Aidan sat at the kitchen table, patiently awaiting his toad-in-a-hole burning on the stove, while Kyle, glancing repeatedly at my braless chest, calmly relayed that we would have two weeks to “vacate the property.” Not exactly a Housing Solution.
I remember feeling proud, before Kyle arrived, to be the kind of mother who makes eggs and toast for her toddler, instead of sugary Pop-Tarts or Fruity Pebbles. But who was I kidding? I was the kind of mother who couldn’t even figure out how to keep a roof over my son’s head.
In the days and nights that followed, it became abundantly clear that I would never find an apartment that I could afford within walking distance of the club, and that owning a car and paying insurance were out of the question. My neighbor, Mrs. Babangida would be moving to the exurbs to live with her niece, taking with her my only affordable childcare option. The life I had so precariously—but also so lovingly—built with Aidan was falling apart.
And yet, in those stressed-out days and sleepless nights before Joel and Peter swooped in to buy the house, all I could dowas obsess over a beanbag. I had impulsively ordered it for our living room the night before. It was on clearance and conjured images of Aidan and me snuggled up together, so close that the bright scent of his bubble bath lingered in the air around us, while I read his favorite book,Skippyjon Jones, again and again, and he giggled so hard that his body, still damp from the tub, shook against my side.
Would I be able to return the beanbag? Would I have to pay for shipping? And what in the hell was I thinking, going with the colorcheeky pink? Aidan’s grimy little fingers would stain it within moments of arrival. How had I failed to notice that the stupid thing had to be professionally dry-cleaned? As if I could afford that!
I knew I should be focusing on the real, actual issue facing me. But freaking out about the color of a beanbag felt like a safer way to move through the crisis.
Right now, my metaphorical beanbag appears to be the texts I’m not receiving from Professor Hugh Pridmore. I had one sort-of, kind-of moment with a man at a jazz club, followed by a handful of silly text exchanges, and now I’m acting as if some guy ignoring my messages is the most extreme crisis in my life. Not, say, that I may get fired from my job, or that my son is likely to lose his scholarship.
I can’t stop staring at the string of unanswered texts I sent in response to hisWhat am I missing?Over the course of a long and painful week, I’ve pressed send on every single one of these little gems:
So sorry yes absolutely I can explain next time I see you. Would really rather in person if that’s okay?
Okay since you havent replied… Im not a producer. But Im really not a bad person I promise and I dont lie
Well okay I hardly ever lie unless I have a really good reason I don’t like lie on my tax returns or anything
I guess since you havent responded you dont want me to explain which really is okay I totally understand
You are a great person and I hope you have a really nice life
Even when not staring at them, I’m obsessing over them. Last night, between two and four in the morning, I tossed in my bed while cycling through this oh-so-helpful jumble of thoughts:The man is a college professor, for Chrissake. Use some freaking punctuation, Holly! Enough with the word “really”! Maybe I’ll tell him the whole story in a text. But what if Griggs comes after me and the cops confiscate my phone and I get arrested because there’s concrete evidence of my wrongdoing? What about a voicemail? Yes, a voicemail. That’s safer. No!!! Not a voicemail. It’s the middle of the night, you lunatic. But it’s nine in the morning in the UK, where he is.
Now, it’s nine on a Monday morning whereI am, and I’m exhausted from last night’s mental acrobatics. In the end, I went ahead and explained the entire situation in a three-minute-and-twenty-seven-second voicemail word-vomit. I even rambled on about how I work at a country club and he should stop by sometime and we can go for a walk or get a drink or something. I mean, I think that’s what I said. It’s all a bit of a blur.
No response. No surprise there.
Seeking a distraction, I text Luisa:
Coming over with doughnuts. Get the coffee ready.
“Can I make a life proclamation?” Luisa asks, sitting cross-legged on the cozy bed swing that hangs from the ceiling of her mom’s wraparound porch.
“Please,” I urge.
“Onesies should be an acceptable form of office attire,” she exclaims, brushing crumbs off her galaxy-cats-and-tacos onesie pajamas. She is stretched out across from me, a box of fancy doughnuts and a carafe of hot coffee between us.
“Agreed,” I say, splitting a coconut creme concoction, then passing half to her.
We’ve only talked twice since the Sunday morning golf course debacle, which unfolded more than a week ago. The first time, for me to tell her the whole scheme was over; the second time, for her to tell me that things are so grim, she may be entering an arranged marriage. Well, not really. But apparently, she let her mom set her up on a date, which is a damn good indicator of our collective emotional state. Judging from the puffy dark circles under her normally bright eyes, I’d guess she’s been sleeping about as well as me.
She rips a hunk of doughnut off and shoves it in her mouth. We both sit in silence, savoring the extreme sweetness.
“Did I tell you I went to see the Castillos?” she asks, leaning back against a pillow, gaze set on the coconut filling.
“Oh God, Luisa,” I reply, sighing. “That must have been hard.”
“It was fucking heartbreaking,” she says quietly. “This is exactly why my first rule of journalism is never to get involved with my sources,” she continues, licking a dollop of cream off her finger. “Once you start caring, it’s all over.”
I study Luisa’s expression, steely and determined, wondering not for the first time where she finds all that drive. What makes this woman tick, so loud and so fast?
“But isn’t caring what it’s all about, when it comes down to it?” I ask, ready to probe just a little bit. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t work so hard to get your stories right.”
“That sounds so idealistic.” She shakes her head slowly. “When I was in J-school, I had this idea that I could make a difference, change the world.” She raises one closed fist in the air. “I could use my investigative skills to uncover the truth, make the bad guys pay.” She sits up, an intense expression crossing her face. “I learned pretty early on the power of a lie to ruin lives.” She lets out a held breath as she adds, “But then you realize, it’s all a business—a corporation. Instead of trying to present the facts, you’re left cheapening stories and headlines for easy clicks. And, as I recently discovered, sometimes you’re actually working for the bad guys.”
