Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Adam
Owen’s teacher gives me a chair that comes halfway up my shin.
“Sorry,” she says. “We’re short on adult chairs.”
“I’m going to need help getting out of this.”
Owen, beside me, beams. He has been watching the classroom door since I arrived, apparently waiting for somebody else to see that I am actually here. When his friend comes in with a grandmother, he waves so hard he nearly hits me.
“This is my dad.”
“Hello, Owen’s dad,” the grandmother says.
I sit carefully, knees angled around the table, and let him choose a book. He picks the same one from the video I watched in the hotel. He is better at it now. When he reaches the word that held him up before, he glances at me, then gets it right.
I stay until the teacher starts stacking cups. My phone remains in my coat. Nobody dies. On the way out, Owen catches my sleeve.
“You came.”
“I said I would.”
He looks at me without answering, and I hear what I’ve just said. As if saying it has always meant anything.
I squeeze his shoulder. “I’m glad I did. You read that really well.”
He grins again and runs back to his friends.
Two days later, Ray comes into my office at nine-fifteen and tells me the Tulsa clients are in town.
“They can do one-thirty. Conference room B.”
I have Natalie’s presentation blocked across my calendar. Noon until six, unavailable. I put it there a week ago, moved the internal review, and reminded Ray yesterday that I would be out.
“I can’t do one-thirty.”
He looks at the screen on my desk. “You can move the hold.”
“I can’t move this one.”
“They’ve changed flights to meet us.”
“Then Helen can lead it. We finished the materials this morning.”
“It’s your account.”
I look down at the printed agenda in his hand. The first item is pricing. I know exactly what the client will ask, exactly which answer will make the discussion easier. I can feel my mind entering the room without me.
“Can we do eleven?”
“They don’t land until twelve-ten.”
“Video?”
“Adam.” Ray puts the agenda on my desk. “I gave you the leave. I have been understanding. But the business can’t keep stopping every time one of your kids needs a ride to soccer practice.”
The familiar heat rises in my neck. I hate being the man who needs accommodating. I hate that Ray has had to cover for me. For eleven years I have been the person he calls when somebody else can’t manage something, and a part of me still likes that more than I want to admit.
“Not soccer. My wife has a presentation. I have the children.”
“Get a sitter.”
“I committed to doing it.”
“Then call her and explain.”
He says it casually, already turning toward the door, and I pick up my phone.
I open Natalie’s messages. The last one is a photograph she sent last night of the cover printed on our dining table. She hasn’t asked what I think. Underneath it she wrote, Ready, I think.
I type: Something’s come up at work. Is there any way...
Then I stop.
I can see the rest of the afternoon so clearly it makes me feel sick.
Natalie calling my mother, who has already told us she has a medical appointment.
Natalie deciding not to bother Beth because of the drive.
Natalie sending Ruth an apologetic email about bringing the baby or joining remotely, making her first proper presentation in years smaller so mine can stay intact.
I delete the message and put the phone down.
“No,” I say.
Ray turns back.
“I can’t stay. I’ll brief Helen. I’ll answer anything before noon. After that I’m unavailable until the children are in bed.”
“You understand what you’re asking?”
“Yes.”
“If Helen takes the client relationship, I’m not handing it back because you’re free again next week.”
I look at the agenda. The account would put me near the top of the year-end list. There is a commission attached to the expansion, and the partner discussions have been tied to it for months.
“Then you need to tell her that before she agrees,” I say. “It shouldn’t be extra work for her without the account.”
Ray studies me. “I’ll speak to her.”
After he leaves, I sit very still. My hands are shaking slightly, which annoys me. Nobody has threatened my life. I’ve disappointed my boss.
Helen comes in twenty minutes later carrying the presentation.
“I’m happy to take it,” she says. “But I need the actual history. Not the version that assumes I know what happened in July.”
I move a chair beside my desk. We work through every point. She asks better questions than I expected, and I realize how much of the account I have kept in my own head. It has made me feel essential. It has also made it harder for anyone else to cover.
At eleven-forty she closes the folder. “I’ve got it.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t call me every twenty minutes.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“All right,” I say. “I might have.”
“Go do whatever you’re doing.”
I leave at eleven-fifty. In the elevator, I almost call Ray to make sure he’s all right with it. Instead I put my phone in my pocket and look at the numbers above the door until I reach the lobby.
Natalie is in the office when I get home, dressed in black trousers and a cream blouse. There are two versions of a printed cover on the desk. She keeps shifting one a fraction to the left.
“Hi,” I say.
She looks up at the clock before she looks at me. “You’re early.”
“Traffic was good. What needs handing over?”
She tells me when Benji last ate, that his next bottle is in the refrigerator, and that Lucy has a permission slip to bring home. She starts to explain Owen’s snack, then stops.
“You know.”
“I do.”
At the front door she checks her bag, then checks it again.
“You’ve got the samples,” I tell her.
“I know.”
“And the laptop.”
“Adam.”
I smile. “Sorry.”
