Gimme Shelter

As always, Labor Day marks the start of my busy season at work. I’ll spare you the boring details but simply put, my days get longer, my workload gets heavier and my one and only goal is to keep it together. And by keep it together I mean getting to the end of the year without having to wear a bikini bottom under my suit because I have somehow run out of clean underwear. It’s the little things, people.

I was two weeks into my season and I was already relying on junk food as sustenance. I broke pieces off a soft pretzel and dipped the corners into some mustard. The vinegary tartness made my mouth water and my tongue pucker. I let calls go to voicemail and begged a coworker to fetch me a white peach when she ran out to Wholefoods for lunch. In the meantime, I continued to work my way through numbers and data and information as I prepared for two meetings scheduled in less than twenty-four hours.

By the time I was done everything, the sun was already below the horizon and I was the only person left at the office. I turned off my monitor, set my phone to do-not-disturb and gathered my things. I turned on the alarm, locked the door and shuffled down the back ramp to the driveway. There in the dim light of a street lamp sat my lonely car. I plopped into the front seat and with my mind set to cruise control went home to collapse.

A few days later, with a brief weekend respite from my workload, I wandered into my dad’s office.

“You look spiffy,” I noted. “Ooh, nice tie,” I swooned as I dropped into the chair across from his desk and flipped through an LL Bean catalog.

“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “Big day.”

“Hey, that’s right. You have a pitch today. Good luck, Sparky! You ready?”

“Yeah, though I’m concerned about my speech,” my dad confessed.

I too had been concerned about his speech. As of late, he was having to push harder and take more time to get simple words off his tongue. And it wasn’t just the words starting with ‘h’ or ‘w’ that choked in his throat. He was morphing into an equal opportunity stutterer, the pauses in conversation feeling more obvious than ever before. I’d noticed the change but had refrained from saying anything because, well, I figured what I heard he felt. So I kept mum, using the same approach I take with my ass – I know it’s there and really don’t need other people to point it out to me, thank you very much.

“Do you want me to go?” I offered. “I can run home, put on a suit and be back in under ten.”

“No. It’ll be overkill since I’m already taking what’s-his-name,” my dad said nodding toward his business partner’s office. “I think his background is relevant to the prospect.”

I wasn’t offering to go for the sake of making a pitch. I was offering to go because it upset me to hear my dad concerned about his illness. It pained me to hear him admit it was part of his identity or more specifically, that his illness was a hindrance to functioning amongst the healthy. For the most part, he brushes those negative thoughts to the side. He ignores the fact that he can’t walk or talk like you or me. He still goes to a field and flies his model airplanes. He still sits on an alumni board and goes to monthly meetings in a building that is a challenge to access. It isn’t that he is in denial, he just doesn’t let the illness dictate how he goes through life. So when my dad openly admits concern, when he outright says something that the rest of us are already thinking, I desperately want to protect him. I want to step in and shelter him from his crummy reality.

“Are you sure?” I asked, my offer still vague but clear enough that he quietly understood.

“I’m sure,” he answered, the words delivered without a single stutter or pause.

“Okay,” I said as I lifted myself to my feet and headed for the door. Before ducking out to the hallway and disappearing back into my world and leaving him alone in his, I gave my dad one last piece of advice. “Knock ‘em dead!”

Looking Back

I stayed at the office until half past seven Monday night. I had to get back to a client about something and in order to respond intelligently, I had to run some numbers. There was data to input, options to elect and then pricing to evaluate. When my work was done, I penned an email, noted my findings and clicked send. With both feet on the floor, I wheeled my way free from my desk and looked around. I grabbed my bag, locked the front door and wandered down to my dad’s office.

“You eating?” he asked when I stepped through the doorway.

“Maybe. What did you have in mind?”

“Corned beef.”

“And the Eagles I bet, right?”

He smiled

“Okay,” I answered. “You are so lucky I like you. I’ll run to Steinman’s, fetch us some dinner and meet you back at the house?”

My dad reached into his pocket, produced a twenty dollar bill and sent me on my way.

Sitting in the den with the large television directed toward the round pine table, we ate our dinner. My mom came home a little later from running errands. I watched the kick-off while she held up purchases she’d made for Olivia and Anders. It was a game of keep-or-return. There were fleece footed jammies and cotton knit sweaters and sweat suits galore. Too lazy to have too much of an opinion, I told her to keep everything. Listen, a two and half year old can easily pull off horizontal stripes.

“And these are for me. What do you think?” my mom asked as she held up two different pairs of pleatherish looking Liz Claiborne shoes.

I squinched my face the same way a kid does when you place brussel sprouts in front of them.

“PJ, if you had to pick one or the other?” my mom pleaded.

“I’d go barefoot. Seriously, mom. Those are horrible. Go to Sak’s and buy something by Stuart Weitzman if you are aiming for comfort.”

“I looked online already. Nothing. Well, I did like something by Toby Burch.”

“Tory Burch,” I corrected with a giggle. “The ballerina flat with the metal piece on the front. They’re cute. They’re totally you. So buy them. Go over to Sak’s and get a pair.”

She let out a sigh and I gave up all hope. I gathered the containers from dinner and carried everything to the kitchen to clean up. With the table cleared and the Eagles playing pathetically, I said my goodbyes and headed for the door.

I carefully placed my newly framed art in the backseat. I pulled my seat belt around my body and clicked it in place. And just after I turned the key in the ignition, I looked up. At the end of the street, with the silhouette of tall trees framing the evening sky, I saw the moon. It was a crescent of muted yellow leaning to the right and it looked smaller than usual. With that I smiled and felt a wamrth melt over my body as my mind drifted back to late February and a damp street in Seattle.

