I Was Told It Would Get Easier(5)

“Whoever they are . . .”

“Precisely, so I said if he didn’t promote them, I would walk.”

“And he said?”

“He said that would be foolish.”

“And you said?”

“I repeated my threat and walked out.”

There was a pause while she considered this. Then: “Do you think I was stupid to get a puppy?”

“A hundred percent, but the kids were very persuasive.”

She sighed. “I think you did the right thing. He doesn’t want to lose you, and if you end up leaving, you can take the other two women with you and start your own firm. It’ll be fun, you can name it after yourselves and order new letterhead.”

I sighed. “And I’m leaving day after tomorrow for the college tour.”

She laughed. “There you go, that’ll be a total freaking disaster and therefore a great distraction from the impending end of your career.”

“Wow, that’s super supportive.”

“I scare because I care.”

“Thanks.”

“In other news, this morning Sasha told me I make her want to jump off a cliff.”

“What prompted that?”

“I said her uniform skirt was too short.”

“And that gave rise to suicidal ideation?”

“Teenagers. They’re all about balance and reason.”

“Good point.” I pulled up in front of the house. “I’m home. Talk to you later.”

“We never close,” she said, and hung up.



* * *



? ? ?

My god, I’m grateful for the friendship of women. A strong female friendship is like a romance that kept its mystery and never beached itself on the shores of exhausted intimacy. It was the first six weeks of a new relationship, except, you know, forever. Friends listen carefully. They poke fun at each other, keep favorite cookies on hand, and can tell the difference between hormonal and genuinely pissed off. They’re Team You when you’re arguing with your partner, Team Both of You against the children, and Team All of You against the world.

Plus, you love their children. Not like you love your own, but close. Sasha and Emily are only a few months apart in age and have been tight as ticks their entire lives. They take each other for granted, unlike their mothers.

Frances likes silver more than gold, won’t eat eggplant, and thinks prostitution should be legalized. She knows I disagree with her about the eggplant and the jewelry but agree on the hookers. I knew she was The Friend for Me when one day she showed up at my door with toilet paper because she’d seen it written on the back of my hand and knew I hadn’t made it to the store that day, and she had. Name me one husband who would do that. That’s right. None.





2





EMILY BURNSTEIN, 16,

STRESSED BEYOND BELIEF


This week cannot end soon enough.

I got off the bus and walked through the school gate. Deep breath, Emily. Keep your head down and push through. Straight to the library through the side door, hide in European History till first bell, front of the class and eyes forward until lunch, back in the library, Comparative Religion this time, no one’s ever there. Two classes after lunch, take the side gate and home by four. Out of town by lunch on Sunday and gone for a week. Plenty long enough for the dust to settle.

Skidding between two classes, I had no option but to take the upstairs hallway, and—because God hates me—the principal, Mrs. Bandin, was coming out of her office. I had literally just crossed the point in the hallway where all other avenues of escape were closed—I would have walked into the janitor’s closet if I could have—so I panicked internally and glided along like nothing was wrong.

She watched me come, smiled at me as I passed, and I’m pretty sure watched me the whole way down the corridor.

I swear to you . . . she knows.

Seven days with my mom, away from here—any other time it could feel like a punishment, but right now it’s the perfect escape.





JESSICA


I walked into the house. It was quiet, unless you count the distant sound of a badly loaded plate gonging in the dishwasher. Emily was still at school, where she’d much rather be than at home with me, and the live-in nanny, Anna, lives a daytime life I know nothing about. I used to think I couldn’t wait for the house to be all mine again, when every surface wouldn’t be covered with crusty baby plates or plastic dogs with impossibly long eyelashes or packs of Costco baby wipes. But of course, silence comes in many flavors.

Let me be clear: I love being a mom, and when Emily was little it was wonderful. She was a fat, round, good-humored baby, like sunshine dipped in butter. When she said her first word, and it was Mom, I felt like I won the lottery. Of course, the word soon became a jabbing spear in my side every time it was uttered, because it was uttered about forty thousand times a day.

“Mom, why . . .”

“Mom, what . . .”

“Mom, who . . .”

And of course, just Mom . . . said in a tone of voice or frequency of repetition that, were it weaponized in some formal way, would probably end all human conflict. One afternoon of solid, endless requests for things that are immediately thrown on the ground or for food that is “made wrong” or for toys that are “not right” would make anyone agree to anything. But you get the hang of it, and the soft hand resting on your arm while you read, the snuffly kisses in the middle of the night, and the running jump when you get home from work are sweet rewards.