Chapter 20
U.S. ROUTE 22 WEST
JUNE 11, 2022
AGE: 35
AS SOON AS I CROSSED THE NEW YORK BORDER INTO PENNSYLVANIA, I stopped at a Starbucks drive-through and got a latte to keep myself from falling asleep at the wheel. I was moving a cluster of random receipts aside to make room in the cup holder when my phone started to ring. The number 000–000 flashed on my watch. I picked up and a voice filled my car.
“You can’t just peel out of town like that,” Desiree said. “Not without telling me.”
“You’re the one who said I had to go back to Pittsburgh!”
“You sure love to point fingers.”
“I didn’t want to screw things up more than I already did—plus my friends don’t need me around. They are crazy pissed at me, and all I can think about is how betrayed I feel that they never told me they got the Memo. But that’s the one thing I cannot say!”
“There you go again, blaming others for your own shortcomings.”
“Are you kidding me? They’re furious at me for ditching them at dinner. And your friends are pissed at me too. Juliet or Valerie, or whoever in your consortium sits at the magic control panel, is pulling the levers to mess with me. My car was all busted up when I found it. My Spruce Street house was occupied by an angry undergrad. The kitchen in the house where I supposedly lived in college was painted this ugly orange!”
“I told you there would be some disjunctions.”
I gritted my teeth and glanced out my side window. The mirror was hanging on, but barely, thanks to the packing tape I’d just purchased at the Sequoia Falls Drugstore.
“You’re experiencing the consequences of your actions,” Desiree said. “But at least you’re taking action. Finally.”
“Let’s just hope I don’t need to make any left turns on the ride home,” I said, stepping on the gas.
“It’s good to know your blind spots. You only have six days to correct a lifetime of—”
I was relieved when a double beep interrupted our conversation.
“I have to jump,” I told Desiree. “I have another call.” I switched over before Desiree could put up a fight.
“What the fuck?” Alice’s voice rang throughout the car. What a lovely weekend surprise.
“Morning, Alice!”
“How did you drop the ball like that?”
“The Father’s Day parade is on track,” I lied. “We have an incredible roster of rad dads.”
“I’m not talking about the parade. The List. The List.” She pronounced the t at the end of the word so sharply it sliced through the air.
“The Changemakers’ names are out on Moment’s Instagram page. I don’t see my name there. How did you manage to mess that up? You said you had a connection.”
“I tried,” I replied. “I made your case.” I didn’t see any reason to tell Alice my connection was a closet assistant at the magazine.
“Am I a maker?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do I care about change?”
I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. I had been so naive. Barely a year ago, I’d allowed myself to believe that Alice was the real thing, a Rust-Belt Robin Hood who cared about the plight of womankind. But there was only one woman Alice cared about.
“So... do I care about change?” she repeated.
“Of course you do. You’ve devoted your life to challenging social norms,” I said in my most sycophantic voice. I felt sick to my stomach for not telling her the truth: she was a narcissist who hadn’t changed a thing and never would.
“This is an insult to you too, Jenny. No disrespect to your friends’ chanting apps and vulva sculptures, but our foundation is what belongs on that list! We’re the ones promoting the cause of women.”
“I am not going to disagree with that,” I said.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“How about I go back to the magazine and try to see if they can squeeze you in—maybe there’s some kind of sidebar about up-and-comers?” I sounded like a restaurant hostess craning her neck as she looked around the room for an extra table.
“You’re not getting it,” Alice said. “You’re supposed to know about these things before they happen. And look where this leaves me. Who is going to shine a light on the foundation if nobody ever hears about us? I’m not sure the damage can be undone.”
I so badly wanted to tell her that I did have the power to undo things!
Suddenly, the car gave a startling hiccup. There was a loud clunk and then a scraping sound.
“Alice, we can talk about this later,” I said. “My side mirror just fell off, and I have to focus on the road.”
“You really need to think about getting a new car,” she said.
“I’ll get right on that,” I said before hanging up.
AS I ENTERED PITTSBURGH CITY LIMITS, ROLLING PAST THE OLD WAREHOUSES, a sensation of relief came over me. This city was starting to feel familiar. Funny how that worked. When I first arrived here, I was convinced this place would never feel like home. Geeta had given me a pep talk, reminding me it was “the original epicenter of American disruptors,” the place where railroad barons and steel magnates envisioned the future and molded it to their convictions. Little by little, I had found my own landmarks, the independent movie theater where Sophie and I enjoyed our Saturday matinees, and a baking supply shop that had everything I needed. I even had an ob-gyn I liked. And I had Gabe, who knew how to make me laugh when I needed it most.
