Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Marlow rode her bike along Bloor and went over what she’d say to Oscar about the PowerPoint.
Telling the truth would go something like: Sabine finished high school yesterday, so I had to celebrate her, then I got into a fight with my brother, drank too much, and was way beyond being able to do anything coherent thereafter.
Lying would be in the vein of: We ordered in sushi, I ate a shrimp that didn’t taste right and ended up barfing, which kept me far too busy to work on the budget.
Or she could go with the internet connectivity thing.
By the time Marlow got to work, Sabine had already texted that she’d sent the refund request email and had gotten an out-of-office autoreply. It said that all questions about the one-euro program had to be dealt with in person. No exceptions.
Marlow was distracted in the Latvian programming meeting, swinging wildly from hating the here-and-now to worrying about a thirty-thousand-euro penalty that might jeopardize her entire life not to mention paying for Sabine’s undergrad—yes, she’d been offered full scholarships, but there’d be residence, food, transportation if she went to school outside of Toronto …
Marlow dug a deep and wide worry hole and jumped inside, which made her miss important bits about how the Latvian translator was double-booked, the filmmakers didn’t speak English, the director’s wife had visa problems, and one of the films wasn’t even finished yet.
Marlow kept thinking, Maison Perdue, Maison Perdue—and how fitting a name that was, given she’d just been discussing how lost she was with Noah, and her daughter—even though she was a hundred percent on track—also seemed lost, and everything felt, well, lost.
Oscar blew into the office late. He’d no doubt say he had a breakfast meeting.
“I was just at a breakfast meeting, but did you send it? I didn’t get it!”
“No, I—”
“Can’t hear you!” he called across the floor, beckoning her over.
Marlow wanted to be anywhere else but here. France, say. She joined Oscar in his office.
“I’m meeting Victor in five, but I never got the new pitch deck,” he said. “You send it?”
“I didn’t, I’m sorry.” Her legs felt weird. Numb and tingly.
“But Victor was supposed to get it by midnight.”
“I know. Life took over.”
Oscar stopped what he was doing and eyed her. He was usually frenetic, freely spilling his anxieties around the joint, so his stillness was unsettling. “I was counting on you.”
“I get it, but—”
“I mean, as if I don’t have enough to do already, I have to cover—”
“I need time.” Those words hadn’t been in Marlow’s mouth a second before.
“Sorry?”
“Time … off.”
Oscar snorted a half-laugh like she was making a joke. “We’re three months from the festival. We’re supposed to be putting on the Summer Summit—”
“It’s not going to happen,” said Marlow. No one ever pushed back with Oscar. It wasn’t worth it, but here she was anyway. “Victor isn’t bought in.”
“We were redoing the pitch so he can get bought in.”
“I needed last night.” There. She’d said it. But he stood still, staring at her, jaw clenched.
“I can do it later but—” Classic Marlow, backing down. Because why—she wasn’t worth it? Everyone else was better? She should be grateful for the work? What’s that saying? How can you win the battle when the enemy has outposts in your head?
“Well, if you can do it for me, then do it.”
“Next spring,” said Marlow. “It’s too late now.
We wouldn’t even be able to promote in time, let alone program.
And honestly, I tried last night, but my kid graduated yesterday, and I suspect something’s up but I don’t know what, and I don’t think she knows either, and I haven’t had time to find out because I’ve been working on this pitch that took weeks to build and which you asked me to redo in one go.
And I didn’t. I parented my kid instead.
I know I’m only contract, but I never take a break, and I need one. ”
“When?”
Synapses in her brain were firing. What to say, what to say? “Today.”
“It’s Friday. I don’t even have the time to talk to HR—”
“I’ll be back a week Monday. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.”
“Who’s going to do the PowerPoint?”
As close to a yes as she’d get. Take it and run. “I’ll send you the file by tomorrow morning. And I’ll let HR know,” she said, heading for the door. “Thanks so much.”
Marlow hit her desk and grabbed her laptop, power cord, bike bag, and helmet. Get out before he changes his mind.
Akiko watched her run to the elevator. “Everything OK?”
“Late for a thing!” Come to think of it, maybe the thing she was late for was her life.
Marlow got her helmet on, unlocked her bike, and was about to leave when she saw a purple flower growing out of a crack in the sidewalk.
She pulled out her phone, got close enough to capture the little hairs on its stem and its tiny fragile petals, and shot it slow mo, swaying in the wind.
She posted the video to Instagram and texted Sabine.
Got next week off. Let’s go to France, sort out the house thing. Check fares. Be home in 20.
Out of breath, Marlow parked her bike in the garage and took the path into the garden to climb the coach-house steps, wiping sweat from her face with her shirt.
She’d probably beaten her all-time record cycling home, fueled in equal parts by panic about insubordination with Oscar and wondering if their passports were up to date.
What if she’d gotten ten days off of work only to find them expired, so they had to sit at home and contemplate how she’d jeopardized everything by—Don’t catastrophize.
Don’t build up what-ifs to tsunami-like levels without knowing the facts.
She ran into Violet, drinking wine and dealing with the bane of her existence in the garden.
“Hey,” said Violet. “Have I mentioned how much I hate dog-strangling vine?” The plant Violet was currently wrestling with had taken over, and, true to its moniker, was threatening to choke out all the other plants.
