By the Numbers (17 page)

“She was furious about being in business class and couldn't fathom why you didn't just book her in first class since you had the miles to spare. She said that the lie-flat seats were really narrow and the plane was old so they didn't have a built-in entertainment center. The flight attendants had to hand out tablets so people could watch movies, and she'd already seen most of what they had to offer.”

Of course Jessica was baiting me.

Of course she was.

“That's what you call a first-world problem,” I reply, keeping my tone light, while inside I'm raging. This goddamned wedding has been one opportunity for extortion after another, and now I'm
hearing that even with everything I've done, I didn't get it right? An all-expense-paid business-class trip to Italy wasn't sufficient? Not satisfactory for Princess Kelsey? What is it the girls are always saying?

I can't even
.

I give the counters a quick spritz with antibacterial spray and wipe them down with a paper towel, more vigorously than needed. “Okay, I'm off to bed. I'm glad you're here. I'm sure Stassi will appreciate your help once she gets home with your dad. Good night.”

I don't even try to hug or kiss her. I simply head up the back stairs. The door to the guest room is closed. As it's too early for my folks to be in bed, they must be out. How nice that in their late seventies, their social life is more active than mine.

It's not until I've brushed my teeth and washed my face that I wonder how Jessica was able to make it to Chicago so quickly after hearing the news about Chris.

Curious.

• • • •

“Now, for the capital optimization project: Vanessa, you take the lead on the proposal. I'm sorry, Adrienne, do you need something?” I'm in the middle of my Friday managers' meeting in the glass-enclosed conference room with the lake view when Adrienne appears at the door. She never disturbs me when I'm with the team, so I'm immediately concerned that something terrible has happened.

“May I see you for a moment?” she asks.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Please continue.”

Everyone goes back to work, save for Vanessa, who seems more concerned with what Adrienne is about to tell me. I close the conference room door behind me and step out into the hallway, removing myself from Vanessa's line of sight.

“What's up?”

Adrienne grasps the cuffs of her cardigan. “I'm so sorry. I hate to bother you, but this seemed important.”

“No need to apologize. I'm sure you have a good reason.”

“Your Realtor called.”

I immediately relax. I thought she was going to tell me something about Chris, who's had two restful nights and has been cracking jokes with the nurses in Spanish. “Kathy? Yes, she had a showing at the house today. Did she need something? Wasn't she able to work the lockbox? The code is 0320.”

“She didn't have any trouble getting into the house, no. But there must have been some kind of miscommunication, because your parents and Jessica were all still home, so it was kind of awkward.”

“Aw, you're kidding. I told them about the showing last night and this morning, and I had it marked on the big calendar in the kitchen. I don't know how they all forgot. I'll have to reschedule with her. Thank you for letting me know.”

Adrienne makes no sign of leaving. “Um . . . they probably won't be back.”

My stomach lurches. “What happened?”

She pulls at a loose thread on the cuff of her cardigan before she begins. “Well, the wife of the family who came to see the house is foreign—I think Kathy said she's from Argentina? Anyway, they loved your house, especially the room on the third floor. The wife wanted to run back up for one more look to see if there was space
under the eaves for her son's drum set. As she was coming back down, your father ran into her in the hallway.” She stops and clears her throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Your dad—um, Max—he pulled her into the bathroom off the guest room. He said he wanted her to see some spots on the grout that needed attention. He didn't think she'd been scrubbing hard enough and next time she should use bleach.”

“Oh, Jesus, God, no,” I say, feeling faint. “Please tell me Kathy explained that the old bigot does not convey.”

Adrienne winces. “Kathy tried to lighten the situation by saying something like, ‘You must be teasing! How could you confuse Mrs. Westerfield for a housekeeper when she's wearing such a gorgeous Armani suit?' and that's when Jessica walks by and says, ‘Gorgeous . . . for a knockoff.'”

I double over with my arms clenched around my stomach. I feel like I've been kicked. I wonder if we're not seeing some early-stage dementia manifesting in his behavior now, and if so, what might be done about it. I believe the time's come to consult a gerontologist.

Jessica, on the other hand, is just a bitch.

