He deserves this and more. He deserves to suffer.
But this won’t get me my job back. It won’t erase the outstanding debt on my credit cards, or get me my back rent to save my apartment, which at this point, is probably a lost cause. It won’t undo the gap on my resume, or the fact that I spent the night in jail.
Nope. It won’t do any of those things.
I get out of line and head toward the door. On my way out, I drop Mike’s folder into the trash and turn my back on it. I don’t know if that makes me feel better or not, but I’m pretty sure it’s the right thing to do.
“That was quick,” Todd says when I get back in the car.
“Line was too long,” I say. “I’ll do it later.”
My parents’ house — my mother’s pristine house — looks like I do the morning after a drinking binge. Disheveled and unkempt. Old newspapers are tossed everywhere. Trash cans are overflowing. There are two empty cardboard pizza boxes lying facedown on the kitchen floor. Dishes are piled in the sink; magazines are tossed haphazardly throughout the living room. I have not seen the house looking so out of sorts since I lived here my senior year of high school.
Three days without Mom and Dad has let everything go.
When I walk into the house, I expect Dad to start yelling, but instead, he sits up from his recliner and rubs his eyes. He’s un-shaven, and his hair is sticking straight up. He looks like he hasn’t left his chair in days.
“You OK?” he asks me. There are no accusations of drug abuse, or lectures about how I’ve disappointed the family. Dad looks tired and for once, unsure of what he should be doing.
Dad has no reaction when I tell him I’m moving home. He just nods at me and tells me to try to keep the noise down so he can hear the phone if Mom calls. I can’t believe my parents are breaking up. It feels surreal, like I’m watching an after-school special, except I know there’s not going to be a happy ending.
* * *
My mom has kept my room exactly how I left it at age eighteen. There are The Cure posters on the wall, along with Siouxsie and the Banshees and Sting. It is like the world froze in the year 1988. I half expect to look under my bed and see black nail polish bottles, goth lace stockings, or clunky military boots. I was a morose teenager, so it’s no wonder I grew into a morose adult. There is not a single color in my room. Even my comforter is black.
I wonder who will own this room now. Mom? Dad? Will they sell the house? I try not to think much more about it.
I crawl under my comforter and try to sleep.
But I can’t sleep.
Because my mom has gone missing on her own accord, and may or may not be back, and my parents’ thirty-five-year union is disintegrating before my very eyes. And I realize, this is probably my fault for failing so miserably at the basic responsibilities of adulthood: finding your own food and shelter and avoiding jail. I was the straw that broke the back of their marriage, and this makes me feel two inches tall.
I need advice on what to do next, on how to fix things, and I find myself wanting to talk to Kyle. But then, that’s impossible, because I’ve made a mess of that relationship, too.
I think it must be the fact that I am again in my old room, that all of the world’s greatest problems boil down to boy troubles. It must be that I am regressing to my junior high school days of torturing myself with unrequited love of boys about as sensitive as lava rocks. I’d be thinking about the universal truth of Robert Smith’s lyrics, while they would be trying to get to third base so they could tell their friends what it smelled like.
I sigh, roll over, and wonder for the first time if I might be clinically depressed. Clearly, something is wrong with me.
I call Jean Naté and discover that she’s found someone to hire permanently, who isn’t me. Apparently, even from the least appealing jobs, going to jail and missing work will get you fired.
“We just didn’t feel you had the right qualifications for the job,” she tells me.
“I understand,” I say.
“If you’d had more filing experience,” she says.
“Really, it’s no problem,” I say.
For once, I am not upset about being let go from a job.
There is no word from Mom, and Dad and I sink into our own silent, separate depressions as we sit together watching daytime television.
“Why are they bothering with those damn DNA tests?” Dad shouts.
I laugh.
“I know, that’s exactly what I said,” I say.
We look at each other and share a smile.
“I really screwed things up with your Mom, didn’t I?” he asks me.
Dad looks so shrunken, so completely defeated, I feel like crying.
“Well…” I say.
“Go ahead, tell me the truth, I can take it,” he says.
“Dad, she’s had a hard time of it. Working and all. You haven’t exactly been supportive.”
“I thought I was being supportive — in my own way,” Dad says.
“By supportive, I mean cooking your own meals and doing your own laundry.”
“I did do one load of laundry,” Dad insists.
“But one load, Dad, come on, that sounds pathetic,” I say.
“You’re right. I know you’re right,” he says.
“Maybe you should try finding out where she is,” I suggest.
“I have,” Dad sighs, exasperated. “She’s not at her sister’s.”
“Have you tried calling her at work? Sending flowers?”
Dad’s face lights up.
“I will,” he says, getting up out of his recliner. Then, he pauses. “Where is it that she works again?”
Citibank Financial Offices
Customer Service
Wilmington, Delaware 19801
Jane McGregor
3335 Kenmore Ave.
Chicago, IL 60657
May 13, 2002
Dear Ms. McGregor,
Thank you for writing us and apologizing for not making your minimum credit card payments this last month, and for your desire to successfully complete the twelve steps of Spending Addiction.
