The Partner Track: A Novel (32 page)

And then, without having prepared anything in advance, without having scripted how I’d do it, I just blurted it all out in a big crazy headlong crush of words. I told them—in Mandarin, so there would be no miscommunication—everything that had happened. About Marty Adler and Ted Lassiter and Hunter’s horrible skit and the country club and the Diversity Committee and Dr. Rossi and Zhang Liu and the terrible meeting with the client where everything had gone horribly wrong and yes, I even told them about Murph.

I described the horrible meeting in Adler’s office and admitted that I was home now—had been home for many days, in fact, thinking.

I expected that my mother would cry. She didn’t. In fact, both she and my father were silent for what seemed like a very long time. When my mother finally did speak, she lapsed back into Mandarin, sounding extremely calm and practical. Matter-of-fact, even. To my surprise, she actually reminded me of Rachel.

“Well, you’ll come home and get a job here, that’s all there is to that,” she said, with finality. Her voice softened. “Maybe you can talk to Cindy Bai or Susan Wu—maybe they know of a local lawyer here who could use a little help around the office. Just until you get back on your feet.”

Help around the office?
Me,
who’d been about to become the first female Corporate partner at one of the most powerful law firms in the world? Well, hell, maybe I could, maybe I would. Maybe it had come to that.

“It’s not that easy, Mom,” I said. “I don’t want to rush into anything. I just need to think things through right now.”

There was another pause.

“It’s not too late to apply to medical school,” she said.

I started to laugh. And once I started, it was hard to stop. It felt great to laugh out loud.

My mother sounded annoyed. “Well, I’m just saying, you still could.”

My father interrupted, “I think Ingrid’s right. She just needs some time to think about things, Yan-Mei.”

My heart swelled.
Good old Dad.

Then my mother said quietly, “You could come back home, Ingrid. Start over. There are lots of nice places for young people to live in Maryland and Virginia. I’ll help you look.”

I didn’t
want
to live in a nice place. I wanted to be in Manhattan.

“I’m sure,” my mother continued, “in a different city, no one will even care that you’d been on some bad project with some mean, bad boss at some company up in New York. Maybe they won’t even know of this Valentine company. Maybe no one will even have heard of it.”

I sighed. “They’ll have heard of it, Mom, believe me. They’ll all have heard of it.”

After a pause, I said, “I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to tell you all of this. I wish my news were better.”

My mother sighed, too. “Ingrid-ah.” She paused, and I could tell she was trying to bring herself to say something difficult. “Your father and I were always so worried about you with that job, living in that lonely apartment, not eating proper meals, working so late every night and coming home by yourself at three in the morning. Maybe”
—
she hesitated—“maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Please come home. All you need is some time, to try to figure out what will make you happy.”

I sat there pressing the receiver to my ear, stunned. All along, I’d thought that my parents weren’t equipped to hear about when my life turned bad. When in fact, maybe all they’d wanted was for me to be
happy.

“Your mother and I raised a smart girl,” my dad said. “You’ll figure out a way. I’m not worried.”

All of this time, I thought I’d been busily protecting my parents. When it turned out perhaps they hadn’t needed much protecting at all. But maybe
I
had.

“Promise me you’ll at least think about coming home,” my mother said. “Maybe in the fall. Things always seem to look so much brighter in the fall. Remember you used to tell me that?”

I smiled into the receiver. “Yes,” I said softly.

After we said good-bye, I sat there for a minute longer, thinking about what my mother had said.

The fall had always been my favorite season. There was just something I loved about that sharp autumnal crackle in the air, which I still associated with new lunchboxes and the delicious whiff of spiral notebooks and Magic Markers. I loved going back-to-school shopping with my mom for new sweaters and skirts at Sears and Penney’s. Fresh starts, in other words. Fall felt like a fresh start. One could go away over the summer and come back a totally reinvented self.

Anything seemed possible.

TWENTY-ONE

It wasn’t until three evenings later that I finally felt calm enough—and brave enough—to listen to all the phone messages that had been piling up ever since I’d left Parsons Valentine. When I felt good and ready, I poured myself a glass of red wine, wrapped myself in an old flannel blanket, pressed
PLAY
on the machine, and curled up onto the couch to listen. I leaned my head all the way back and closed my eyes.

