She shook her head.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got to stop saying that. Someday I might thank you for firing me.”
“God, I’d really like that.” We both chuckled. “But why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “Not working every day is making me think. And what I think is that I really want to open my own PR firm like I mentioned before, one that will work primarily with Hispanic people and businesses.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Well…” She shook her head discouragingly. “It’s great that I know what I want to do, but I really don’t know where to start.”
We sat quietly for a moment. The guys at the next table left, smiling at us. Alexa didn’t even notice. The crowds on State were getting larger as the afternoon grew longer and the sun heavier and more golden.
“So, are you dating someone?” I’m not sure why I asked her that question. I wanted to get off the topic of being a VP, and I guess I was hoping she did have a boyfriend, someone to cushion life’s blows.
“No.”
“Oh.”
“You’re married, right Billy?”
“I am.”
“And do you love him?”
Jesus, what a question. “I do. I love him very much.” I looked at my hands in my lap. I let the guilt swim through me. “We’ve had our problems. He was very distant for a long time, and I sort of let it stay that way.” I noticed, in the back of my brain, that I was talking about very intimate things with Alexa, of all people. “And then we had the opposite problem. We got too close. He was around all the time, and I couldn’t seem to get enough space from him. And I made some mistakes.”
“Sounds tricky.”
“It is.”
Alexa smiled a little. “You know who I always had a thing for?” “Who?”
“Evan O’Reilly.”
At his name, my body tingled, then the acid churned in my stomach. Still, I could feel his hands on my face, the back of my neck, my breasts.
“Really?” I said, trying for nonchalance. I couldn’t imagine the two of them together. Evan went for thin, waspy girls much younger than him, and Alexa…well, Evan just didn’t seem her type. But then I suppose a hot blond guy is most women’s type.
“I think he’s very smart,” Alexa said. “I like the way he thinks about things. Like when he’s in those pitch meetings?”
“You mean when he’s always calling Roslyn ‘Roz’?”
“Oh, I do hate that,” Alexa said, laughing. “But no, I like how he listens to people. He sits back and watches the conversation and takes it all in. When he opens his mouth, you respect what he says because it’s thoughtful. Have you ever noticed that?”
“I suppose.” I was usually too busy noticing Evan’s pecs beneath his French blue shirts.
“And he’s nice to everyone,” Alexa continued. “In a genuine way, I mean.” She looked embarrassed. “I don’t know what I’m going on about.”
I sure did.
When I got home that night, I skipped my usual protocol. I didn’t check the phone messages or the mail. I didn’t flip through the TV channels. Instead, I went straight to my bedroom. I glared at the frog, then I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a pile by my side of the bed, and I slipped under the covers.
It was only 6:00, and the sleep I craved didn’t come. I was depressed enough to want to snooze the next four months away, but my body wouldn’t allow it. I lay in our bedroom, light seeping boldly through the blinds. I thought of all those people heading out for a spring Friday evening-maybe off to Wrigley Field for a night game, maybe dinner outside at Jack’s Bar on Southport-and yet here I was, in bed. Alone. This was how I wanted it, but I wanted to be unconscious. Unable to feel the questions, the shame, the wonder of whether I could ever truly be happy when I wasn’t happy now, even after I’d gotten everything I’d thought I wanted.
I threw off the covers and sat up. Chris was still at work. Probably would be for a long while, since I’d told him I was working late in order to avoid seeing him. I’d been doing this for the last few days. I couldn’t bear his sweet face, his unconditional love.
If I could just tell someone about Evan. Hell, about all of it-getting what I wanted overnight, how none of it had been like I’d imagined-maybe I could set it right. But I’d exhausted my list of potential advisors, both friends and family. I needed someone who could be objective, who could listen and tell me honestly what in the hell to do.
Blinda. That was the person who came to me then, because this need for an objective viewer of my life was what had brought me to her in the first place. And hadn’t she started all this with her mantra of look inside, Billy, and her gift of the frog?
I glanced at the frog on my nightstand as I dialed her number. Surely she was back from Africa by now. The phone rang five times-a hollow, distant sound-then a click. She was there! But then the whir of an answering machine and Blinda’s musical voice, “I’m out of the office for a while, but please leave me a message. Peace.”
I felt an irrational desire to say, Yeah, peace to your mother, and hang up, but I composed myself and asked her to call me as soon as she got in.
Days went by without word from her. I avoided Chris. I said I had to work, then sat in my empty office over the weekend, listening to the steady whir of the air-conditioning, finally throwing myself wholeheartedly into work, hoping it would chase away everything else. But my mind kept coming back to Blinda and the conversation we’d had when she said she was leaving for Africa. All I could recall was that she would be out of town for a while. What did that mean, exactly? Weeks, months, years?
Frustrated, I dug up the few names of other therapists who’d been recommended when I started entertaining the idea of therapy. One was on East Ohio Street, not too far from the office. On Monday, I called the number, spoke to a receptionist and made an appointment for five o’clock that same day. I hung up and felt myself breathe fully with relief. I simply needed to talk to a professional. That was all. Soon I would have this whole mess figured out.
