,” I said.
“Avery Graham,” said my mother, “I expect more of you than that. I do not judge your decision. It is your life and you have the right to choose your path. But I did not raise a coward. Put on your big-girl underpants, get
on a plane, and deal with the life you’ve made.”
So I did. I would like to think that I would have done the mature thing even if my mother hadn’t intervened. I hope I would have. Because Hugh was most definitely not expecting the news I gave him.
I emailed to tell him I was coming, and he insisted on meeting me at the airport. Walking out of the airplane, through the plastic tunnel with the bright blue carpet, I felt a mounting sense of dread. Surely he knows that this isn’t working, I thought. Surely he knows that we are over.
But when I saw the joy lighting his face, and the flowers in his hands, when he wrapped me in his arms and whispered, “You’re home,” I saw that I had been horribly, terribly mistaken. “Where’s your suitcase?” he asked.
“I left some stuff at my mom’s,” I said. “I hate checking a bag, and there are more restrictions now.”
“Yes,” said Hugh, “flying will be a different experience for all of us now.”
“We’ve turned a page in history,” I said.
“The city is coming back to life,” said Hugh. “It’s inspiring. It’s an amazing time to be a New Yorker, Avery. I’m excited to experience it with you.”
“Hugh,” I said. I felt as though I might vomit. “I need to sit for a moment.”
We sat down in a row of vinyl chairs, one empty seat between us so that we could face each other. “Darling,” Hugh said, taking my hand. “Is there something you need to tell me?” He had a look of astonished wonder. “Are you . . . ?”
“No, I’m not pregnant. God. No.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s fine, that’s good. We want to plan for that.”
“No, Hugh. Listen to me. We don’t want to plan for that. I don’t want to plan for that.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t want a baby, Hugh,” I said. I started sobbing. Other travellers gave us a wide berth. “I don’t know how things got so out of control. I don’t belong here. I don’t want to be a writer. I want to go to law school.”
“This is a lot to take in. You’ve been through a lot. We all have. We’ve all survived a trauma. It’s going to take some time to feel normal again.”