Idoneed to moveon. I know it.
“I’m done with the log list,” I say.
“Wow,” says Marisela, genuinely impressed. I’d bask in it a little more, especially since first thing this morning the clinic posted a job ad for a full-time legal services attorney, and Marisela’s already encouraged me to apply—first with a sticky note stuck right in the center of the desk where I sit, then in an email with the job announcement attached, and then in person when I’d refilled my coffee. “Specializing in employment disputes and cases against health insurers,” she’d said, nudging me. “Someone with your corporate experience wouldbe excellent.”
But as much as I want to apply, as much good as I think I could do—would I be doing it for the right reasons? Would I just be trying to assuage my own guilt, again? After all, it’s not like my work here is purely unselfish. Legal Aid is helping me move on, professionally speaking, making me feel good about beinga lawyer again.
And most of the time, while I’m here, I also manage to avoid thinking about how I’m not moving on, personally speaking.Mostof the time.
I take a deep breath, looking down at the pamphlets again.
You are qualified to file for a no-fault divorce if you have not shared any residence with your spouse for over six months—
“The phones are already ringing,” I say, casually. “I’m sure I’ll have more to handle soon.”
“Actually, you’ve got someonehere waiting.”
I set down the pamphlets, a tingling unease in my fingertips. Somehow, I justknow. “A walk-in?” I say, as casual as I can manage.
Marisela shrugs. “I guess. Aiden O’Leary? He sayshe knows you.”
I look at her, and there must be something pleading in my eyes. She seems to shift something in her posture, becoming sturdier, taller, more determined. “I’ll get him out of here. Don’t come out.”
“Oh,” I say, embarrassed, and roused by the protective instinct I still apparently have for him. “No—it’s really okay. He’s my—”This separation must be continuous,the pamphlet says. “He’s a former client. Or his family were former clients, sort of.”
“Okay,” she says, but I get the feeling I’m not going out there without Marisela right at my back. I look down at my dress, a black-and-gray tweed that is, once again, about ten times more formal than anything anyone else here wears, but I cling to the old habit, and I’m grateful for the distance it’ll surely put between me and him.
With the intention that your separation will be permanent,I read, picking up the pamphlets again and carrying them with me out into the office’s main space, feigning busyness. I’ll make this quick. Whatever he came here to say, I’ll make it quick. Maybe this will help, actually. Maybe it will help me move on.
When I look up, he’s there, just inside the front door, worn jeans and a navy t-shirt underneath an army-green utility jacket, the one he used to wear at camp sometimes. I know just how it smells, that jacket. Like cold air and woodsmoke and him. He looks so simultaneously familiar and out of place that I feel my heart tear anew.
“Here she is,” says Marisela, a little loud in my ear, seeing as how she’s standing with her shoulder practically pressed against mine. Somehow, she’s made these three words sound menacing as all hell, and I look over at her, impressed and surprised. Marisela would probably shred someone in court, and later, when my head and heart aren’t full of the man standing a few feet away from me, I’m going to askher about that.
“Thank you,” he says, andoh. I missed the sound of his voice. I blink down at my pamphlets before looking up again.
“We can talk over here,” I say, gesturing toward the desk where I do most of my callbacks. Distant professionalism: I wear it like it’s a favoritepair of shoes.
Marisela doesn’t go back to her office, instead taking a place where the office intern usually sits. A few desks away, Marisela’s assistant Kori is on the phone, either listening to messages and recording notes on her pad or eavesdropping and doodling. I don’t really care, either way—I’m glad to have the company. Aiden’s so terminally private that I doubt he’ll have anything to say worth their hearing, and I feel my breathing slow.This will be fine,I tell myself.Separation will be permanent.
I take a seat across from him, glad for the desk between us, my hands clasped on the cheap blotter where I sometimes scribble quick notes during callbacks. I open my mouth to say something, a blandNice to see youor a more curtWhat can I do for you.
But before I can, he utters a single syllable on a sigh of relief that turns my insides to buzzy snowflakes, swirling all around. “Zo.”
My knuckles turn white. “What canI do for you?”
He clears his throat, sits forward a little in the chair—too small for him, like almost all furniture is. I’d thought about that, the other night, at my condo. At how big he’d looked sitting on my breakfast stool, that awful morning he’d come to me. Like a colossus on a tiny pedestal, one that would break under his weight. “I need to say some things to you. And if you don’t want me to say them here, that’s all right. You tell me where and when.”
I look over at Kori first, who snaps her eyes back down to her pad. Definitely doodling. Marisela’s not even pretending to be busy; she’s got her arms crossed and is leaning back in that chair and looking at the back of Aiden’s head. If I felt braver, I’d tell him we should step out. Go out for coffee, take a walk, meet somewhere for a quiet, civilized debrief.
But I don’t feel brave. I feel like I’ve cried a lot of tears in the last two weeks; I feel like I’ve missed him more than I can say. I feel like I don’t trust myself alone with him, don’t trust that I wouldn’t make a fool of myself, that I wouldn’t ask for just one sniff of that jacket.Separation will be permanent.“Here’s fine.”
He nods, a new determination settling over his features, taking a deep breath before he speaks. “I wanted to tell you this story,” he says, and a ripple of something—something electric and arresting—travels up my spine. “You said, back when this thing started, you said I needed to tell a story if I wanted the camp.”
“Right,” I say, swallowing. I’m looking at a little space over his shoulder, a long-ago trick from my days in mediation. If you do it right, it seems like you’re looking the client in the eye.
“Since Aaron died,” he begins, and my eyes snap to his, where our gazes tangle for a brief, painful second. He breaks off, lowers his head, his elbows resting on his knees. He’s close enough that even in the soft clamor of the office I can hear him swallow too frequently, a click in his throat. He’s breathing sharply, inhaling through his nose, and what I realize, with a jolt of panic, is that he’s crying, or at least he’s trying not to cry.
“Let me start over,” he says. “Just let me start this over.”