Her name was Dr. Hyacinth Montgomery, “but everyone calls me Dr. Hy,” she said with a smooth smile. She looked like a presidential candidate-a perfect figure in an impeccable black suit, subtle makeup and a stylish brunette bob.
Her office was wood paneled and lined with books like an English library. A vase of white tea roses sat on the coffee table next to the patient couch. The effect was elegant, but I missed the cracked Asian pot and the wooly red and orange sofa in Blinda’s place.
“Please, sit,” she said. “Now tell me what brings you here.”
I explained that I already had a therapist, someone I’d been seeing for a few months, but that she was out of town and I needed to talk to someone.
“Fine,” she said. “That’s just fine. What seems to be on your mind?”
“Well, uh…” The words dried up in my mouth. How to explain this? Best to just get it out, I decided. “I was seeing my therapist because I was unhappy with some aspects of my life.”
“Mmm, good,” Dr. Hy said.
“So, there were these aspects I wanted to be different,” I continued. “They really weren’t anything earth-shattering. I wanted my husband to pay more attention to me, I wanted to be promoted at work, I wanted my mother to stop living her life through mine, I wanted to get over my father, who took off when I was young, and I had this somewhat irrational hope that this guy at work would have a crush on me.”
Dr. Hy laughed, a soft tinkle of a laugh. “I think those are all valid wishes.”
Confident now, I charged on. “I told my therapist all of this, and she asked me if I’d done enough to make these thing happen. Then she told me to look inside for my happiness.”
Dr. Hy nodded, a small smile of agreement.
“But she also gave me this frog,” I said. “I should have brought it to show you, but the point is, she gave me this frog and told me that in the Chinese culture the frog was believed to bri
ng good fortune. I didn’t think much of it, and I put the frog on my nightstand. When I woke up the next morning, everything had changed.” I held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
There was a crease between Dr. Hy’s eyebrows now. “How do you mean?”
Too late to turn back, I thought. I’m paying her. I might as well blurt it out. “I got everything I wanted overnight,” I said. “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s absolutely true. The very next day, my husband was great, the guy at work had a crush on me, my mom was in Milan, my dad was just gone from my head and I was a vice president.”
The crease deepened. “Overnight, this happened? Do you mean ‘overnight’ as a figure of speech?”
“No, no,” I said. “Literally, the day after I saw her, after I got this frog, my whole life changed.”
“Maybe it just felt like that.”
“No, it did. I know how odd this sounds, but please, trust me.”
Dr. Hy leaned forward. “Just to make sure I understand you, you’re saying that your therapist gave you a frog, an icon of some sort, and the next day your life was very different. You’d gotten everything you wished for.”
“Exactly.”
“Were you on any medications at the time?”
“No.”
“Do you use drugs or alcohol extensively?”
“Well, I’ve been known to have one too many glasses of wine on occasion, but no.”
“And Billy, do you really believe that your life was entirely different in one day?”
“It absolutely was. I woke up that morning with the frog on my nightstand, and it had all changed, just like that.” I snapped my fingers for effect. “Please. Can you help me straighten this out? I’m not sure where else to turn.”
“Are you taking any medications now?”
“Just vitamins and stuff. Why?”
“Have you ever been prescribed antipsychotic drugs?”
“What? No! I mean, I guess I can’t blame you for asking, but I am not psychotic.”
“Of course not, and I wasn’t suggesting that. It’s simply that on these drugs many people feel more…” She paused, as if looking for a word in her mind. “Stable.”
“I’m perfectly stable.” I paused. “Well, I’m pretty stable anyway. I just don’t want my life to be like this anymore. I want to have some say in it. I thought I wanted to get everything overnight-I mean who doesn’t?-but it hasn’t been as great as I’d hoped. And I feel like everything is preordained somehow. Like I didn’t have a hand in it. I think it has something to do with the frog or Blinda, but I can’t figure it out.”
“And where is this Belinda now?”
“It’s Blinda, not Be-linda.” I wasn’t sure why this mattered, but I felt the distinction needed to be made.
“Okay, sure. And where is Blinda now?” The way she drew out Blinda’s name made it sound as if she thought I had an imaginary therapist, the way children have imaginary friends.
“Africa. She used to be in the Peace Corps.”
“How long has she been in Africa?”
“It seems like a long time, but it’s really been a few weeks.”
“I see.” She smoothed her already sleek bob with her hand. “Billy, I should also mention something-and this is just for you to tuck away in case you need it later-but there are a number of top-of-the-line inpatient facilities in the city for people who just need a break from everyday stress.”
“Inpatient?” I began coughing. “You want to hospitalize me?”
“I’m just naming some options.”
I stood from the couch. “Thank you for your time, but a better option is for me to just get out of here.”
chapter eleven
T he next day, I sat at my desk stewing, the door closed. How could Blinda give me the frog and then take off? It was like giving someone a ballistic missile without the owner’s manual.
I clicked on the Internet and spent an entirely useless fifty minutes searching Google for jade green frog and wish fulfillment and Chinese prophecy. I got a whole lot of nada.
Lizbeth buzzed me. “Evan is looking for you.”
