Elephant in the Sky (2 page)

2

Ashley

Without needing to look at the clock on the wall behind me, I knew I was pushing my luck. Despite finishing my part of the presentation sixty minutes earlier, I didn't need to glance at my boss, the CEO of one of the world's largest and most successful advertising agencies, to know I wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

I stifled the sigh threatening to expose itself, plastered a smile on my face that I knew would look genuinely energetic, and forced myself to remain engaged in the creative concepts discussion — even though all I could think about was that I had promised my family that I wouldn't be late for dinner. Again.

As the creative director at AJ & Emerson, I knew how important the meeting was that was going on around me. We had just finished our pitch presentation for one of the largest bids the industry had seen in years, and just over a hundred million dollars in yearly revenue was up for grabs. I'd had a team of twenty working on the pitch creative for weeks, and I couldn't let them — or myself — down by not remaining fully engaged in the meeting. Even though it was running over by about sixty minutes and I was once again going to miss dinner with my family.

This ha
s to be a good sign
, I could practically hear my boss, Jack, thinking. He smiled and nodded, soaking up the glory of the overly enthusiastic clients who were asking so many questions I knew we had nailed the creative.

I caught his glance and returned his smile before answering the question that had just been posed by Chelsea, the client's senior vice president of marketing. A woman in her early forties with a bright smile and a killer Dolce & Gabbana suit, I knew we'd have fun together at a business dinner with lots of wine.

“Yes, Chelsea, concept three is our official recommendation. We love all the creative we've shown you today, and we think any of them will work. They all effectively communicate the business strategy you've briefed us on. But we feel the skyline concept does the best job of showcasing your unique selling proposition. It's highly visual and we think it will immediately resonate with your consumers.” I took a quick breath, pausing purposely for effect. “When we came up with the idea, I knew we had a winner.”

“And how long did that take?” Chelsea asked, smiling across the boardroom table that was littered with concepts and sketches. The meeting was quickly waltzing towards the two-and-a-half-hour mark.

“Let's just say it wasn't straight out of the gate. The team has worked very hard on your business. In fact, the whole team has been, and would continue to be, extremely committed to ensuring we deliver the best creative this industry has seen.” I returned Chelsea's smile. We connected, and my spidey senses told me how close we were to winning the business. “I'll be honest and tell you the creative process for this presentation took a lot of work. But of course we had fun along the way, too …”

“Well, we certainly like fun. As long as it accompanies great work. Which this is, by the way.” Chelsea pushed her dark-rimmed glasses to the bridge of her nose and continued to examine the concept I had recommended. “In fact, it's excellent. Absolutely amazing work.”

And there it was. The final confirmation that told me we had won the business. For a pitch presentation, Chelsea was much more forthcoming in her feedback than most clients would be in her shoes, which I couldn't help but notice were the hottest pair of suede Miu Miu peep-toes to hit the fall runway. The woman clearly had great taste, in both her attire and creative judgement.

“May I ask what the next steps are?” I was anxious to know what would happen next, but even more eager to wrap up the meeting, since we had pretty much secured the business. With the long hours and tough work now behind us, I wanted to get home to my family. All I could think about was sinking into my kitchen chair at our oversized harvest table and talking to my husband and children about how their days had been.

I knew that Pete, my husband of almost thirteen years, who had decided to quit his full-time job as a copywriter to stay at home with our kids, would be just finishing making dinner. I vaguely remembered him saying something about pork tenderloin as I was getting dressed that morning, but my brain had been focused on my big presentation and not on an early-morning dinner selection.

Our twelve-year-old daughter, Grace, would be setting the table for dinner, still wearing her volleyball uniform, which would likely be wrinkled and untucked. Setting the table was Grace's weekday chore that she couldn't miss — or complain about — if she expected her allowance on Saturday. She had learned her lesson the hard way when she'd complained about it every night and had to wait another week for her allowance so she could afford to buy the new shirt from Aritzia she'd wanted.

Grace was our early-marriage surprise, leaving both Pete and me completely panic-stricken at the sight of the faint double line on the pregnancy test I had peed on. We'd only been married for a few months, and were in the very early stage of our careers. Both of us still worked the incessantly long hours required by any advertising job, and we never seemed to leave the AJ & Emerson office, where we had met two years before our daughter's arrival.