While we appreciate your contrite manner, we’re afraid this is not going to make your financial obligations to us disappear.
Please contact our representative so we can work out a payment plan for your MasterCard.
Sincerely,
Todd Matthew
Citibank Customer Service Manager
20
Dad is not exactly successful with Mom. But he’s not totally unsuccessful, either.
Mom does not take him back, but she agrees to a trial separation, instead of an immediate divorce (which is what she’d been planning).
In the meantime, I am still living in my old room. One day blends into the next, and Dad’s time is spent reading self-help books and watching his newly acquired library of Dr. John Gray relationship tapes. He’s attacking the salvaging of his relationship with Mom like he would yard work, with both sleeves rolled up. I haven’t seen him this energized in years.
Mom returns a week later to gather up more clothes. She has rented an apartment downtown, closer to her work, and she says she needs a period of separation from Dad to decide what her next move will be.
Mom is more understanding than I thought when I tell her about my night in jail.
“We all make mistakes,” is what she says.
“I want you to know your dad and me…it isn’t your fault,” Mom adds.
“I know,” I say, even though I can’t help but think that if I’d given up the apartment sooner, maybe I wouldn’t have started the argument that ended in my mom storming out of her own house with a packed bag.
“And your apartment has nothing to do with this either,” she says.
Saturday morning, I wake up to the sound of pounding on my door. Dad is shouting at me to “get a move on” like he did when I was in high school.
I glance over at my clock. It says 8:00 A.M. I squeeze my eyes shut again.
“Your brother’s making breakfast,” he shouts through my door. “And you’re going to damn well enjoy it while it’s hot.”
Dad is often shouting at me to enjoy things. “I hope you enjoyed yourself” is one of Dad’s favorite phrases. He sounds almost back to his old self. Almost.
After I don’t answer him, he adds, “I sense hostility from you, Jane. You know hostility is not good for our relationship.”
This is the new Dad. The Dad concerned with relationships and self-help books.
“As a woman, I understand you need time in your well, but now is not the time,” Dad is saying.
“I’m coming,” I say, rubbing my eyes and yawning. I’d rather do anything than listen to Dad’s self-help mumbo-jumbo.
I stumble out of my bedroom, tugging on my old flannel pajamas, the ones with the Dalmatians and fire hydrants on them, and half slide, half slouch down the stairs. I can smell strawberry waffles.
“There she is, Sleeping Beauty,” Todd quips, flipping over some sausage on the grill.
In the dining room, I skid to a stop, nearly falling on my face, at the sight of Kyle sitting at the breakfast table, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. I blink, but he’s still there.
“Why are you always so surprised to see me?” Kyle asks me, because I guess I look shocked.
“Uh,” I say. I can’t seem to speak.
“I heard about what happened, and I’m sorry,” he says.
I still don’t know what to say. I’m having trouble not rubbing my eyes and doing a double-take. I tug on the corner of my flannel pajama top. I am all too acutely aware that he thinks I am a nutcase, someone who flies into jealous rages for no reason and who commits felonies.
Kyle has on a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. His hair is covered neatly under a baseball cap. He has never looked so utterly delicious. Just looking at him hurts.
I am painfully aware that the ratty old flannel pajamas I am wearing have a hole in the left leg, midthigh. Also, I haven’t showered in a couple of days. I must smell like a barnyard. I sit and fight with the urge to stare at Kyle and demand to know what he’s doing here and, of course, if he still thinks I’m a psycho.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, unable to contain myself a moment longer.
“He came over because we asked him to help get you out of this fix,” Dad barks.
I turn bright red. My dad, unlike myself, has never been shy about demanding help from people he knows.
“I know a few good lawyers,” Kyle says.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I mumble into my plate, not daring to look Kyle in the eye.
“I don’t mind,” he says.
I fight the urge to bolt up the stairs and cover myself with a robe. I’m pretty sure the baggy flannel does nothing for my figure.
“There’s someone we want you to talk to, Jane,” Todd begins.
“He’s a defense attorney,” Kyle says. “A good one.”
At this moment, I would rather be anywhere but here. I take the name and number that Kyle has written on a piece of paper.
I still can’t look him in the eye.
“Well, I’d better be going then,” Kyle says, abruptly standing and straightening his baseball cap.
I feel a sharp pang. He’s leaving. Already. The worn doggie flannel pajamas are men repellant.
Dad is up on his feet and vigorously shaking Kyle’s hand. “You sure you don’t want to stay for breakfast?” Dad asks him.
“No, I really ought to be going,” Kyle says casually, before disappearing out of the kitchen and through the front door.
He hates me.
Clearly.