I drew in a fast breath. Evan had been looking for me for nearly a week now, and I’d managed to avoid him by getting in early, leaving late and keeping my door closed. Yet I could feel him; I remembered those kisses. The memories made me hate myself.
“Tell him I’ll call him,” I said.
I hit the off button and sat back in my butter-yellow chair. (At least I loved my chair.) How odd that I should be putting off the great Evan, the Everlasting Crush. Yet the thought brought me no triumph, only a reverie that led me back to Blinda and the frog.
Suddenly, I struck on a thought. I sat up in my chair, my feet pushed to the ground, as if I might leap and run.
If indeed the damned frog had given me what I wished for-and it certainly seemed that way-then couldn’t I just get rid of the frog and get rid of everything that had happened? I’m not sure where I got this idea, but it seemed intuitively correct-lose the frog and lose the wish fulfillment, too. Then I could start over, wherever that start-over point was, and make it all okay.
I needed to go back to that place where I didn’t get what I wanted simply because I’d wished it to a therapist and a frog. I needed free will in my life again. I needed everyone else to have free will, too. I didn’t want Chris to love me (or Evan to lust after me) only because I’d wished it so. I didn’t want the promotion because I’d pined for it; I wanted to deserve it. And my mom? Well, I did like my mother having her own life, but again, wasn’t that simply because I’d hoped it into existence, the way I’d hoped for the dispelling of my father from my mind? The frog had brought what I’d wanted, at least as I’d thought I’d wanted it, but without the ability of others to choose for themselves.
And of course, the things I’d wanted weren’t faultless. They each brought their own problems that were, in many ways, much trickier than the problems I’d had before. If I could just rewind and do it all the old-fashioned way-take action, make choices, let everyone else do the same-I would look more closely to see what I really wanted. And I’d handle achievement better when it came my way.
The conclusion was clear. I stood now, fighting back the urge to raise a determined fist in the empty confines of my office.
I had to destroy the frog. I had to kill it. Period.
I went straight home and marched to my bedroom. I moved aside the alarm clock and the novels on my nightstand and stood staring at the frog as if it were a four-hundred-pound gorilla, rather than a scrap of faux jade.
“Time for you to go,” I said out loud. I was inexplicably nervous.
I reached out hesitantly, as if it might bite me. I snatched the thing in one quick movement, closing my fist around it. I held it tight and carried it to the kitchen, where I dropped it in our kitchen garbage can. That hardly seemed final enough, so I fastened the bag with a twist-tie and took it outside.
The Dumpster behind the condo was large, gray and battered. I lifted the heavy metal top and dropped the bag inside. When I let the top go, it slammed closed like a prison door. A perfect resting place. I almost felt as if I should bow my head, maybe mumble a few words as if at a burial, but right then one of the other condo members, a man in his mid-sixties, came by with his own garbage bag.
“Hello!” he said jovially. “Nasty weather, huh?”
I glanced around. I had been so concerned with the frog that I’d hardly noticed the weather. Sure enough, the skies were foggy and ominous, the air a chilly fifty degrees. “Nasty, yeah,” I said.
I went to turn away, but then the man raised his arm to lift the Dumpster lid. I felt an irrational fear as he did so. “Oh, don’t…” I said, moving toward him.
The man froze, the top already a few inches up now. “What’s that?” he said, looking at me strangely. He kept hoisting the lid, and I felt the breath catch in my lungs. What I was afraid of, I didn’t know. Nothing happened. He threw his bag on top of the others and
let the lid fall with a satisfying clang.
“I was just saying have a great day,” I said.
“You, too.”
I trotted back to my condo. I looked around trying to feel the shift that must be happening now that I’d gotten rid of the frog.
The next morning, I was awoken by a nudge. When I blinked my eyes open, Chris was standing over me with a tray. “I made you breakfast,” he said. “And you’re going in late today, because I have plans for us.” He gave me a lascivious wink.
I coughed. “Oh, honey. That’s so nice, but I can’t be late, and I’ve told you I really, really don’t like breakfast.”
“Sure you do.” He nudged me some more with his knee. “Scoot.”
I moved over and sat up. I sensed something, as if someone were in the room with us.
With trepidation, I turned my head ever so slowly toward the nightstand. And my eyes came to rest on something little. Something green.
“Chris!” I said, scrambling into a kneeling position. “Did you take that out of the garbage?”
“Whoa!” Chris said, holding tight to the tray to stop the food from sliding. “Don’t be rude. I made these eggs myself.”
“Not the eggs,” I huffed. “That!” I pointed at the nightstand.
“That frog has been there for weeks,” Chris said.
“But I threw it away yesterday.”
“Why?” His face creased in a confused frown.
“It doesn’t matter why. Did you dig it out of the Dumpster?”
“No.” He laughed.
“Well, then how did it get here?”
He shrugged. “Maybe you meant to throw it away, but you forgot.”
“I did not forget. I threw it away after work. How did it get out?”
Chris laughed again. “My wife has gone crazy.”
That day, I left my office early and hurried to the elevator with purpose. The doors opened, and there stood Evan. Instead of exiting, he waved an arm as if inviting me into a party. Another one.
The Night I got Lucky Page 12