Bolting through one of the speediest engagements in history, Pete and I had decided to get married after only six months of dating. With no more than a long weekend available to us, we eloped to the closest warm location that had a minimal waiting time. We were married on our second day at the only dodgy hotel we could afford in the Bahamas, with no one but a rented-by-the-hour minister and a witness from our hotel, whom Pete swears was the same person who brought our room service the next day. We flew home and returned to work on Monday morning.

Three months after we were married, I found out I was pregnant. Lucky for me, I had one of the easiest pregnancies a girl could hope for, and I breezed through the nine months with very few changes to my lifestyle or crazy workaholic ways.

Despite my immediate infatuation with our daughter, I fell victim to the pressure to return to work, and took only half of my maternity leave. To my surprise, Pete suggested that he take advantage of the recent changes that allowed fathers to stay at home with their babies, and he temporarily left his job to take paternity leave with Grace. With no family to help take care of Grace, and local daycares that all had mile-long waiting lists, we had limited options for who could stay with our daughter during the day.

Pete happily fell into the daily routine of babyland, and he and Grace quickly formed a tight-knit bond that, if I was honest with myself, I knew I didn't have with my daughter. I loved Grace more than life itself, but the monotony of diaper changes and feeding schedules drove me batty. And I wasn't prepared to return to it for many more years.

But Pete's plea for more children grew in frequency as Grace got older and when he returned to work. He'd lost both of his parents when he was in his early twenties, and the only family left was his sister, whom he rarely saw, so he'd become anxious to surround himself with a big family and lots of children.

I wasn't so ready to add to our brood. I had recently been promoted, and was thriving at work. I loved the challenges of my job, and wanted to keep climbing the AJ & Emerson creative ladder.

Pete, on the other hand, seemed more content to ride the slower track at work. But even with him coasting in his career climb, we were still struggling to achieve balance at home. The demands of an advertising agency were intense, and we bounced from job to home at lightning speed with very little room for anything else. I was convinced that adding another child would throw us even more off kilter and unhinge any sense of sanity we'd managed to hold onto.

But when I couldn't resist Pete and all of his charm a moment longer, I conceded to his insistent request and we began to try for baby number two. I convinced myself that I'd still have time because it would likely take a while for me to get pregnant again. But almost nine months to the day after I gave in, we welcomed Nate to the family. Grace had a brother, just as Pete wanted, and my husband was reunited with his glory days, and stayed at home with two kids while I went back to work. After a year, he decided he was happier at home and became a freelance writer.

“Ashley? Do you have anything more to add?” Jack asked abruptly, interrupting my thoughts as he wrapped up the meeting.

“I'd say we've covered everything,” I responded, forcing my brain back into the meeting. I smiled as I stood from my seat and walked around our biggest boardroom, which also boasted impressive views of the city. I shook everyone's hands. “Thank you so much for coming in today. We're happy you could see our offices and get a sense of our working environment.”

Chelsea nodded, quickly smiling before turning back to her smartphone. Using her distraction as my cue that the meeting was officially over, I said a final goodbye and excused myself from the boardroom.

Running out of the main doors of our building, I hailed the first cab I could find. The stench of body odour mixed with vomit smacked me in the face as I pulled open the door. I paused for half a second, thinking I needed to wait for the next taxi.

But my promise of getting home for a family dinner trumped the cab stink; I took a final deep breath of clean air before climbing in and giving the greasy-haired cab driver my address.

I texted Pete to let him know I was on my way home, and received a response back ten minutes later with nothing but a warning to brace myself and come home quickly.
“He's driving me nuts and
he's done it again. Come home quic
kly, okay? I need help.”

“Thanks for the details, Pete,” I mumbled under my breath. I knew he was talking about Nate, but I had no idea what had happened. Or just how bad it was.

I immediately texted Pete back, but got nothing in return. I knew if Nate was in danger Pete would have said otherwise, but I could only imagine what Nate had done this time.