“This violates all my rules, but I have to ask anyway. Can you ping Kathy and tell her I'll call her when I'm done?”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.”

I return to the conference room. “Sorry about that.”

“Everything okay at home?” Vanessa asks, her voice saccharine sweet. She bats her eyes, which are circled in far too much black kohl liner. “Anything I can do?”

I give Vanessa my most competent, confident smile. “You can take the lead on the capital optimization project proposal. Other than that, no.”

Terrific. She senses an opening. Now I have to play defense around Vanessa again, too.

I take my place at the head of the table and paste on a smile, trying to take comfort in the thought, Well, at least nothing else can go wrong.

• • • •

“No, really, I've got it. Don't worry about me,” I call as I stagger through the back door under an armload of sacks from various grocery stores. With three extra people in the house, I've been running back and forth to the market all week. I had to shop twice on Saturday, and it's only Monday and we're already out of half a dozen staples again.

Since no one around here cooks, I buy a lot of premade items. My father is partial to the ready-made assortment of chops and roasts at Heinen's over in Glenview, while Marjorie prefers the salads from Sunset in Northbrook. Jessica only wants sushi from the Deerfield Whole Foods, but still complains about how much better the quality is in New York. As the only person who holds a day job, I have no idea why the hunting and gathering falls to me, yet here we are.

I'm out of space on the countertop due to all the dirty dishes, so I set the bag with the meat loaf, pot roast, St. Louis–style ribs, and barbecue pork chops (with Styrofoam containers of spinach au gratin, honey-glazed carrots, and jalapeño-studded corn bread) on the floor before returning to the Camry to retrieve the case of bottled water. Marjorie won't drink the filtered water from the cooler because apparently she
wants
to blow through the one point
five million barrels of oil it takes to satisfy the United States' yearly demand for bottled water.

Argh.

I run down to the mailbox while I'm outside, and I spend a few minutes chatting with my neighbor before I return with the bottled water. When I step inside the kitchen this time, carrying the twenty-four pack of Aquafina, I catch myself as my foot slips in something. I glance down at the hardwood recently refinished in a pale, weathered gray, not expecting a crime scene. A swath of sticky, reddish brown fluid is spread six feet in every direction across the wide planks. Stray bits of bone are scattered from one end of the kitchen to the other, interspersed with clumps of green and orange and yellow and mangled bits of white.

What did—? How could—?

While I'm bent over, trying to make sense of this mess, I see in my peripheral vision an enormous black blob thundering into the kitchen. The creature plows into me, taking me out at the knees and knocking me onto my butt before pinning me entirely to the ground.

“Caroline! Come here, Caroline!” Kelsey comes charging into the room holding on to an empty leash. She surveys the damage to the kitchen and points toward the giant black Newfoundland now standing on my chest, cutting off most of my oxygen supply. “Uh-oh. Did she do all of that?”

“That would be my guess, yes,” I gasp.

“Caroline, no. Bad girl.”

Kelsey gives the dog a tentative shove. The beast lumbers off of me and I'm able to breathe again. I sit up and shake corn bread out of my hair. Caroline assists this process by eating all the stray bits that fall off. Then she nuzzles and snuffles me for a solid
minute, searching for more, leaving me covered in strands of drool that are half an inch in circumference. She slurps me right across the face for good measure.

Somewhere in the ether, Barnaby is mortified.

“Explanation, please.”

Kelsey pats the giant quadruped on its anvil-shaped head. Caroline begins to pant, revealing an alarmingly long pink tongue that produces heroic amounts of saliva. “This is my new dog, Caroline. I missed Barnaby, so as soon as we got home, I went out and adopted her.”

“How does Milo feel about your naming your new dog after his ex-girlfriend?” I rise from the floor and try to brush off as much side dish and dog spit as I can, but I suspect this pantsuit is a loss. I head to the pantry and grab a dustpan and broom, but I may be better off with a wet-dry vac. Or an exorcist.

“
I
didn't name her; she was already called Caroline by the shelter.”

“You can always rename her,” I say, scooping up a wad of spinach and dumping it in the garbage disposal. Caroline begins to lick the barbecue sauce off one of the kitchen cabinets. “I'm sure Milo would prefer that. You guys can come up with a name together.”

