I thought giving my daughters everything I could meant accepting their father back into my life. But it’s them who needed him, not me. It’s possible that what I was feeling was not a loss of my bond with Simon but an acceptance that my love had shifted. I now knew that I had a responsibility to love myself, and Simon’s message had finally freed me to fulfill that long ignored duty.
I listened one more time to Simon’s voice mail. Anger could be powerful fuel.
The Toni of last year would have let this voice mail confirm the fear that I was not enough, sending me in retreat. I would have chosen safety and sticking to what I know, shorting myself new opportunities. Change was something I had avoided because, in my experience, what lay on the other side of a life-altering event was something to be feared. My father unexpectedly dying, my college career cut short, surprise pregnancy, being ditched by Simon—all were scenarios where I had no control, and loss of control gave me anxiety, and anxiety obscured opportunities that may blossom from change.
Today’s Toni, however, with a team of women who collectively had over 180 years of life savvy, was ready to step into the newness, even with all its discomfort and unknowns. If I had given myself the time to reflect on the life mutations that happened to me, not because of me, I could have seen that I was competent and more adaptable than I had ever given myself credit for. In fact, I was quite practiced at newness, at working through the unfamiliar. Today I was stepping toward my forward.Innovation Nationwas my big break, and I was done looking back.
Delete.
When Livy picked me up and I slid into the back seat, Mrs. Eisenberg commented that she sensed a shift in me. That—in addition to my appearance, which she was happy to see did not include a sweatshirt—I wore the air of conviction and industry well. Her approval of my demeanor and my dress came with the reminder that women have had to use every advantage they possess to get ahead inwhat is still, to Mrs. Eisenberg’s bewilderment, a patriarchal society. Over the past couple of months, Mrs. Eisenberg had proven to me that she was a ruthless businesswoman, and I was not going to judge her methods. Mrs. Eisenberg opened her mouth one more time to say something, but then shut it again. I couldn’t help but wonder if she knew what I knew. My appearance was less about impressing all the judges tomorrow and more about impressing one specific judge today.
As the flight attendant announces to the cabin that we should bring our seats to their upright position for landing, Mrs. Eisenberg peers over her reading glasses at me and says, “I’m looking forward to seeing my grandson.” I flush tomato red under the air-conditioning of our row. “That’s what I thought,” Mrs. Eisenberg concludes and pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose to return to her hypedNew York Timesbestseller. I can see her fighting to keep a smile on lockdown, and I can’t help but think that Mrs. Eisenberg’s interest in standing beside me on the show is less about facilitating the next step in the Brown Butter, Baby! journey and more about directing her grandson’s love life.
“Hey.Hey.” From the row behind, Zwena pokes me through the gap in the seats. I turn to look at her through the opening between my mom and me, not wanting to have to face Mrs. Eisenberg and her astute observation. “You haven’t said anything about me and Krish.”
“What should I say?” I ask, poker-faced. My bogus indifference will torture Zwena, and I want to have a little fun with her since she and Krish iced me out for far too long.
“I ... I don’t know.” Zwena pulls back to think for a second, flustered by my withheld opinion. “You’re happy for us. You think we make a cute couple. You hope it works out because you love us both.” All these things are true, but I am not giving in to Zwena just yet. “Hell, I’d settle for a thumbs-up.”
“Why Krish?”
“Why not Krish?” Zwena jumps to his defense. “He’s driven. He’s thoughtful.” She dances the miniature wood elephant across my sight line. “He’s—”
“Good at, you know,” my mom butts in, and clicks her tongue twice, not taking her nose out of herPeople en Español.
“Do you want to know if the sex is good? Or better than good, the best I’ve ever had?” Zwena searches my mom’s words, sussing out how much she should share, not at all bothered by the strangers flanking her middle seat, who I am sure want to hear the answer to this question less than I do.
I rise out of my seat and crank my head to look at Zwena’s row mates. Thankfully, their ears are covered by headphones and their minds are engrossed in whatever shows are playing in miniature form on their phones. “I’ve never thought of Krish that way, and until earlier today, I figured you never had either. I don’t think I’m ready to hear about the sex, Z,” I admit to my best friend.
“We’re ready to hear,” my mom and Mrs. Eisenberg cry in unison, cutting me off. Zwena shoves her arms between the seats and gives us a double thumbs-up as an appetizer to her review. Chemistry surely is not an issue between my best friends turned romantic couple, and I am genuinely happy for them. I just don’t want to become a third wheel to my two favorite people.
I riffle through my satchel and hand out the finalized scripts for tomorrow. The four of us can snicker about Zwena and Krish after celebrating my hopeful windfall. Each person’s lines are highlighted in their own color. Subconsciously, I must have known something was up with Zwena because her words are framed in hot pink. “Do not lose these, we will use them to practice a few more times before the show,” I instruct, lowering my mother’s magazine to make sure she is listening to me.
“Has anything changed from the other two copies you gave us this past week?” Zwena bellows from behind. “Am I still here to represent the motherland as the foundation of all skin on this planet? Wait, what youreally should do is reveal that I am the one who planted the seed for Brown Butter, Baby!!” Zwena lays it on thick, knowing she’s speaking the truth.
“Pipe down, African queen, nothing’s changed. I just want you all to have a fresh copy.”
Zwena puts her gum on the front page, crumples it up and hands it back to me. “I’m good, sis. I have the lines in here.” Zwena taps my head to indicate she’s got it all down in hers.
“Are you sure you want me to say, ‘Esta fórmula es de las islas de nuestras antepasadas’? If you only have eleven minutes, shouldn’t it all be in English so not one second is misunderstood?” Gloria asks. “I can just say, ‘This formula is from the islands of our foremothers.’”
It’s a gamble for sure, but one I have considered. I want Brown Butter, Baby! to come across as more irresistible and inclusive than any productInnovation Nationhas ever been pitched.
“I see you haven’t changed the names of the lotions,” Mrs. Eisenberg mutters under her breath. I shoot her a look that saysI don’t need you to start questioning me too. “What? It’s elder abuse to make me associate myself with the wordpruneon national television.”
“Don’t even play that, Mrs. Eisenberg,” I scold, and as Ash insisted, check her seat belt when the flight attendant announces we are about to land. “You’ve never been in better shape, and you are rocking the hell out of that coral pantsuit.”
“Don’t forget to mention that I also walked from the curb to our gate in SFO all by myself. Didn’t even hold on to you, Antonia.”
I am impressed with Mrs. Eisenberg not only working hard to reach her recovery goals, but proudly surpassing them. I am also sad that she may soon surpass the need for my airport services as well. She will be heading back to Arizona in early November, and I sure hope, even if Mrs. Eisenberg doesn’t need me, I will still be included in the first leg of her trip.
“I love my cane. I should have gotten myself one of these years ago.” Mrs. Eisenberg pats the stick that is replacing my wheels.Is it possible I’m jealous of an inanimate object?
After the plane touches down, my mother leans across me to lock eyes with Mrs. Eisenberg. She gives my mother a barely perceptible head nod that concerns me.
What are these two women up to?
“We’re about to deplane, Toni, would you like to borrow my blush?” my mother offers.
