I Was Told It Would Get Easier(33)

“What about dinner with Grandpa?” She was whispering, but still managed to sound annoyed. “And what about drinks with your friend? I can hardly have drinks with a total stranger without you.”

“I’ll be back in time, I promise.”

“You always do this.”

I opened my mouth to say (a) what is this, and (b) how is it possible I always do it, but then I remembered the futility of arguing with her when she’s pissed. I grabbed my bag and went in to kiss her. She ducked away. I love it when she does that; you can see everyone wondering if they should call Child Protective Services.

My phone buzzed. The car was outside. It would have been funny if it weren’t also so deeply, deeply irritating.

“See you later,” I said.

“Whatever,” said Emily, not even looking at me.



* * *



? ? ?

I sat in the car as it moved across campus, and watched the students walking to class, filled with their own thoughts, their plans for the day, the week, their entire future. They knew so little and hoped so much. From the other side of youth things seem far grayer, the ups and downs of life softened into the folds of a quilt rather than the mountains and valleys they appear to be when you’re twenty. That’s the thing with data; if you pull any graph out far enough, the peaks and troughs flatten out. Live long enough and life averages out.

The phone rang. It was John. “Jessica, are you listening? Ostergren is peevish about his representation. I need you to go over there and smooth his feathers.”

“Jackson’s been gone for months. Ostergren’s feathers should be totally glassy.”

“Well, they’re not. It’s not a big enough account for me to fly someone out, but you’re right there. You’re good at placating clients, it’s those Mom skills.”

I rolled my eyes. This kind of drive-by, benevolent sexism is completely invisible to those who use it, and women are as guilty of it as men. If you’re a mom, it’s assumed you have people skills others, non-moms, don’t have. If you’re a man with children, no one makes the same assumption. I remember when I was made partner, one of the older women cornered me in the office.

“In my day,” she’d said to me, “you had either a career or children, never both. I had to make the choice.” She’d regarded me coldly, her St. John business suit as much a uniform as camouflage and khakis. “I had two abortions in the eighties and still didn’t make partner until I was fifty.”

“Uh . . . I’m sorry?” I had said, my coffee growing cold in my hand.

“I don’t regret it,” she replied, “but if I think you’re slacking at work, you can rest assured I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. I voted against you for partner, you know, and I’ll vote against you for a board seat when that rolls along.” She pointed her finger at me. “What if you’re needed in court and your child is dying? You’ll pick the child, we’ll lose the case.” She shrugged. “And the kid will probably still die.”

“Um . . .” I’d said, not sure what I was supposed to say to that. She went completely gaga a year or so later and had to be gently but firmly removed from the board. But she wasn’t alone: It was made clear, in dozens of subtle ways, that I was theirs first, my daughter’s second.

I realized John was waiting for me to speak. I said, “You promise you’ll talk to the board and make them change their position?”

“Yes.”

I sighed. “Okay, send me any background I need.”

“Eloise is taking care of it. Call me after the meeting.”

He hung up and moments later a file buzzed into my in-box. I pulled it up and started reading, trying not to think about Emily.





EMILY


Unbe-fricking-lievable. My mother has left the building. She vanished to do some stupid work thing, leaving me to deal with two colleges, a bus ride, and a hotel check-in. Thank god Cassidy was there. Her eyes glittered when I pulled her aside to tell her what had happened, and I could tell she’s into a suddenly missing parent. She has prepared for this; it’s the tiny emergency she goes over in the middle of the night. She patted me on the arm as we toured American, and told me not to worry. I hadn’t been worrying, but as she hadn’t told me not to seethe, I kept seething.

The mood definitely picked up when we saw the E3 College Coach. With one fluid motion we all pulled out our phones and started snapping. It’s a regular coach-type bus, right, quite a nice one, like a rock band on tour or something, but someone had the brilliant idea of painting it like a school bus. At first glance it worked—we were all like, Huh, an oversized school bus—but then it suddenly dawned on us that the proportions were all wrong. Will said it was like an episode of The Magic School Bus. It’s a school bus . . . and yet also a blue whale. He’s funny.

Inside it was pretty cool, actually. I spent a year on the soccer team at school—don’t ask, it was hideous—so I’m an expert on school buses. This was nothing like. The seats were comfortable and actually had seat belts, and there was a bathroom and a shower, although why on earth we’d need a shower is beyond me. I saw Alice eyeing it thoughtfully; maybe she’s hoping to join the bus equivalent of the mile-high club. What would that be? The twenty-feet-off-the-ground club? Less impressive.