“Ingrid, sweetie.” Rachel’s voice was strained. “Are you okay? I just heard about what happened at work. Call me.” Beep.

“Hi, it’s me again,” said Rachel. “Where are you, Ingrid? Are you okay? Haven’t heard from you in a few days, are you still eating? Let me know if you want me to come over. Just give me a call to let me know you’re all right, okay? Doesn’t matter how late.” Beep.

“Ingrid?” It was Margo, speaking in soft tones, and I knew she was at work, trying not to be overheard. “Honey, I heard what happened. We’re all in shock. We just can’t believe it. You deserve it more than anyone. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, honey.” Beep.

“Ingrid. It’s Tyler. Listen, I have no idea what happened, and no one will tell me anything. I can’t believe it, Ingrid. You’re the one person everyone thought really deserved it. This is total bullshit. Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m worried about you. Call me when you’re feeling up to it. I just hope you’re okay, sweetie.” Beep.

A moment later: “Yung, it’s me.” Murph’s low, warm voice filled my living room.

I sat up, sloshing red wine into my lap and onto the couch.

“I know you probably hate me, but I just wanted to tell you that … that I’m really sorry about everything that happened.” He paused. “I mean about the partnership vote, and…” He trailed off. “And about us, too. I’m really, really sorry. I know I screwed up.” He paused again and sighed. I could tell he was trying hard to sound plaintive and pathetic. “And I hope, in some way, I mean, I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I hope that in some small way, at some time down the road, you might even come to forgive me.” A final pause. Then, “So, that’s all I really wanted to say, Ingrid. Call me sometime, if you want. I mean, I hope you will. Bye.”

How dare he?

I leapt off the couch. I stood there in the middle of my living room, about to scream. I screwed my eyes so tightly shut I saw angry spirals of red. How
dare
he call here, invading my home, sounding so calm, so collected, so reasonable? In what parallel universe would any of those things Murph had said to me—all those horrible, painful things that he’d screamed at me in his apartment—ever be, in any way,
forgivable
?

I looked down. The red wine I’d spilled was seeping into the fabric of my beautiful, impractical, celery-colored couch. I rushed to the kitchen, ran a couple of white dish towels under the cold water, and dashed back to the living room, where I daubed and then scrubbed the fabric. No matter what I did, the ruby color wouldn’t come up. All I succeeded in doing was further spreading the stain around.

Fuck. I give up. I really just give up.

I stalked into the kitchen, balled up the ruined dish towels, and hurled them into the sink. I stood there, bracing myself against the smooth polished countertop, and closed my eyes, pressing the heels of both hands hard against them, trying to make the angry spirals of red go away. I opened my eyes. I took a few deep, soothing breaths.

In, out.

In, then out.

Again.

Breathe.

Calm.

Okay.

I leaned forward and rested both elbows heavily on the cool marble surface. As usual, my kitchen was spotless. When you never cooked, your kitchen remained clean. My gaze fell upon the only thing that was cluttering up the countertop—the
Wall Street Journal
that I’d picked up three days ago, lying inches from my left elbow. As I glanced at the newsprint, one of the headlines that I’d only skimmed earlier at the Bagel Boat now leapt out at me in sharp relief:

CONGRESS IN PARTISAN STANDOFF
ON DRILLING REFORM

I bolted straight up. I grabbed the paper and flattened it out on the counter. I opened it to the page with the full news article and read:

BY DEBRA M. FINNEGAN

Democrats in the House and Senate plan to introduce new legislation in the coming months that will dramatically increase offshore drilling safety requirements and remove caps on corporate liability for catastrophic oil spills, sources on Capitol Hill say.

Environmental groups, labor unions, and advocacy groups for workers and small businesses disproportionately affected by last year’s BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico have expressed frustration over Congress’s slow legislative response to that disaster. Democrats facing the upcoming election year are attempting to woo back their traditional voter base by proposing a new reform bill that will take a harder line on offshore drilling safety.

