Hiccup

My mom leaned back against the seat, her blond locks pressing into the headrest. The music pushed through the speakers and echoed through the car. When the truck in front of me hit the brakes, I eased off the gas, my foot receding from the pedal but hovering close enough to resume the previous position.

“How’s dad doing at the office?” my mom asked, her head turning enough to rest her chin on her shoulder.

“Fine,” I answered without taking my eyes off the stretch of road that lay ahead.

“I asked him if he thought he’d make enough to cover things,” my mom continued, her eyes penetrating my flesh as if to read my quiet thoughts.

“Mom, he just closed a $10,000 deal and has another $15,000 in the pipeline. That’s on top of the regular monthly stuff.”

“PJ, his answer was ‘I hope so’.”

My answer was silence.

Without question, my dad has slowed up. And I’m not just talking about the turtle like movements of his stiff legs as he navigates from his office to the bathroom. Or the way he curls his wrist when he steadies a pen in his hand and signs his name across the bottom of forms. I’m talking about the amount of business he produces.

When I was younger, I rarely saw my dad during the week. If he wasn’t playing tennis, he was visiting with clients. There were deals to seal and relationships to make. There was an income to create and bills to pay. When my mom told him she was putting me in private school, I saw him even less. And a year later, when she told him Leslie was being enrolled as well, I saw him never.

Okay, maybe that’s a lie. He showed up at the field for lacrosse games. He sat on the sidelines for basketball games. And with my mom, he attended the requisite art shows and theatre performances. But to be honest, it wasn’t until I started working for my father that I actually got to know him as a person. Up until my mid-twenties, my dad was merely a shadow on the periphery.

“Hey, can we talk?” I asked as I walked into his office, closed the door and sat down in the chair opposite his desk.

“Sure,” he answered as he slowly swiveled himself from his monitor to face me.

“Mom said something the other day. And we both know that she usually interprets things inaccurately. But I wanted to check in with you.”

“Okay.”

“Earlier this year, I came to you about going back to school. I mentioned a two year time-line and needing to take days to go to the residency.”

“Sure.”

“And yesterday you said something about having a good hit and that I’m getting a cut of the commission.”

“Without you I couldn’t have closed that deal.”

“I know, but here’s the thing: I don’t want you to take a loss for me. I make plenty on the commission split I currently get. And I’d never be able to do what I’m doing any place else. You don’t need to give me any more than you already do.”

“PJ,” he started before I cut him off.

“Listen, working with you has been a great experience. I really enjoy it. And I can’t thank you enough for giving me the room to pursue an MFA. It’s something I desperately want and very few employers would be so accommodating. But if you need to walk away, if you start dreading this place, promise me you’ll stop. I can take out loans or turn tricks down on Broad Street.”

“If you didn’t work here, I would have had to stop a long time ago. I can’t imagine not coming into this place. I love it here. But thanks for saying something.”

“Yeah, well, I mean it.”

“I know you do. By the way, don’t forget to overnight that application to Edelman.”

“Really? Not just regular mail?”

“It’s worth $15,000. Overnight it,” he said as he gripped the edges of his desk with both hands and maneuvered himself back in front of his computer.

“Well in that case, I’m calling the Benz dealership. Did you know they have a new SUV debuting in early 2009? I would look so cute at the wheel of that puppy.”

He froze in his place.

“Kidding! I’m just kidding. Like, for now,” I said with a giggle as I got up, opened the door and got back to doing what I always do.