“Wow, the moon is huge tonight,” I noted to Alaska as we strolled side by side toward a restaurant.

“Actually, they’ve done research that shows no matter where the moon is in the sky, it never changes size. It just appears larger the closer it gets to the horizon. It’s a trick of the eye. You’re able to see it in comparison to every day things.”

As I sat in my car idling on the curb, the moon dangling in the distance and Alaska hovering in the recent past, I started to wonder. I started to question at what point things fade. When will I look up at the moon and have a different thought? When will I sit under a starry sky and think about someone else? When will the past only seep into the present according to my intention? It isn’t that I don’t look back fondly. After all, I did smile as I glanced at the moon and recalled that conversation. It’s just, well, I’d like to stop looking back when I am trying to look forward.

The Call Is Coming From Inside the House

It was a little after ten thirty in the morning on Sunday when my phone rang. From the caller ID, I could see it was my mom.

“Yeah,” I said just after clicking the button on the portable handset.

“Good morning,” my mom trilled, her voice dancing on high notes that should never be sung before noon.

“Morning,” I muttered before collapsing in a sweaty heap on my sofa.

“What’re you doing today?” she asked, her voice still singing the words.

“Nada. Just worked out. Otherwise spending the day chilling and doing house stuff.”

My mom let out an audible sigh before formally wrapping words around her disappointment. “I was looking for someone to go shopping with.”

“Sorry,” I answered, knowing additional explanation would be required. “Plus, I was up in New York yesterday and I didn’t get home until one thirty this morning. I’m pooped.”

“What’re you doing Tuesday night?” my mom asked, the tone of her voice becoming more hopeful with each word.

“Golf lessons,” I answered. “I thought you were doing the lessons with me. Actually listen, I just got off the treadmill and I’m a little gross. Can I talk to you later?”

“Oh sure. Talk to you later!”

I put the handset in the cradle and then grabbed the bottle of water sitting on my coffee table. I kicked off my shoes, slipped out of my socks and changed the channel on the television. Then my phone rang. My mom again.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“PJ, have you talked to Leslie?”

“Uh-uh,” I said.

“Hmmm, okay. I had a question for her. Tell her to call me if you talk to her.”

“Will do,” I obliged before ending the call and resuming my vegetative state.

I fetched a bowl and combined some Good Friends with Shredded Wheat. I generously poured some milk over top and settled back on my sofa for some breakfast. Then the phone rang. You know who. I let it sit because, well, Tim Gunn was just about to analyze a fashion nightmare. Then my cell phone rang. I clenched my jaw. My home phone then rang again. I curled my hands into tight fists. When the show went to commercial, I glanced over to see my message light blinking. I opted to deal with it another time.

An hour or so later, the tag team telephone ringing occurred all over again. Home, cell, home. Tim Gunn was done but I still had no interest in answering the phone. I got up off the sofa, slipped on my shoes and headed into the city for a low key night out with the girls.

After joining Hope and Bess for a movie and dinner, I returned home and only then did I bother checking my voicemail. I had four missed calls and one message from my mom. She wanted to let me know she had picked up the two watercolors I’d bought in Ecuador. They were framed and ready to be hung. It was late, I was tired and art can always wait. I deleted the message and went to bed.

Monday morning I got into work, turned on my desk light, plopped in my chair and rifled through some paperwork. No less than twenty minutes passed before the phone rang.

“This is Paige,” I said as I cradled the handset to my ear.

“I called you a few times yesterday,” my mom started. “It always went to voicemail. Were you ignoring me?”

Oy. Note to self, add ignoring mother and subsequent ass-covering lie to list of things to repent for on Saturday.

“I was asleep,” I fibbed. “I crashed on my sofa and I guess I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

“Hmm, okay. You know your art is ready. I have it at the.... Oh, that’s the other line. I’ll call you back.”

When I hung up the phone I rang Leslie.

“Your mother has called me eight times, eight times in the last twenty-four hours. That isn’t normal, right?”

“Yeah, this is why you need to move away from Philadelphia.”

I was quiet.

“Paige, you there?” Leslie asked.

“It’s my other line,” I sad cautiously, my voice tiptoeing across the statement.

“The call is coming from inside the house,” Leslie said in a throaty voice before breaking into a giggle and saying her parting words. “Good luck!”

Be Still My Beating Heart

“Are you in the car?” I asked as I reached for a file at the end of my desk.

“Yeah, Anders is in a wedding and I’m trying to get across town. What’re you still doing at work? It’s Friday and after - get the fuck out of the way you dumbfuck!” Leslie yelped.

“I can’t wait until Anders starts to insert ‘fuck’ into his daily dialog,” I said with a laugh.

“He isn’t in the car, beeatch. He’s already at the church,” Leslie explained. “Hey enlighten me, who gets married on a Friday night?”

“Goys.”

“All I can say is this traffic is ridic and if the stream of cars in front of me doesn’t move, I’ll definitely miss the ceremony.”

“Where’s Olivia?”

“Home. With Tiffany. Oh listen to this. So before I left the house this morning, I said, ‘Olivia, you’re going to have a babysitter tonight – who’s your favorite babysitter’ and guess what she said,” Leslie prompted.

“I have no idea,” I answered without bothering to play along.

“She did one of her excited jumps where her feet don’t leave the ground and yelled ‘Aunt Pay’ a couple of time.”

I smiled. I dropped what I was doing, turned away from the computer and smiled.

“Really?” I asked in a pinch-me kind of way. “She really said that?”

“Yup,” Leslie answered before continuing with her train of thought. “Turn dipshit - the light is green.”