Kelsey's face darkens. “I don't give a crap what name he likes.”

Oh, dear. Wait for it. . . . Wait for it. . . .

“Why do you say that?” I ask, as though I don't have a sinking feeling as to what's coming next.

“Because Milo is a jackass and we should never have gotten married. Like, who gets married that young? Did people really expect us to work? Well, that was their bad. Caroline and I are going to be staying here for a while until we figure out what to do next.”

Caroline wags her massive plumed tail as she cleans the cabinet. Once she's removed all the sauce, she starts to chew on the wood.

So I was mistaken.

Something else can
always
go wrong.

June 2006

“I
can't do this right now,” I say into the phone. “We're boarding momentarily.”

The other passengers are already beginning to crowd the gate. They stand in an irascible clump, a sea of logo polo shirts and no-iron khakis. Many of them are holding bags from Auntie Anne's Pretzels, and the aroma of grease and dough mingled with cinnamon is almost intoxicating. The entire D gate at LaGuardia smells like Auntie Anne's, which is the best subliminal marketing plan ever. I'm not a huge fan of visible salt grains (due to salt's impact on blood pressure and its relationship to risk factors for heart disease, which is the leading cause of death in the United States) and I hate anything containing nitrates, yet I'm fighting the urge to mug one of them for their pretzel-coated hot dogs.

“I need a date, Penny,” Chris insists, on the other end of the line, snapping me out of my would-be pretzel thuggery. “All of her friends have done their college visits. We're coming down to the wire here. Kids start applying to schools over the summer
these days, and she can't apply if she hasn't seen any of the places she wants to go. You promised you'd take her. She only has a small window of time before she starts her camps.”

With an eye on the gate, I select save on my spreadsheet and start shutting down my laptop while I keep my cell phone pinched between my shoulder and my ear. “Wouldn't she rather go with you?”

Chris sounds aggravated. “She asked to go with
you
.”

“Why?” I press.

“Could be as simple as she doesn't want to share a hotel room with her dear old dad for a week. Or maybe she never sees you anymore and would like to spend a minute together before she graduates and goes away to college. You remember Jessica, right? She's the tall one, kind of a smart mouth?”

Okay, that was unfair. He should not be leveling this kind of guilt at me. The only reason we can even afford to send Jessica to the college of her choice is because of my sacrifices. We were almost wiped out in 1998 when Chris's house flip on Elm went awry—the one I privately refer to as the Nightmare on Elm Street. Between the cracked foundation, the zoning issues, the liens, the asbestos, and the black mold, we thought we'd have to sell our place and leave Glencoe entirely.

Thank God I'd finally become fully accredited by then and had enough experience to be hired at a consulting firm downtown at a healthy salary. Yes, I knew I'd have to put in more hours than when I went back to work part-time a few years after Topher was born. And while I loved Allstate's progressive job-sharing policies and the quick commute to their suburban campus, I wasn't making enough to save us from the financial Chernobyl that was the Nightmare on Elm Street. We'd get to keep our house, but the trade-off was that I'd be
around less. Chris stepped up the daddy duties and all was well, except now he's trying to make me feel bad about choices I was forced to make because he didn't do his due diligence on that cursed house.

“For passengers on American Airlines flight 345 New York LaGuardia to Chicago O'Hare, we will be opening the doors for boarding momentarily.”

In one fluid motion, I stow my laptop in a computer bag, scoop up my own roll-aboard, grab my Fiji water, and rise to get in line. This is the third project I've run with our huge New York client, so I've done this particular airport dance so many times on and off in the past two years that I could make it down the jet bridge and into my usual seat, 3B, with my eyes shut.

“I have to go; we're boarding. We can figure it out when I get home.” Then I hang up before he can argue more.

“We'd now like to invite our first-class section to board.”