Key changes in the new bill include the elimination of liability limits for private companies involved in offshore drilling accidents, new regulatory standards for offshore rigs, and mandatory OSHA and environmental safety upgrades for owners and operators of such drilling platforms.

Although Republicans are expected to oppose the new bill, which could prove costly for large oil conglomerates, experts now say that if a bloc of lawmakers can agree on adjustments to the bill to ensure that smaller oil companies will not be disproportionately affected, the reform package has a chance to pass with a slim majority. “We know we’re in the very early stages yet,” said Rep. Kathryn McAlister (D-CA), newest member of the House Energy and Commerce Committee, “but we’re confident that we will prevail.”

When I’d finished the article, I read it again. And then again.
Thank you, Debra M. Finnegan.
I closed my eyes, summoning everything I could remember from Professor Gunderson’s Legal Ethics and Professional Responsibility class so many years ago.

Before I lost my nerve, I picked up my cell phone. I still had the number programmed in, after having called it so many times over the past two months, but my hands were shaking so badly now that I had to hit the button twice.

Finally, I heard ringing on the other end. Once, twice, three times.

“Slugger,” said the gruff but warm voice on the other end of the line. “Well, well. To what do I owe this nice surprise?”

TWENTY-TWO

The intercom buzzed in my front hall. I looked up, bleary-eyed, annoyed at the interruption. I’d been up all night, sitting at my kitchen table, working feverishly on my laptop, creating spreadsheets and budgets and lists, typing in all the scribbled notes and strategies I’d begun jotting down following the forty-five-minute phone conversation Lassiter and I had had last night.

The intercom buzzed again.

I thought about pretending I wasn’t home, but Dennis knew everything. I sighed, glancing at the clock on my cable box.
Who
showed up unannounced at ten thirty on a Saturday morning? Honestly, it was uncivilized. I was in a camisole and pajama bottoms. I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I set down my sixth cup of coffee and padded into the hall, pulling on an old cardigan as I went. “Hello?” I said warily into the intercom. I was half-expecting an eviction call any day now.

“Hey, Ingrid. There’s someone here to see you,” said Dennis. “Okay to send him up?”

“I’m not expecting anyone,” I said. “Can you find out who it is?”

I heard a muffling noise and Dennis saying to someone in the background, “She says she’s not expecting you. What’s the name?” A silence, then a mumbling.

Dennis came back on the line. “His name’s Justin Keating.”

Unbelievable. What was he here to do, gloat?

“Please tell him to go away,” I said. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

More muffled voices. Dennis sounded adamant, but the mumbling persisted.

Dennis sighed into the receiver. “The kid says it’s really important. Says it’ll only take a few minutes.”

Three minutes later, Justin rang my doorbell.

I opened the door a crack, without undoing the chain. “Well,” I said. “This is quite a surprise, Justin. What do you want?”

Justin looked around nervously. He was wearing jeans and a gray hoodie. His hands were shoved in his pockets, as usual, but today he wasn’t smirking. He looked stressed out.

“Can I come in?”

I sighed, then undid the chain and opened the door wider.

He stepped inside and looked around cautiously.

I closed the door and then turned around to look at him, folding my arms across my chest. “Okay. So now you’re in. What do you want?”

He looked surprised. “Did you not get my e-mail?” he asked.

I exhaled impatiently. “Justin, the firm took back my BlackBerry. I no longer even
have
a Parsons Valentine e-mail account.”

He shook his head. “I know. That’s why I had to ask Margo for your Gmail address.”

“I haven’t been checking
any
e-mail, Justin. I’ve been taking a much-needed break.” I looked him square in the eye. “Why’d you need to get in touch with me so badly?”

“I have something to show you.” He reached inside his jacket and produced some kind of long computer printout, handing it to me.

“What’s this supposed to be?” I said, not reaching for it.

“Just read it,” he insisted, giving it a shake.

I sighed. I took the piece of paper from him and smoothed it out. It was a log from the Parsons Valentine mainframe servers. A running table showed dates, times, usernames, hardware IDs, document numbers, and computer workstation locations.