3

Sitting in front of my house, I handed the cab driver forty dollars and told him to keep the rest. It had been a long ride home, filled with honking horns and commuter traffic. I didn't have time to wait for change.

I grabbed my red Prada laptop bag from the seat beside me, and rid myself of the stench that I had grown too accustomed to during the extended cab ride home. I wondered if I now smelled like it, or if my beautiful bag, a present from Pete the previous Christmas, had absorbed the stink.

I kicked the door shut with my right foot, and practically ran into the house. In the family room, I found Nate on the sofa wearing nothing but blue underwear and holding four packs of gum. Pete was standing opposite him, with his arms folded and his face the colour of my bag.

“What's going on?” I rushed into the room. “And why are you in your underwear, Nate?”

“I think the bigger question right now is where he got
the gum. Or should I say
how
,” Pete answered, not taking his eyes off our son for one second. Nate looked down and I could see his shoulders slump at what I could only assume was regret mixed with a bit of fear.

“Nate?
Answer
my question,” Pete said harshly, trying hard to keep his voice calm.

We waited, but still Nate said nothing.

“He won't talk to me. Won't answer a thing.” Pete shook his head, his fists tightly clenched.

I looked up to see a pork roast resting beside the stovetop. Grace had finished setting the table and had disappeared somewhere in the house. I grabbed a blanket to wrap around Nate. He was shivering, and still looking down.

“Will you talk to me, sweetie?” I asked. “Where'd you get the gum?”

Nate shrugged. His breathing became more rapid, just as it always did when we faced this type of situation with him.

Pete motioned for me to follow him so we could talk privately, and I was just starting to step away from my son when Nate piped up, “I, uh, I got it at the store. That one where we went for milk last week.” Nate was twitching now, tears streaming down his cheeks. Beside me, Pete softened as he watched our son's confession.

“And … how did you pay for it?” Pete asked. I wanted to know the answer, but based on the way Pete asked it, I was also afraid of what it would be.

Nate shrugged again.

“Nate?”

“I … um … well, I … I took it.”

“You
took
it?” I asked. My blood began to boil. Nate had done a crazy amount of frustrating things in his short lifetime, but breaking the law wasn't one of them. I glanced at Pete as he raised an eyebrow at me, and I realized he already knew this.

Nate nodded, a large tear falling into his lap. I didn't know whether to yell at him or hug him. “
Why
Nate? Why would you do something like that? You know stealing is wrong.” I tipped my son's chin upwards and forced him to look at me.

Nate begrudgingly met my gaze, his blue eyes even more piercing with their tear-lined lids. “I really wanted gum. I really had to have it. And Noah said I should go.”

I took a deep breath. I reminded myself that I needed to dig deep and find more patience. “Sweetie, this isn't about Noah. This is about
you
. And your actions. What
you
did. Stealing is wrong. You know that.”

“Why wouldn't you just ask me to take you to the store, bud?” Pete asked gently. The calm and patient husband whom I typically knew in situations like this had returned.

“Because … I knew you would say dinner was almost ready … and I really, really wanted it.” Nate was fully crying now, knowing he was about to be punished. “And my thoughts just got all jumbled in my head … and all I could think of is that I
really
wanted the gum. The pink kind. No, the green. Or maybe the orange. I don't know. I forget. I just wanted gum. Really bad. I
had
to have it.”

“You did not
have
to have it,” I responded, my voice coming too close to mimicking his. I took another deep breath. “Stealing is wrong, Nate. You can't just go and take things when you want them.”

I waited for him to respond, but only silence filled the room.

“Nate?”

I glanced at Pete. We were getting nowhere.

“Nathan William, what do you have to say?” Pete's voice was even, but firm.

Nate shrugged.

“Well, I'll tell you what you're going to say, then. Right after you put some clothes on, we're going back to the store you took the gum from, and you will apologize to the owner and admit what you did.”

From somewhere deep within Nate's silence came rage like I'd never seen before. “No! I won't! You can't make me. He's scary and he hates me. He chased me down the street, and if I go back there he'll lock me up in a jail with no food. Or water. Then I'll die! Do you want me to die?” Nate's face was so red it looked purple, and he was punching a pillow with a force unlike any he'd shown before.