I glance at the other Executive Platinum travelers in the priority lane, smiling and nodding at those I recognize, which is usually about half the plane. So many Chicago consultants take the same Monday-morning/Thursday-afternoon flights every week that we mostly know one another. We've bonded at one point or another, maybe in the Admirals Club over the last of the carrot sticks and ranch dip when LaGuardia's socked in with snow, or perhaps when lightning's struck the tail of our plane as we've flown over Pennsylvania during a wicked summer storm and we've all discovered religion at exactly the same time. I imagine we're like those expats hanging out in a tiki bar in some far-flung banana republic, singing along to “Hotel California,” not because the Eagles are so great, but because they're familiar and they smack of home.

I hand my boarding pass to the gate agent and she says, “Welcome, Mrs. Sinclair. Have a nice flight home.”

“Thanks, Leslie. See you next week.”

I make my way down the gangway and up to the entrance of the plane. While I'm not superstitious, I always touch the right side of the door opening when I board. There's nothing about this empty, meaningless ritual that keeps the plane aloft, but I do it anyway. (Patrick says I'm an Episcopalian for the same reason. Sometimes Patrick is too cynical for his own good.)

I make my way to 3B, my most preferred seat. Because I'm right-handed, I want the aisle on that side for the elbow room. For most domestic flights, the seat numbers start at 3, not 1, so 3B is always bulkhead, which means more legroom. I'm just claustrophobic enough to need to spread out as much as possible. I arrive at my seat and stow everything in the overhead compartment, save for a padfolio and a pen. I'll take down my laptop once we reach cruising altitude. (By the way, I won't pay to sit in first class—instead, I use miles to upgrade. I have so many banked, I could take the whole family to Europe, a few times over. That is, if I could afford the time to get away.)

I'm reading e-mail on my BlackBerry when I hear a softly accented voice say, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

I look up, noting the neatly combed black hair and brilliant white smile in contrast to cocoa-colored skin. “Raj Bhalla! You're not Team Thursday Afternoon!”

I've flown to New York dozens of Monday mornings with Raj, as he's a Deloitte network security consultant currently working for a Wall Street client. He opts for 3A whenever it's available, so we're often seated next to each other on the ride out. Granted, we'd both be forty percent more likely to survive a crash were we seated near the tail of the plane, but as the risk of perishing in a
crash is one out of eleven million, I'm willing to live on the edge to stretch my calves.

“I am today,” he replies, placing his computer bag next to mine in the overhead bin. “My Simi—she's the youngest—has a violin recital tomorrow afternoon and I will not miss her performance. I could have left tomorrow morning, but with air travel today, you cannot be too careful.”

I nod, cringing inside at everything I've missed through no fault of my own. The friendly skies have let me down so many times, and often for no good reason. Any road warrior can tell you horror stories about boarding a plane on time and pushing away from the gate only to then sit on the tarmac for four hours before the flight's eventually canceled. I've taken flights that have been diverted to other airports, that have turned around midair and returned to the airport of origin, that have been delayed for hours on end and then, just when you think you're finally going to leave, the crew's declared illegal because their time's run out and you end up waiting again while the airline rustles up fresh pilots.

My new assistant, Adrienne, tells me that Vanessa is attempting to frame my maternal duties as a reason I'm not qualified to run this project, and that's so upsetting. Who pulls something like that? I can't imagine this happening to a male coworker.

“Raj, has anyone given you grief about leaving a day early to attend a family event?”

“Who would give me grief?” he asks. “What I'm doing or why I am doing it is none of their concern. I perform well; that is all that matters.” He knits his brow and peers at me. “Does someone give
you
grief, Penny?”

“Sort of, yes. There's a woman who wanted to be on the New
York job and she didn't get it. She's always asking after my kids, especially my daughter Jessica, who's about to go on her college visits—or will, as soon as I can figure out a time to take her. Turns out, she doesn't care about my family. She's just trying to use my responsibilities at home as leverage to advance herself. Right now my strategy is to clam up and tell her nothing.”

Raj tents his hands and nods. “Here is what I believe, Penny. I believe someone will always gun for what you have. That is human nature. It is probably a wise choice not to share information with her. But be careful that she does not begin to occupy real estate within your head. Do not let her prevent you from fulfilling your family obligations out of fear she might use them against you. Your children will not make music for long, so go enjoy their concerts.”

I want to comply, but I'm not sure how easy his advice will be to put into practice. I say, “Is Simi a talented violinist?”

