Emmaline Waters, This Is Your Life Page 4

  All I can do is whimper.

  “Em, is that you?”

  My mother is magical. If she were blindfolded in a maze full of whimperers, I wouldn’t even have to wear a cheese necklace for her to find me. Also, she has caller ID.

  Hoping to heighten my composure, I draw a full breath. But my lungs just lurch from whimper to sob.

  Mom’s tone stiffens. “You’re scaring me, Em. What’s going on? Are you all right?”

  “My car . . . I don’t know where . . .”—sob—“AND IT’S SNOWING!!! IN OCTOBER!!!”—sob—“And Mr. Heywood wants . . . he wants me to . . .”—sob—“. . . by tomorrow! How can he expect . . . ?”—sob—“And I need new underwear! Jimmy must think . . .”

  “Stop,” my mother says, her voice like liquid Xanax. “I’m coming over. Unlock the door and wait on the couch. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “What about Angie?” I whine, feeling a stab of guilt for prying Mom away from the baby of the Waters clan. I mean, I’m a grown adult—albeit a hysterical, drool- and vomit-coated one—who should be able to run her life without Super Mommy swooping in to the rescue.

  “I’ll bring her along,” Mom says brightly. “She’ll be fine. Now go unlock the door.”

  I do as I’m told, and exactly ten minutes later—how is she so damn punctual? I certainly didn’t inherit that gene—the front door of the apartment springs open, the almost-four-year-old tornado of energy known as Angeline whirling to a stop beside me. A few steps behind her, Mom shuffles in. “Ignore the mess,” I say, noticing her gaze snagging on my little black interview dress, which is still crumpled on the living room floor. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  Instead of ignoring the clutter, Mom ignores me. “Where are your hangers?” she asks, plucking the dress from the floor and smoothing it across her thigh. “Is Jung home?”

  Angie twists her sandy-blond hair—jeez, it’s grown two inches since I last saw her—around her finger. “Hi, Emmawine,” she says, flashing a disarming mouthful of mini teeth.

  I crawl out of the afghan I’ve been hibernating under and pat her head. “Hi, sweetie.” I turn to Mom. “Is Jung ever home?”

  Mom chuckles. “Stupid question, huh?” She folds the dress into a neat rectangle and sets it on the coffee table. “So, what’s up?”

  “Can you give me a ride to work?”

  “Of course,” she says, snuggling in beside me on the couch. “Where’s the Green Goblin?”

  Flashback to junior year of high school, when Dad and I toured every used-car dealership in the Greater Boston area in search of a safe, reliable ride that would get me out of his hair. Before the ink dried on the bill of sale, he’d christened my first—and only, thus far—car after his favorite Spider-Man villain. Who knew I’d still be ramming around town in the lovely beast all these years later? “I hope it’s in the lot,” I say, waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come. “Dex gave me a ride home.”

  Mom raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were dating that guy . . . what’s-his-name? The one you met at the bookstore.”

  “I am. And his name’s Trent,” I remind her, though she’s not to blame for the memory lapse, since I haven’t introduced Mr. Right Now to my family yet.

  “Do you have cookies?” Angie asks with a sly grin. She’s so much like me it’s scary.

  I glance toward the kitchen. “There’s half a bag of Oreos on the counter, I think. Help yourself.”

  Mom rises and follows Angie; meanwhile, I seize the opportunity to smooth my hair and adjust the baggy jeans I’ve rescued from the hamper. “Hey, Mom,” I yell as I wait for the cookie feast to wrap up. “Are there any cool restaurants you’ve been wanting to try? Maybe we could get some lunch before we pick up the car.”

  “I don’t know, Em,” she says, slipping back into the living room, her hands busy blotting crumbs off Angie’s face with a balled-up baby wipe. “I’m on a couple of tight deadlines right now. How about next Thursday?”

  Mom used to work eighty hours a week at a big graphic design firm, but after Angie was born, she launched her own freelance venture—Creative Waters, LLC—a one-woman show she helms from her dining room. When I think of her, the phrase “busier than a one-armed paper hanger” comes to mind. I wish I could help more with Angie—and maybe someday I will—but so far it hasn’t panned out. “It’s just that . . . well, I have some news.” I put on a happy face that should tell her I’m not about to announce an unplanned pregnancy or submit a request for a loan. “You know that food-critic job I told you about?”