Nate jumped off the couch and stood on the coffee table. If I hadn't been so angry, I'd probably have been laughing at the sight in front of me: a nine-year-old wearing only what I could now see were
two
pairs of underwear, jumping all over our wood coffee table like a monkey. And still clutching his four packs of beloved bubble gum.

“Why are you doing this to me? You hate me, don't you? I know you do. And I hate myself. So maybe actually I
want
to go to jail. To starve. And die. Then you'll be happy. Because you hate me. And YOU want ME to die.”

“Nate, please don't talk that way. You know that's not true. Please, come down from there. You'll hurt yourself.” Pete's voice was calm. Somehow soft and composed. It reminded me of how he used to sound when he dealt with the tantrums of a two-year-old.

Nate kept shrieking, and Pete continued to coax him down from the table. I knew my husband was as alarmed as I was by the whole thing, but his calm and collected approach didn't falter. We had learned through the years that when Nate got into one of his moods, he often responded best to an even-keeled voice of reason. But not always.

This time, much to our luck, Nate weakened and eventually he slowly stepped down from the table. He was still shaking.

With our son now calmed down and sitting in front of us, my emotions turned from fear back to frustration, and I was torn between dishing out the world's worst punishment for a nine-year-old boy and wrapping him in my arms until he felt better.

Although the logical side of me was inclined to send him to his room to think about what he had done before coming down hard with the official punishment, my mommy instinct was to try to take away what was hurting my son, because I knew in my gut something bigger was going on.

And so I did what I had to do: I opened my arms and invited him in. Nate folded into me. Over the top of his tousled brown locks, so silky they tickled my nose, I could see Pete raise an eyebrow. He wasn't sure this was the right way to handle the situation. But he also didn't protest. Instead, he grabbed his coat and car keys.

“I'll be in the car. Get him dressed and I'll take him to the store to apologize and pay for the gum,” Pete said. His voice was slightly colder than it had been when he was coaxing Nate down from the table. And I couldn't help but notice the door shut harder than usual on his way out.

“Come on, bud. Let's go get you dressed,” I whispered into my son's ear. I gave him what I thought was a final squeeze, but Nate didn't let go. He held on tight, as if deathly scared of something.

I hugged him back, trying to reassure him that he would be okay. Cradled in my arms the way he was, Nate reminded me of when he was a newborn, and I was immediately taken back to a time that had happened long before …

Always sleep-deprived, I would become increasingly frustrated by the son Pete and I had dubbed “the baby unlike others.” From the moment he was born, Nate seemed feistier in everything he did. He was punchier in his cries than any newborn I had ever met. More sensitive to needing a diaper change. Angrier when he was hungry. And all-around more demanding.

Early one morning, when Nate was about eight months old, after I'd been up all night walking back and forth in our downstairs hall in an attempt to soothe him before he woke up anyone sleeping upstairs, he suddenly just stopped crying. I didn't know what I had done differently, but something had seemed to work. Perhaps his relentless cries, which sounded more like screams from someone hurting him, had simply exhausted him.

Whatever the reason, Nate had swiftly abandoned the angry, back-rearing screams that made his face resemble a squished tomato all night long, and collapsed into my arms. Yet he didn't fall asleep as I had been convinced he would. He simply buried himself into me, gazing at the wall.

An onlooker might have thought he was finally content, but something about the way he gripped at me with his little fingers made me think they would have been mistaken. There was something almost haunting about the way he stared at the wall. It was as though, even at eight months old, he was sad for no reason.

Deep down, I knew there was something going on with him.

Exhausted, I took my precious baby to his room, and curled up in the well-loved rocking chair that I had used so often. I fell asleep before he did, worn out from my night with him. When I woke up he was still awake. Still gazing into nowhere — just like he was doing now, eight years later.

I knew Pete, waiting in the car, would be furious that we were taking so long, but I couldn't let go. I knew Nate needed me, and my devotion prevented me from tearing myself away from him. My instinct told me to stay right where I was. To keep hugging him. To be there for him, just as I had always done, and as I'd always do. No matter what.