He laughs. “Oh, no. No, no. She makes the sound of a cat caught in a food processor. Truly terrible. The screeching! Sharp to the point of pain!” He rubs his ears as he speaks. “But I would not miss this performance for my life. I do not go for the music. I go for the joy on her beautiful, beautiful, tone-deaf face as she massacres her Mozart. Really, she kills him until he is quite dead again.”

The flight attendant comes down the aisle to make sure we're buckled in. “Why do you encourage her to keep playing if it's a lost cause?”

Raj slides closed the window shade and adjusts his air vent. “Ah, but nothing is a lost cause. I encourage her to keep trying, so she practices all the time and she finds ways to improve, like by seeking help from her music teacher and by looking at videos on the Internet. Right now she is terrible. But she is
less
terrible
than she was six months ago. In another six months? Maybe I will not need to wear earplugs in the house. At present she does not have much talent, but she has
passion
. Talent can always be developed through practice, but passion is the fire that burns from the inside.”

Kelsey and Jessica are just the opposite. They're both talented at so many things, but I don't know that they have any interior fires. Kelsey can master almost any kind of dance step after watching the choreography only once. Jessica can assume any character onstage, is an ace on the tennis court, and sees everything through the eyes of an artist. At the moment, Jessica says she wants to study fashion design, which is part of my hesitation on the college visits. I'm reluctant to spend a week on the road visiting universities she'll be bored with after a semester. She's only interested in schools like Parsons, FIT, and RISD right now. I'm trying to talk her into a traditional college with design options like Columbus College, University of Cincinnati, or Kent State, so if (and when) she changes her mind, at least her initial course work will count toward a different major. She can't exactly become a psychologist or marine biologist with credits in Intermediate Fabric Draping.

Why are both girls so mercurial? I don't remember being this changeable in my teens. I'm not so different now than I was back then. But those two? It's like they're constantly trying to reinvent themselves, along with all their likes and dislikes. For example, they say they love platform boots, they can't live without platform boots, so I'll surprise them with a couple of pairs from New York and then they'll tell me, “No, we hate platform boots; we want ballet flats.” Or, I'll hear them go on and on about how much they adore Sydney Bristow, so I'll watch
Alias
on Netflix DVDs while I'm on the road only to find out they don't like
Alias
when I arrive home, that now they're into
Lost
. I'm perpetually two paces behind them.

“How do I figure out what my daughters' passions are?” I ask.

“You are asking the wrong question, Penny.”

“Am I?”

“Oh, yes. The question is, ‘How do my daughters discover their passions?'”

I lean forward in my seat, my mind already racing, anxious to book whatever guru could assist them, to send them to whichever camp would most benefit them, to sign them up for any program they need to figure out who they are and what it is that drives them so that they can have the best shot at becoming successful adults. “And the answer is?”

“They need you to be patient while they take their time.”

I slump back into my seat.

Time and patience, those are my two most limited resources.

• • • •

“Why can't she just come with you and stay in your corporate apartment? You're
in
New York. Parsons is
in
New York. FIT is
in
New York. Fly out there together; you can work Monday and Tuesday if you have to, do NYC schools on Wednesday, rent a car and drive to Rhode Island on Thursday, fly to Savannah on Friday, and come home Saturday. You miss, what, three days? This seems pretty simple to me,” Chris says. He's standing at the kitchen island, hands splayed on the marble countertop, in what seems to me like a very aggressive posture. I don't care for his tone. At all.

“It's not that simple,” I argue. “I work twelve to fourteen-hour
days when I'm out there. I can't leave Jessica alone in some corporate apartment while I'm gone for that long. What will she do?”

“She'll figure something out. She's not a child, and she's not incompetent.”

“I am not comfortable with her being alone in the city. Anything could happen.”

He throws his hands in the air. “Okay, then take the week off. You're certainly owed the time. You can't just abdicate your family because you're busy with your job. I mean, which is more important to you?”

“That's insulting. How can you even ask me that?”

“Because I legitimately want to know. In terms of priority, in terms of attention, in terms of who you put first, I'm telling you right now, from where I stand? It's not the Sinclairs.”