“Only a million times,” said Marlow, taking off her sweaty helmet. “Listen, I might be going on a trip. With Sabine. For ten days. Can you do the compost and trash?”
“Yes, but do tell.”
“Rain check? I’m running for my life here.”
“What if I ply you with a glass of wine?”
“Not even then. We have to go to France to deal with a little mess I got myself into.”
“Oh, yeah. Sabine told me all about it. What an adventure!”
“It’s hardly going to be an adventure. We’re going to get a refund, see a castle or two, eat in a few French restaurants we can’t afford, and be home before you know it.”
“I expect a full report when you get back.”
“You’ll get it.”
“And I’ll regale you with tales of having won the dog-strangling vine battle once and for all—as if—and having gone on two hot dates, back-to-back, same date, same bar.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. It’s efficient scheduling, and what could possibly go wrong?”
Marlow rolled her eyes and climbed the coach-house stairs, rummaging for her keys, but the door opened before she could find them. Sabine was standing there with two carry-on bags.
“Are those packed?” asked Marlow.
“I gave us five pieces of underwear and socks each—we can wash them halfway through. The passports are good to next year. The flights aren’t cheap because as of yesterday it’s summer holidays, but not the worst price either. My session’s about to expire and when you refresh, prices can go up.”
Marlow tried to catch her breath. “This is a bad idea, because you haven’t picked a school yet and—”
“France’ll give me time to think,” said Sabine. “I’ll choose there. Promise.”
“Pinky swear?”
They linked baby fingers and squeezed. Marlow stepped inside and sat on the couch beside Sabine, the passports, four granola bars, a bag of pistachios, two metal water bottles, and the receipt for Maison Perdue.
She pulled the laptop onto her knees. “We can either go straight tonight, Toronto to Paris, or we can go tomorrow for forty bucks cheaper with a layover in Reykjavik.”
“Do I want to know how much they cost?”
“Nope.”
Whatever it was, it was not a thirty-thousand-euro security deposit.
“Mum. Which tickets?”
“Let’s go tonight.”
“Pass me your credit card.”
While her mother decided what else to bring, Sabine booked flights, scrolled “coolest things to do in France” while downloading boarding passes, texted her Uncle Noah to drive them to the airport, reserved a place to stay the first night as close as possible to Maison Perdue, couldn’t help but check all of Willa’s social media updates about getting ready for prom, and found a driver to pick them up at Charles de Gaulle, because the house was three and a half hours east of Paris, and not close to a train station.
It was super short notice, but Noah showed up about an hour later.
“I’m driving as contrition for my bad behavior last night,” he said to her mum as he hauled their luggage down the coach house steps.
Sabine had no idea what he was apologizing for, but she guessed they’d had some sibling squabble after sushi.
Marlow seemed to forgive him (a friendly punch to the arm in the garden confirmed it) whereupon he proceeded to rib her the whole way to the airport.
“I hate my life,” he said, pretending to be her. “I’m drunk on my kid’s thank-God-high-school’s-over bubbles, I’m scrolling Facebook to avoid the work my boss said is due at nine—”
“Midnight.”
“And oopsy, I bought a house in France!”
“Drive,” said Marlow. She turned to Sabine. “Passports? Cash? Wits about you?”
“Check, check, and check.”
“I don’t hate my life,” said Marlow to Noah, “and we’re going to France to unbuy a house and have a vacation. Go ahead and joke. I’ll deliver the PowerPoint from the gate, we’ll have a great time, be home next Sunday, and all will be back to how it was before.”
“Is that what you want?” Noah asked.
“There’s the exit,” she said in return.
Waiting to board, Sabine sat on the carpet next to the only available outlet to charge her cell. She eyed her mum, who was working furiously on her laptop, and texted with Willa. Willa was loving this whole one-euro house in France thing and wanted details.
Willa: Your mum freaking out?
Sabine: Working on a Ppt for work. Answering 10,000 emails.
Willa: Finish it all before AWESOME FRANCE.
Sabine: She gets talked into stuff. Takes on too much. Example of how not to adult.
Sabine yanked a page from her notebook, tore it into four pieces, folded them in half, and tucked them into one another.
A sudden chapbook. On the cover, she drew the airplane outside the window, and titled it “Taking Off.” If only.
High school was in the rear view, but if you had no clue what to do next, could you use that title?
Willa: Maybe buying a house in France for 1 euro is how TO adult.
Not. Clearly, a parental meltdown had occurred the night she graduated. Sabine opened her chapbook and started writing.
Marlow sits in the airport lounge—not lounging
On her way to a place she’s never been, still trying to like the place she is
Will the emails stop while she’s trying?
Gate 27B, YYZ ? CDG, 6 letters with possibility
If only we could read the sign(s) and not the emails.
Sabine’s cell phone pinged.
Willa: Text me everything. Maybe you’ll meet a cute boy.
Sabine: ARF! Forgot to check cell plans. I may be off grid. And there’ll be zero cute boys.
Sabine could barely figure out her life—she didn’t need to add boys to it just this second. On the back page of her little book, she wrote: “Brilliant and heartfelt. Pulitzer contender for sure!”—Willa Cho, New Yorker Book Reviews
Willa: No cute boys in France? AS IF.
Sabine: Don’t worry if I’m out of touch.
Willa: NOOOO! I NEED UPDATES! Get a cell phone plan!
Willa was the best friend ever, but ten days with no connectivity wouldn’t be terrible.