“Have you been outside yet today?”
“Yup. I took Kugel to Yumi’s this morning, but I got dizzy, so I came home to rest.”
“I’ve been reading up on concussions and what to do. The most up-to-date studies show that rest lasting longer than two days can actually hinder recovery. Listen to this.” He clears his throat. “‘Moderate physical activity within the first week of a concussion,even on the first or second day, actually speeds recovery time and lessens the chances of developing post-concussion syndrome.’”
“Oh great, another syndrome.”
“Did you hear what it said about activity?”
“What do you want me to do? Go play pickleball?”
“No, I’m just saying don’t lay on the couch all day. At least walk around the house, the yard. Keep on your feet. Maybe try another walk this afternoon. Don’t go far but don’t be sedentary.”
“Got it.” I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling, my eyes focusing in on a tiny bit of Blu Tack left over from when I hung a paper moon and stars for Rachel’s tenth birthday.
“I’m worried about you.” Miguel sighs loudly. I can picture him at the office, seated at his desk, the watercolor of Nats Park I gave him for his birthday hanging on the wall behind him. And I can picture the creases of concern on his face.
“I’m getting up now.” I sit up. “I’m going to do some burpees.”
“Funny.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll grab something for dinner on the way home.”
I drag myself to the kitchen. It’s almost one thirty, and even though I’m not hungry, I make a turkey sandwich. I nibble at it while walking through the dining room surveying the evidence of the half-finished yard sale preparations. There’s still so much to do. Shawn said that Kenya would be reaching out. It would be the obvious move, to turn it all over to Kenya. But I don’t want to. Is it so bad, as Yumi always points out, that I get meaning from doing these types of events? What else am I supposed to derive meaning from now that I no longer have the same career, and now that my kids are gone? No, I’m not giving up the yard sale. Even with a head injury, I’ll figure it out.
I sit at the dining room table, open my laptop, and go straight to the neighborhood Facebook page. Just thirty minutes of screens, I tell myself. That’s allowed. I can almost hear the voices of Miguel, Yumi, Kenya, all telling me this is a bad idea. That I should rest and recover, that it’s time to let go.
An alert buzzes in the corner of my screen, and for a moment I panic that Yumi or Miguel has magically divined I’m on screens and is calling to yell at me. My cursor hovers over the notification as I read it. It’s the screening call for the job at the Asher Museum in DC. I panic. I have forgotten completely about this appointment with the director of operations, Mara Perez. In my nervousness, my finger jumps. I clickJoinand before I can undo it, a woman’s face fills the screen.
“Caren, hi. Good to see you. I was hoping we had the time right.”
I glance at the time on my screen. The call was supposed to start eight minutes ago. My own image stares back at me,disheveled, no makeup, dark circles and sallow skin, my hair in a messy bun.
“Oh, hi, Mara,” I say, shifting the laptop slightly so the boxes from the yard sale are not in the background. I want this job. I need this job. It’s the first real bite I’ve had in eight months.
“Is this a bad time?” she asks, her irritation shimmering through her professional veneer. “I thought we agreed on one thirty.”
“No, this is perfect.” I contemplate trying to reschedule, but I don’t dare. The hundreds of résumés and emails I’ve sent out over the past year are testament to how hard it is to get even a screening interview at my age. I can’t blow this. I take a deep breath and smile. I can do this.
“So, tell me your story, Caren. What brought you to the events planner position at the Asher Museum?”
“My story?” I repeat, playing for time.
“Yes, what made you interested in this world?”
“Well, I’ve been in events planning since right out of college. My first job was—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I have your résumé in front of me. Can you give me the high-level summary of your work experience?”
“Sure, of course.” Sweat breaks out on my back. I am blowing this in real time. I know how to do this, but I didn’t prepare, and I can’t seem to access the part of my brain where this language is stored. “I’ve learned in my last three roles doing the business development piece of event planning that it’s really my sweet spot.” I continue on this track for a few minutes, offering up gibberish sprinkled with jargon while saying absolutely nothing, watching as her eyes glaze over.
“Are you working right now?” Mara asks in a steely voice.
The question pierces me, embarrassing me. I feel shame for not working, even though I know it’s not my fault. “I’m freelancing at the moment.”
“How many clients do you have?”
One. I have one. But I can’t bring myself to say that.
“Several.” My eyes flit to my emails, unread since Saturday. One in particular catches my eye, an email from Sunday with the subject lineURGENT.
