The Simple Wild: A Novel(2)
And what am I left with? Dinner plates that grow cold from waiting, a toddler who asks for “Dada” incessantly, and this inhospitable subarctic soil that I’m lucky to grow weeds in. I’ve just kept on giving this man parts of me, not realizing that I was losing myself in the process.
Wren looks past me, watching a commercial plane as it takes off from the nearby international airport. He looks desperate to be back in the air, away from this never-ending fight. “I want you to be happy. If going back to Toronto is what you need to do, then I’m not going to stop you.”
He’s right; we can’t keep doing this, especially if he’s not willing to sacrifice anything to keep me around. But how can he just let us go like this? When I announced that my ticket was one-way, he did little more than grunt. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Expressing feelings has never been one of Wren’s strengths. But for him to simply fly us here and set our belongings on the cold, hard ground next to us . . .
Maybe he doesn’t love us enough.
I hope that my mother is right, and a few months without a wife to cook his meals and warm his bed will jog a change in perspective. He’ll realize that he can fly planes anywhere, including Toronto.
He’ll realize that he doesn’t want to live without us.
I take a deep breath. “I should go.”
He settles those sharp gray eyes on me, the ones that ensnared me four years ago. If I’d had any idea how much heartache the ruggedly handsome man who sat down next to me at a bar and ordered a bottle of Budweiser would cause . . . “So, I guess I’ll see you when you’re ready to come home.” There’s a rare touch of hoarseness to his voice, and it nearly breaks my resolve.
But I hang onto that one word to give me strength: “home.”
That’s just it: Alaska will never feel like my home. Either he truly doesn’t see that or he simply doesn’t want to.
I swallow against the painful ball in my throat. “Calla, say goodbye to your daddy.”
“Bye-bye, Da-da.” She scrunches her mitten-clad hand and gives him a toothy grin.
Obliviously happy as her mother’s heart breaks.
Chapter 1
July 26, 2018
That calculator’s not mine.
I smile bitterly as I peruse the contents of the cardboard box—toothbrush, toothpaste, gym clothes, a tissue box, super-size bottle of Advil, cosmetics bag plus four loose lipsticks, hairspray, brush, and the six pairs of shoes that I kept under my desk—and note the pricey desktop calculator included. I convinced my manager that I needed it just last month. The security officer who was tasked with clearing out personal effects from my work space while I was busy getting fired from my job obviously mistook it for my own. Likely because “Calla Fletcher” is scrawled across the top in permanent black marker, an attempted ward against theft by my sly coworkers.
The bank paid for it, but screw them, I’m keeping it.
I hold onto the tiny shred of satisfaction that decision affords me as the subway sails through the Yonge line tunnel and I stare past my reflection in the glass, out into darkness. Desperately trying to ignore the prickle lodged in my throat.
It’s so quiet and roomy on the TTC at this time of day, I had my pick of seats. I can’t remember the last time that happened. For almost four years, I’ve been squeezing into jammed cars and holding my breath against the melding of body odors and constant jostling as I rode to and from work in rush-hour commuter hell.
But today’s trip home is different.
Today, I had just finished shaking out and savoring the last drops of my Starbucks latte—venti-sized—and clicked Save on my morning Excel files when a meeting request with my boss appeared in my in-box, asking me to come down to the Algonquin Room. I didn’t think much of it, grabbing my banana and my notebook and trudging off to the small conference room on the second floor.
Where I found not only my boss, but my boss’s boss and Sonja Fuentes from HR, who held a thick manila envelope between her swollen hands with my name scrawled over it.
I sat across from them, listening dumbly while they took their turn giving a prepared speech—the bank recently introduced a new system that automated many tasks in my role as a risk analyst and therefore my position has been eliminated; I’m an exemplary employee and this is in no way a reflection of my performance; the company will provide me with ample support during the “transition.”
I might be the only person in the history of mankind to eat an entire banana while losing her job.
The “transition” would begin immediately. As in, I wasn’t allowed to go back to my desk, to collect my things, or to say goodbye to my coworkers. I was to be walked down to the security desk like a criminal and handed my belongings in a box, then shown the curb. Standard protocol when letting go of bank employees, apparently.
Four years of fussing over spreadsheets until my eyes hurt and kissing egotistical traders’ asses in hopes that I could count on a good word come promotion time, staying late to cover for other risk analysts, planning team-building activities that didn’t involve used bowling shoes and all-you-can-eat MSG-laden buffets, and just like that, none of it matters. With one impromptu fifteen-minute meeting, I’m officially unemployed.
I knew the automated system was coming. I knew they would be reducing the number of risk analysts and redistributing work.