When I finally reached my building, I parked the car in a public lot across the street, then walked a lap around my block, trying to keep some shred of composure, envisioning what I’d like to say to Hal even though I knew I couldn’t say it. No picking fights about his obvious affair, I told myself. Just keep it cool for six more days and you’ll be in the clear.
I rode the elevator to the seventh floor and entered our apartment. Architectural renderings, partially-assembled shelving units, and papers with graphs were strewn about the floor. Did I even live here? Was this the result of more disjunctions?
“Hello?” I called out unsurely.
Hal emerged from our bedroom. His cheeks were flushed and he was holding an electric drill. “I thought you were coming back on Sunday?”
“A little bit of nostalgia goes a long way,” I said with a sigh. “What’s going on here?”
“I’m finally getting organized,” he said. “Just like you always wanted.”
It was true. I was constantly telling him to clean up after himself. This chaotic tableau starring my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend as Mr. Fix-It was indeed a step in the right direction.
“I tried calling you after we got disconnected, but your phone—”
“I know, I know,” I said. “Straight to voicemail.”
“Hey,” Hal said in a pouty tone. “I missed you. Let’s not fight.”
“I didn’t realize we were fighting.”
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He put the drill down on the kitchen table and came toward me. So like Desiree, he just wanted me to let everything go, pretend it was normal? I turned away before he could give me a kiss. He ended up nuzzling the back of my neck.
“I’ve been traveling all day. I need to shower.” I wriggled free from Hal and dropped my stuff on our bedroom floor alongside his tools.
He’d really transformed the room. There was a beautiful new shelf on the wall featuring framed pictures mostly from back in the days when we were co-adventurers. There was a photo of us enjoying a Japanese tea ceremony on our trip to Kyoto. A selfie of us looking happy on a park bench in Prague. Then there was one of me reading the newspaper at our tiny kitchen table in our old apartment in Brooklyn. I remembered that day so well. It was the day Hal and I had decided to move to Pittsburgh together. The job that Alice had offered me had sounded important and exciting. I’d convinced myself it would be better than the public radio station gig, where I’d spent three years going nowhere before getting fired. Pittsburgh might be the fresh start that would save us.
And now, just as I was about to depart this universe and finally go somewhere, Hal had created a shrine to our relationship. A welcome gesture, but way too late.
“You like the picture shelf?” Hal stared at me in that hopeful way that he did when I acted uninterested.
“Yeah,” I said, fingering the smooth wood and averting my eyes from the pictures. My sadness was building. I opened the hallway closet door and saw the contents were arranged by color. Six trash bags were lined up on the floor, ready to be disposed of. He pointed to our bedroom closet. The door was back on its hinges.
I ripped off my shirt and rolled on an exercise bra. I had to get out of here—and fast.
“Actually, I’m going to go for a run,” I said.
“Now? Are you still mad at me?” He looked a little scared.
“Should I be?” I asked, playing dumb. “I just need to move my body. I’ve been driving all day.”
“All right.” Hal shrugged and turned away. I was grateful that he did because I was about to start crying.
I ran for twenty-five minutes, two miles and change, more ground than I had covered in my running shoes in a year. Before I’d made it down three blocks, I was wheezing. After another few blocks, my lungs were hurting. But my head felt clearer. That was something.
When I returned home, I hopped in the shower, as peaceful a place as I could find. One foot in front of the other, I told myself as I adjusted the water temperature. Just get through this with as little drama as possible. After I dried off, I changed into a clean T-shirt and jeans and lay down on top of the covers. I tried to read an old issue of The Manhattan Review. It put me right to sleep.
When I woke up from my nap, there was a text from Hal saying he’d gone out to pick up gluten-free vegan pierogi for dinner. Either he was feeling caring or he needed an excuse to go see Brie. Whatever.
The only thing I wanted to do was call Geeta. Things would never be okay until we could be fully honest with each other. But that was the only thing that would make my life more of a mess. Then I remembered something my former therapist used to suggest: to write letters that I had no plan of sending to clarify my thoughts. I found a blank postcard in my bureau drawer.
Geeta,
I’ve always sensed there was something off and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Now I get it. I know the truth.
I should be mad at you, and I am mad at you, like really made at you, but I am stupidly hopeful for us too. I miss you, G. I got the Memo and I’ll be joining you soon. Maybe things will be better that way. How could they not? See you on the other side of 36.
Jenny
I folded the postcard in quarters and tightened my fist around it. I knew I probably wasn’t going to mail it, but it was something to hold on to when everything else was slipping through my fingers.