  She looks caught. “Um, yes. The one at The Herald? Don’t you have an interview soon?”

  I’m not going to lie; her lack of attention to the details of my life is a tad hurtful. “Actually, it was yesterday. At the Boston Sunday Times.” Angie wiggles up next to me and slings her arms around my waist. I give her a little squeeze.

  “And . . . ?”

  “Ta-da!” I blurt, triggering a recurrence of the brain-splitting migraine.

  “You got it?” Mom asks, sounding surprised.

  Now I’m insulted. “Supposedly,” I say, “as long as I don’t botch the first assignment. Which brings me back to lunch.” I haul out my puppy-dog eyes. “Any chance you’d reconsider? I need to review a restaurant, like yesterday.”

  “I know the perfect spot,” Mom is suddenly willing to admit. “A quaint little Italian place a block away from school. Olga has just been raving about it.”

  It takes me a second to figure out which “school” she’s referring to—has she started work on that master’s degree she’s been eyeing?—not to mention deduce the identity of this Olga character (Mom and Dad’s neighbor, as it turns out, who, like them, is parenting again in middle age). “Red Light, Green Light, you mean?” I ask, proud of myself for remembering the name of Angie’s preschool.

  Mom nods.

  I consider inquiring into Olga’s health—she’s stricken with a bout of psoriasis, if I recall—but decide against it. Yet something makes me ask, “Why isn’t Angie in school today?”

  “Because I don’t want to!” Angie squeals, her lips puckering. “That’s why!”

  I’m speechless. Almost. “And you let her get away with that?”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “She’s going tomorrow. It’s no big deal. Let me handle it, okay?”

  I check the clock, but there’s no time to argue. I bend down and cup Angie’s hands in mine. “Do you know how many years I went to school for?” I ask.

  She bites her lip and cocks a shoulder. “Nope.”

  “Guess,” I say, in a tone that suggests she might win a stuffed pony for answering correctly.

  She’s not so easily fooled, though. “I dunno.”

  “Come on. Don’t you think I’m smart?”

  She nods.

  “How many years would a smart person like me have to spend in school?”

  “Three?”

  I swallow a laugh. Of course, she’d give an answer she can conceptualize. Either that or something outrageous, like fifty. “How about eighteen?” I say, watching her eyes widen.

  “You’re old.”

  With a wink, I say, “Don’t you want to be old and smart like me someday?”

  Another nod.

  Mom spins her watch around her wrist and frowns. “We should get going.”

  “Then you’ve gotta promise to go to school every day,” I continue, “so when you’re all grown up, we can talk about all the fun, interesting stuff only smart girls know about, okay?”

  She considers this for a moment. “Will you come visit me?” she asks, in a tiny, melancholy voice.

  I am the biggest ratfink on earth. I’ve been so absorbed with postgrad drama—work, relationships, roommates, blood-sucking über debt—that I’ve neglected the people I love most. “Of course, I will,” I say, mussing her hair. “Just try and stop me.” But she won’t be able to. Nothing will, I vow. As soon as my life settles down—and with this new job in the bag, things should start
humming along nicely now—I will reorder my priorities, top among them spending more time with Angie. After all, she deserves it. We both do.

  Chapter 6

  I must thank Olga for pointing Mom—and, by extension, me—toward the white linen tablecloths and polished silver of Trattoria Saulino, which, though it’s tucked away on a shabby side street a number of blocks from the nearest T station, more than lived up to the hype Mom piled on during the car ride over.

  The other spot of good news is that the Green Goblin was intact, just where I left her. Furthermore, with the aid of a full pot of coffee, two sleeves of Ritz crackers, and a whole block of fatty cheddar cheese—I can feel my arteries slapping shut already!—I hammered out my magnum opus. Of course, I had to pull an all-nighter to do it, but c’est la vie. Who needs sleep, anyway?

  With a couple of easy clicks, I attach my first article for the Boston Sunday Times to an e-mail I’ve been writing (and rewriting and re-rewriting) for the last forty minutes, my deadline almost up. Frankly, I’m surprised I found Mitch Heywood’s contact information at all, most companies going out of their way to avoid even the most basic human-to-human interaction nowadays.

