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My Uber driver on the way to the airport was my favorite kind of Uber driver: silent. Unfortunately, that peace was short-lived because my sister called.
I answered the phone, assuming the worst since she was calling me so early. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I woke up really early, and I know you’re on the way to the airport.”
“So everything is okay?”
“Yeah. Everything is fine. I don’t know why I can’t fall back to sleep. It’s awful. I can’t believe you get up at this hour to commute every day.”
“Is that why you’re calling? To talk about my daily schedule?” I did not hide my annoyance.
Orly seemed unfazed. “Did Mommy tell you she’s going to the doctor on Tuesday? In the city?”
“No.” Of course not. You know I don’t talk to our mother every day, let alone multiple times a day like you. “For what? Her annual appointment?”
My mother left Queens for Manhattan twice a year—to see the Nutcracker with Orly and my nieces every December, and to see her gynecologist, who’d moved to the city twenty years ago.
“Um, yeah. I thought we would go to lunch after, but then I remembered you have to travel for work.”
“I get to travel for work. I’m excited. So yeah, I won’t be able to meet you for lunch.”
My Uber pulled up to the curb.
“Have fun in California,” Orly said. “Will you get to go to Disneyland?”
“I’m going to San Francisco, nowhere near Disney, and I’m going for work.”
“That’s too bad.”
I hung up with her as my driver slammed the trunk shut and hoisted my bag onto the sidewalk. After I checked my bags and made my way through security, I headed toward the gate, with my water bottle and gum in tow. I caught a glimpse of the sun starting to rise. When I’d left the house, it was still dark out. I had told Mark and Joyce not to wake up. They’d listened. I reviewed the lists I’d left for them on the kitchen table, detailing Ethan’s schedule and routine, before realizing they knew all of that information, except for the toe-naming monster deterrent trick. Ethan slept soundly as I quietly snapped a photo and posted it with the caption, “Going to miss this little guy while I’m traveling for work this week.”
I felt a tug in my gut as a thought struck me. What if I had written the whole truth? The caption definitely would have been different: Of course, I’m going to miss my child, every bit of him—from his curly hair to his cute toes—but hallelujah, Mama gets a break! Later, kiddo.
As I boarded, I prayed for a seatmate as antisocial as me. When I got to my window seat, I pulled out my magazines, put my water bottle in the backseat pocket and reclined. Two seconds later, I felt a presence.
The woman was about my age but tall, lean, and fit in her skinny black pants. She popped her probably perfectly packed luggage into the overhead compartment and smiled at me as she slid into her seat. “Hopefully, we take off on time,” she said.
I smiled. “Hopefully.” Do not say another word. Please. I inserted my headphones solely for the purpose of appearing as though I were listening to something and shouldn’t be bothered.
The woman didn’t trouble me the rest of the flight, not overtly. But she did manage to make me feel like shit.
First, she pulled out her stack of magazines, which were all parenting related. Oh, come on. I subscribed to two of them. But they either had articles that scared the crap out of me: “This mom didn’t notice the rash on her son’s elbow until it was too late.” Or they had articles that made me wonder who the hell had time for this crap: “Make a tree house with your child out of paper towel rolls.”
Then she FaceTimed right before we took off with what appeared to be her son and daughter, and they couldn’t stop gushing over each other.
“I’m going to miss you, Mommy!” one of the children said.
“I’m going to miss you. Don’t forget to draw me a picture every day.”
“We won’t forget!”
I couldn’t picture Ethan saying he was going to miss me. He would sometimes tell Mark and me he would miss us when we left for work in the morning, but it was directed at both of us. He didn’t gush over me like other kids seemed to gush over their mommies. I supposed I wasn’t a gusher either. I hadn’t been raised that way. JoAnn was not the gushy type, not with me at least. I tried to protect Ethan and make him feel safe. Gushy, though, I was not.
The woman next to me didn’t care how loud she was. “I love you more than the earth and the moon and the stars.”
“We love you more than the earth and the moon and the stars!” one of her kids declared back.
What if I call my mother right now and scream into the phone, “I love you more than the earth and the moon and the stars”? I think she would have me committed.
“Please turn off all electronic devices,” the flight attendant said as she walked up the aisle.
Thank God.