She looks at me for a second, then laughs nervously. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“You did it last night at the table. You knew what you were talking about.”
“You’re not a client.”
“No, but I am very annoying and picky.”
“That part is true,” she says with a smile.
She leaves with the bag over her shoulder and the samples held against her chest. I watch until she gets into the car, then close the door because Benji is beginning to complain from the play mat.
The first hour goes badly.
He is tired but refuses the crib. I try the song Natalie told me works in the car, which only makes him look offended. I walk him through the downstairs rooms until he settles, then attempt to sit. He objects immediately.
“Right,” I tell him. “Standing service only.”
He sleeps against my shoulder for twenty-five minutes. My phone vibrates on the counter. I can see the office number from across the room, and for a moment I am back in the daycare hallway, telling myself a call will only take a minute.
I let it go to voicemail. It isn’t the same situation, but I don’t trust the speed with which I can convince myself it is harmless.
When Benji wakes, I change him, feed him, and put him into the carrier for school pickup. At the gate, Lucy’s teacher asks whether I received the email about the class trip. I haven’t. I give her my address and ask to be included directly.
Owen comes out furious because someone moved his coat. Lucy is carrying a model bridge made from straws, which must apparently remain level under all circumstances. I get everyone to the car without breaking the bridge, then discover Owen has put his lunch box in someone else’s backpack.
We go back.
By the time we’re home, Benji needs another diaper, Owen is crying because the crackers broke, and Lucy wants to know whether Mom will be home in time to help with her project.
“I can help,” I say.
“You don’t know what we’re supposed to do.”
“Then show me the instructions.”
She hesitates, then takes them out. I read them while bouncing Benji with one foot against the bouncer. Halfway through, Owen spills juice over the table. It reaches the edge of the instruction sheet before I get a towel beneath it.
I swear.
Both children look at me.
“Sorry. That was my fault. I put the glass too close.”
Owen’s face crumples. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know. Get the blue towel from the drawer. We’ll clean it up.”
It takes ten minutes. The instruction sheet dries with a pink corner. Lucy informs me that juice near homework is why Mom usually makes them drink in the kitchen.
“Useful information,” I say.
“You could’ve asked.”
“Yes,” I tell her. “I could have.”
At four-twenty Natalie texts: Done. Went well. Driving home now.
I read it twice, grinning like an idiot. Then I text: Excellent. We are all here. Bridge still standing.
She sends back a question mark, and I tell her I’ll explain when she gets home.
By then I have pasta boiling and the children arguing over whether peas belong in it. Benji is strapped to my chest, watching everything with solemn interest. I hear the key and turn so quickly he grabs my collar.
Natalie comes in flushed from the cold. She puts her bag down and looks around the kitchen.
“How did it go?” I ask.
“They chose my favorite.”
I grin. “Of course they did.”
“No. Not of course. They could’ve chosen the beige one.”
She is laughing now, and I want to kiss her so badly that I turn back to the stove before she sees my face.
She tells me about the meeting while I drain the pasta. The director wanted a larger title. Ruth defended the white space. Somebody asked whether the river looked too cold, and Natalie told them that was rather the point of a winter exhibition.
“You said that?”
“More politely.”
“Shame.”
She takes a bowl from the cupboard, then pauses. “Did work behave?”
I could say yes. It would make the evening easier.
“Not entirely. The Tulsa clients came in. Helen took the meeting.”
Natalie’s smile fades. “What did that mean for you?”
“Ray may give her the account permanently. We need to talk about the money if he does. My base salary stays the same, but I may lose the expansion commission.”
She sets the bowl down. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it happened this morning, and I needed to sort it out. I wanted you to go to your meeting. I’m telling you now because it affects us.”
She looks at me for a long time.
“I don’t want you blaming me for that in six months.”
“I won’t.”
“You can’t just say that.”
“I know. But it was my choice. Helen can do the work. I needed to be here.”
Benji catches a handful of my shirt and pulls himself closer. I loosen his fingers gently while Natalie watches.
“All right,” she says at last. “We’ll talk after they eat.”
She carries the bowls to the table. I bring the pasta, and for once I can listen to her describe a day I helped make possible.
Later, after the children are asleep, we check the accounts together. We haven’t spent the commission. The loss would change what we can save, not whether we can pay the mortgage. Natalie asks whether I am certain, and I turn the laptop so she can see the figures herself.
“I’m not asking you to trust my estimate,” I say. “Let’s check it.”
She pulls her chair closer. We find an annual charge I forgot and a payment she has already canceled. By the time we finish, I am tired enough to want to close the computer without saving anything. I save it anyway and send her the file.
At the door she touches my arm.
“Thank you for today.”
“You’re welcome.”
I want to stay. The desire is so strong that I can feel myself preparing a reason, something about being here for the morning. Then she takes her hand away, and I pick up my coat.
In the hotel parking lot, Helen’s message is waiting. Meeting went well. Ray will update you tomorrow.
I feel the loss then, sharp and unpleasant. I sit with it until it settles enough that I can go inside without calling anyone to make me feel better.