He still hates me. He still thinks I’m a crazy woman. And why wouldn’t he? I’ve given him no reason to think otherwise. First, there was the burst of insane jealousy, and then I get arrested. Not exactly the calling cards of a sane person.
“None of this would’ve happened if you had just listened to me about that apartment,” Dad starts. “I knew you couldn’t afford it, and now look at what’s happened.”
Something inside me cracks.
“Would you STOP, Dad? I know I’m a complete disappointment, you don’t have to remind me what a complete and utter failure I am.”
My voice is starting to waver. I can feel the hot tears pressing at the backs of my eyes.
“I KNOW I can’t do anything right,” I say, voice wobbly and bottom lip quivering. “I know you hate me. I know you wish I was more like Todd.”
With that, I flee the table, run up the stairs, and bury myself under my covers.
A few minutes later I hear a soft knock at my door.
“Go away,” I say.
“Janie,” says Dad, using the name he hasn’t called me since I was in grade school. “Janie, let me in.”
Reluctantly, I get up and move the chair I’ve haphazardly thrown in front of the door as a makeshift barricade.
My dad, who has never been good at comforting, being the opposite of the dad in Sixteen Candles, awkwardly places his hand on my shoulder.
“Your mother and I don’t hate you,” he says. “You know we love you very much.”
“I don’t see how you can,” I say. “I’ve made a big mess of everything.”
“Everybody makes a mess of things once in a while,” Dad says. “Look at me. I’ve lost my job, and your mother is moving out.”
“Are you guys going to get a divorce?” I ask, sounding like a bad child actress in an after-school special.
“I don’t know,” Dad says, and I realize he’s as lost as I am, that he doesn’t have any more answers than I do.
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he continues. “I’m just not sure.”
“Maybe if you tried harder,” I say.
“I am going to try,” Dad says. “But sometimes there’s nothing you can do to make a person love you.”
I wonder if he’s not just speaking about Mom. I wonder if he’s referring to Kyle.
Dad sits down on the bed next to me and gives me a hard squeeze. Dad’s hugs are like bear hugs, rough and jolting.
“Do you remember the time when you got stuck on the roof?”
“Yes.” I was seven. Todd and some of his friends took sport in launching some of my Barbie dolls on top of the roof. So I climbed a nearby tree to try and rescue some of them. But when I tried to climb down again, I lost my nerve.
“You were always the kid who jumped in with both feet without looking first,” Dad says.
“I guess I haven’t matured all that much,” I say.
“My point is,” Dad says. “That being fearless means that you don’t always think about the consequences.”
“I don’t feel fearless,” I say.
“You are. You always have been. You were always the one who wanted to go on the roller coasters. Todd was always the one who would cry even on the kiddie rides.”
I laugh. He did used to cry on all the kiddie rides, even the slow-moving ones.
“I don’t want you to be Todd,” he says. “I love him, but one Todd is enough.”
Dad clears his throat.
“And, if it seems like I’m nagging, it’s just because I care about you. And the only reason I keep bringing up your apartment is that I never wanted you to leave in the first place,” Dad says, squeezing me harder.
“So, it’s OK if I move back in with you permanently?” I ask, hopeful.
“Well, Let’s see what Kyle’s lawyer friend says first.”
The Executive Touch
Executive Headhunters
59 West Grand Ave.
Chicago, IL 60610
Jane McGregor
3335 Kenmore Ave.
Chicago, IL 60657
May 15, 2002
Dear Ms. McGregor,
It was a pleasure to receive your resume, and we would like to commend you on a stellar career in top management at many blue chip companies. It’s not every day we receive a resume of this caliber, o
r are lucky enough to meet the youngest female CEO of Hershey.
After verifying your resume, we’d like to meet with you in person. We have a good many executive positions we are hoping to fill.
I look forward to meeting you in person.
Sincerely,
Jordan Carroll
Executive Placement Officer
The Executive Touch
21
I call up Kyle’s attorney friend Dan Schmidt, and he agrees to meet me in person.
His office is of a decent size, and he has a giant leather chair with arms. It nearly swallows him up, because Dan Schmidt is no taller than my shoulder.
When he stands, I can see almost the entire top of his head. He is shorter than me by four inches. Maybe even five. I could pick him up, roll him into a ball, and slip him in my tote bag. He’s that tiny.
“Jane, Dan,” he says, approaching me first and shaking my hand vigorously with three hard pumps. “I understand you’ve gotten yourself into a little trouble?”
I nod and give him the short version of events: Ron, the Ecstasy pills, the officer, my night in jail, and my eviction.
Dan Schmidt lets out a low-pitched whistle.
“Well, first things first,” he says, shuffling the papers around his desk like a three-card-monte street dealer. “I’m pretty confident that the drug charges we can probably get dismissed, especially if you can find your friend Ron to testify, or some other party-goers who may have witnessed the events. Second, even if we can’t get them dismissed, you have no criminal record, so we can probably get the assistant D.A. to plead down the charges to a misdemeanor.”
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