My neighbor didn’t make a peep the rest of the flight. She read her parenting magazines cover to cover and folded over some of the pages. I read my non-parenting magazines and savored my corn muffin and coffee refills. I didn’t even miss checking my phone every ten minutes. The free Wi-Fi wasn’t working, but I was engrossed in my magazines and also getting out of my head and listening to the sound of the air and the engine.
Something has to change. But I don’t have to think about it for five days. I’m going to use this time to rest, relax, recharge—oh, and work. Then when I get back home, I’ll do what needs to be done.
I was feeling calm until it was time to interact with another human—a line cutter.
“Excuse me,” she hissed as I stuck my foot in front of her rolling bag.
“Were you in this row? Row four?” I asked the honey-haired line cutter, who was in row five and trying to exit out of turn.
She rolled her eyes. “Go. Go ahead.”
“Row four is exiting now.” I slowly strung my strap over my shoulder. I would have taken more time, but I had nothing in the overhead compartment. “Four comes before five.” I straightened the strap on my bag.
“Yeah, I know,” she said.
I smirked and walked out.
As I waited at baggage claim, I checked on Ethan and Joyce and posted on social media, “Landed in Cali!” Then I got a cab to our local counsel’s office, where, within the first half hour of being there, it became apparent that these lawyers had it covered. I wondered what I was even doing there, which was fine with me. I sat down in the comfortable leather chair of the conference room—or “war room” as they referred to it—and pulled up the hotel spa menu again.
A text from Dan popped up: How’s it going?
Jada: Good. We had a good strategy session. I think we’re up to speed now that I’m here.
I hoped my reply read as “Jada is needed in faraway locales. Jada is needed on whatever cases require long flights and quiet hotel rooms.”
My main contact was a gorgeous black woman with green eyes named Kaya, who, upon greeting me at the elevator, immediately apologized for not being able to take me to dinner that night because she had to go to her son’s karate ceremony.
“No problem!” I replied. “I have a three-year-old, almost four. So I’m looking forward to going back to the hotel and not having to feed or bathe anyone but myself. By the way, is Lionel getting here tonight or tomorrow?”
“His flight was rerouted! An issue with the landing gear. But luckily, they were able to land in Chicago.”
“What a shame. I was so looking forward to seeing him.” I snapped my finger across my chest in an oh darn gesture.
Kaya failed to suppress her smile. “He’ll grace us with his presence soon enough.”
“Gird your loins.”
The rest of the day was simple—a lot of reviewing deposition questions, strategy, and changes to questions. The conference room had the pièce de résistance—the ultimate Frontbook snap—a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge. I posted a picture with the caption, “Room with a view!”
As I packed up to head to the hotel, I could practically feel the terry-cloth robe brushing against my skin. After a quick ride across town, I let the bellhop carry my bag, and then I tore off my heels as soon as I got to my room. Plopping down on the bed, I grabbed the room service menu. There were no oysters. There was nothing, actually, that looked appetizing to me. This isn’t the menu I saw online.
I called the front desk. It rang while my hunger intensified. By what felt like the hundredth ring, I was annoyed and ravenous: a lethal combination.
I hung up and popped open my suitcase to grab my flip-flops. Crap. I could have sworn I packed them, but I didn’t. I wrangled my toe-crunching stilettos back on and headed down to find food.
My heels clicked and clacked on the marble of the lobby floor. It wasn’t hard to find the fine-dining steakhouse to the left of the concierge desk. It was dark and a little chilly from the air-conditioning. I really wished I’d brought my suit jacket, but I was getting hungrier by the second.
I slid onto a sturdy leather barstool. “Do you happen to have extra-large Spanish olives?”
“We do.”
“I love you.”
The bartender opened his arms wide. “And I love you. What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a vodka martini, extra dirty, with extra-large Spanish olives. And the oysters.”
And Mama will want an entrée after her oysters. Let’s see, filet mignon or lamb chops or...
While it was quiet at the bar, the ambient noise of a raucous business dinner of about ten men trickled over.
Or lobster or veal or...
“Fuck yeah!” someone shouted.
The wild dinner party just got rowdier. It warranted a death stare.
As I whipped around to burn them with my eyes, I noticed one of the men was signing the bill.
Thank God. Get out of here. I turned back around. Lamb chops. Definitely the lamb chops.
“No way!”
Fucking fraternity boys. Leave already.
I pierced them with another glare as they all stood up and walked through the bar to leave. I noticed the last one in the pack, walking quietly with his hands in his pockets.
It was Todd.