  If I could settle on a title for my new column—I’m vacillating between Downtown Dish and Eating with Em—I could hit send and loose my talents on the world. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” I say, swaying a finger between the titles, which I’ve scratched on separate sticky notes.

  While Downtown Dish has a snappy, upbeat sound, Eating with Em would put my name in lights. Then again, I have a feeling that anonymity is the sine qua non of this food-critic gig, though guidance in this area is sorely lacking.

  I am not a narcissist, I decide. And fate agrees, my decision-making process—childish as it may be—taking Eating with Em off the table. I add a brief line about Downtown Dish and, with three minutes to spare, fire the e-mail Mitch Heywood’s way.

  Finally, I can breathe. Too bad sleep is still over the horizon.

  I slam my laptop shut and wriggle off my bed, which, if I’m not careful, will soon qualify for disaster-relief funding from FEMA—or at least earn me a prime slot on the upcoming season of Hoarding: Buried Alive.

  My cell phone is in the living room, on the coffee table, under a pile of those hideous journals that arrive daily for Jung but, as far as I can tell, serve little purpose beyond swatting the occasional fly or propping up the wobbly leg of our hand-me-down kitchen table.

  I shove the journals aside and power on my phone for the first time in, oh, eighteen hours.

  Zero messages? That can’t be right, can it? I mean, nary a stray text? Not a living, breathing soul—or even a soulless robotic marketing app—has tried to contact me in the better part of a day? I turn the phone off and back on again, but the result is the same: I am a pariah.

  Huh.

  Maybe Trent is mad at me, I think. After all, I’ve been neglecting him since my dream job miraculously came through.

  I’m due for orientation at 1 p.m. at The Times (from now on, I’ll be dropping the “Boston Sunday” when referring to my new employer), according to an e-mail I received last night from someone named Sharon. Which leaves a few minutes for a quickie—phone call, that is—with my sex-deprived boyfriend. “Hey,” I say when Trent picks up the phone. “Guess what?”

  “Congratulations,” he responds. “I knew you were a shoo-in.”

  “When someone says ‘guess what’ you’re supposed to humor them,” I complain, my excitement deflating faster than a sumo wrestler’s bicycle tire.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Start over?”

  I scuff to the bathroom and root around in the medicine cabinet for my toothbrush. Now that I have a real job, I should buy one of those pretty brushed-nickel toothbrush holders. “Guess what?” I mumble, my mouth full of Colgate foam.

  “Um, gee . . . ?” he says playfully. “I don’t know. Can I have a hint?”

  I spit and rinse. “Where are you?” I ask, the squawk of a loudspeaker filling his end of the line.

  “You’re answering a question with a question?” He laughs. “Are you running for office or something?”

  “Okay, I give.” I check my teeth in the mirror. “They were crazy enough to hire me. Can you believe it?”

  “Yes, I can. You’re a knockout.” Is he referring to my looks (dubious) or my resume (also doubtful)? Either way, the compliment is nice.

  I can hardly focus with the ongoing din competing for his attention. “Where are you?” I repeat. “It sounds like . . . an airport?”

  “Bingo,” he says, a grin in his voice. “Granddad sent me on a last-minute scouting trip to Jersey.”

  My first thought is: What could he possibly be scouting in New Jersey? And secondarily: Shit, I was going to goad him into calling Jimmy and quitting The Crowbar on my behalf. “Oh,” I respond, trying to cover my surprise. “New Jersey, huh? What for?”

  “We’re looking at putting up a nursing home north of Atlantic City. I’ve gotta check out the land before we make an offer.”

  I pad back to my room, wondering if there really are enough decrepit gamblers clogging the Atlantic City Boardwalk to warrant such a venture. If so, how very sad. Before I can arrange these thoughts into a coherent, politically correct reply, though . . .

  “Hey, uh, the plane’s about to board,” Trent says. “Can I call you in a day or two?”

  Part of me is relieved at this separation, our relationship fraught with the uncertainty of newness. “I don’t know my schedule yet,” I tell him, “but it seems pretty open. So, yeah, call anytime.”

  “Love you,” he says.

  I am too shocked to answer. Before I recover, the phone goes dead. I stand there for a few moments, shuffling through my underwear drawer for the ribbed tights that complement my red-and-black houndstooth skirt. He can’t love me yet, I think. It’s way too soon.

  * * *

  It’s already 1:15 when I break down and park in a handicapped spot on the second floor of the garage by work. If I had the time, I’d leave a note explaining my lack of human decency. Unfortunately, I am too behind schedule even for that.

  After a dangerous hike through three inches of snow, I trudge into the holding pen of The Times. “Have a seat,” the greasy receptionist—a.k.a. Lawrence Wasserstein, according to the brass nameplate balanced precariously on the edge of the counter—tells me.

  I smile flirtatiously. “Thank you. Sorry I’m late. The snow . . .”

  He stares right through me.

  For a midlevel or better (and my vote goes to better) news organization in one of America’s largest cities, you’d think The Times would have more luxurious chairs. I mean, these things look like they’re out of a ‘70s-era office-supply catalog—and they just might be, with their pilled avocado-green fabric seats and gouged blond-wood armrests.

  The good news is that I’m only stuck shifting around uncomfortably for a few minutes before Sharon—or should I say Wonder Woman?—arrives to fetch me.

  Frig.

  “Hi,” I say, beaming sycophantically as she flips through a stack of papers. I clutch my purse to my stomach and pop out of the chair. “Good to see you again. I’m so excited to be here.” I extend a hand. “Thanks so much for the opportunity.”

  “You got my message, didn’t you?” she asks without looking up. Or shaking my hand.

  “Uh, yeah. There was an accident on Boylston,” I quickly invent. “The roads are atrocious.”

  “I got here fine.”

  I bet she did. “Well, I apologize. I’m never late. Truly.”

  “Mitch is a stickler for promptness,” she tells me in a monotone. “Consider yourself warned.”

  I should keep my big, sarcastic mouth shut, but . . . “I’ll make a note of it.”

  “Please, do.”

  With the pleasantries out of the way, we traipse through the maze of nondescript corridors to what I am dismayed to learn is my new “office.” To be honest, calling this dank cubbyhole—I mean, the speck
of a dingy room is jammed between the restrooms and the soda machine—a closet would be stretching the English language beyond its limits. Referring to it as an office is outright hyperbole. “You’ll want to buy a lamp,” Sharon says at my back as I peek—head and shoulders only—into the cubby, which is double the width of a phone booth and two-thirds as tall.

  Obviously, I want to say. Instead, I go with: “I’ve got the perfect one at home.” I’m thinking of a clip-on, goose-necked thing Mom and Dad bought for my dorm at BU. If memory serves, it’s in a tote at the back of my closet in its original packaging.

  I spin around and find myself within kissing distance of Sharon’s surprised—and repellent—face. “Ooh, sorry,” I chirp, sidestepping embarrassedly.

  She reacts with a muted eye roll. “Let’s get this paperwork done,” she says, guiding me by the arm down the hall.

  Unlike the dungeon to which I’ve been assigned, Sharon’s office is a spectacular, airy suite overlooking a courtyard as idyllic as a Norman Rockwell painting with its fresh coating of snow. She sets the papers—all the standard tax forms, plus a plethora of company policies and procedures I can’t possibly be expected to read, much less memorize—in front of me on a cozy desk. “I’m gonna grab a quick bite,” she says. “Be back in ten minutes. Try to finish up by then.”

  “Absolutely,” I say with yet another forced smile. If I plan on working here more than the ten minutes Wonder Woman will be gone, I’m going to have to perfect a middle-of-the-road expression that conveys interest and agreement, while maintaining a floor of dignity beneath which I shall not tread.

  Nine and a half minutes later, while I’m massaging a cramp from the base of my thumb—seriously, how many times do I have to sign, date, and initial the same anti-sexual-harassment form with slightly different wording?—Mitch Heywood blows in. “What the hell were you thinking with that drivel?” he demands.

  He can’t be talking to me, can he? “Huh?”

  “I thought you were going to be a breath of fresh air. A new perspective from Generation Y, or the Millennials, or whatever the fu—”—he taps his foot—“whatever the heck you twentysomethings go by nowadays.”