Learning to Stay (11 page)

In the end, our team decides to take two personal injury cases in addition to
Rowland v. Champion Construction
. We’ll be representing the company against the family of Nicky Rowland, an eleven-year-old
boy who, along with a troop of his friends, snuck through a gap in some fencing surrounding a construction site outside the State Capitol one night and was crushed to death when a piece of metal fell on him.

“These sorts of cases are always tough, but I think we have a strong chance here if we play our cards right.” Crane looks back and forth between Zach and me. “I’m expecting good things from you.”

“You’re giving us this case?” Zach asks.

“Well, Susan will be the lead, but I want you and Elise to do all the heavy lifting. We’ll see where the chips fall if this thing goes to trial, which it probably will. Make sure to check in with Susan now and again, but it’s yours for all practical purposes, at least for the time being. Questions?”

Both Zach and I shake our heads.

“Great,” Crane says to us. “Expecting big things out of you two.” Then he slaps his palms on the table and says to the rest of the group, “Okay, next week: same time, same place. Partners, hold back just a second. I’d like to discuss a couple things right quick.”

Zach and I file out of the conference room and down the hall toward our offices, which are directly across from each other. He slaps me good-naturedly on the back.

“Think you’re up for this one, Sabatto?”

“No more municipal prosecutions? You bet your ass.” I look around me, then up at the ceiling. “This isn’t heaven, is it?”

“It most certainly is not,” Zach says. “Your first clue should be that there are still munies to try and that you’ve just been assigned more work, and not work
in place of
your other, more menial work.”

“Ask me if I even care,” I say. Although both Zach and I are early in our careers with the firm—almost four years for him and going on two for me—I can’t help but feel that
Rowland
is an early test of our suitability for making partner.

Zach pats my backside with the file folders in his hand. “Just try to keep up, okay?” he says, flashing an impish smile at me. He’s a shameless flirt, but he’s an equal-opportunity flirt, so it’s hard to feel truly flattered by him.

I scoff, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Newsome.”

We agree to meet later that afternoon so that Zach can brief me on everything he has so far on the case and to come up with a game plan for discovery and beyond.

“Okay, then,” I say. “On to death by e-mail.” I’ve answered only the messages that I absolutely needed to reply to in the last couple of days instead of doing a clean sweep of my in-box, as I usually do on weekends. I make a mental note to ask Candace, our receptionist and office manager, to include me on today’s lunch order.

I turn toward my office, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Zach lingering—still looking at me. I stop and face him. One corner of his mouth is raised in a half smile.

“Whassup, buttercup?” I ask.

He waves me off. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s nothing.” Then, as if reconsidering, he says, “So, I hear your guy is back, huh?”

I nod. “Got home a few weeks ago.”

“That’s great,” Zach says, though the way he says “great” sounds as though he’s trying to convince himself. “Congrats—or, whatever it is that you’re supposed to say in this sort of situation.”

“Thanks,” I tell him. We stand awkwardly in the hallway a few seconds longer than we should. I search Zach’s face for the source of this uncharacteristic awkwardness. He seems pensive, even sad. He meets my gaze and holds it, and his eyes startle me. I’ve never before noticed how piercing they are, like a swimming pool that’s frozen over. As he stares back at me, something flutters deep inside. I feel my cheeks go hot, and I raise the manila folder I’m holding. “I should—ah—”

“Yeah,” Zach says, not waiting for me to complete my sentence. “Me too. Absolutely. Catch you later.”

We each beat a hasty retreat to our respective offices. When I reach mine, I close the door behind me and lean into it with my shoulders. I let my head fall back against it, close my eyes, and wonder,
What
was
that? What just happened?

It’s stress,
I tell myself.
That’s it. That’s all.

I have a million things to get done before my briefing with Zach later this afternoon, but I’m all nervous energy. I can’t concentrate. I flit from one task to the next, not seeing any of them to completion. I pick up the phone and dial one of the only three numbers I know by heart. Darcy answers on the second ring.

“Meet me for coffee?” I ask, not bothering with pleasantries such as “Hello” or “How are you?”

“You, my friend, have impeccable timing,” she says. “Mia just woke up from her nap, and I really, really need some liquid sleep. Give me fifteen minutes or so?”

“Great. See you then.”

Ancora, the coffee shop where we always meet, is a mere stone’s throw from my office, so I busy myself queuing up several e-mail responses to send automatically in the next hour—one to Susan, one to Zach, and a couple that require a “reply to all” to a swath of other members of the litigation team. I leave my coat and scarf hanging on the rack in the corner and disable my screen saver, making sure there are a variety of documents open on my desktop. If anyone comes
looking for me, it will appear as though I have run to the restroom or for a refill on my coffee, as though they just missed me.

These are key precautions to take in a firm like Early, Janssen, and Bradenton, especially after being gone most of the previous Friday and landing a plum assignment for a junior associate. Although we’re not the biggest, nor the best, firm in town, the attitude here seems to be that we’ll never get there if we don’t adopt the same culture. Here, there’s not much differentiation between weekday and weekend, except for a relaxed dress code for the latter. Every day since I joined the firm, my life has revolved around sleeping, eating, and working—not necessarily in that order. And so, the junior associates all learn the same tricks, because there are, inevitably, dentist appointments to keep, car repairs to see to, the occasional cold or flu bug that knocks you flat, or sometimes, the overwhelming need to simply get out of the office—like now. The key is to create the illusion of being present.

Darcy, punctual to a fault, beats me to Ancora and has chosen a seat by the window. I’m thrilled to see Mia with her. That baby’s coos and smiles always brighten my mood. I tell Mia this as I kiss her chubby cheeks.

“When are you going to quit trying to steal my kid and have your own?” Darcy asks. “It’s been what, a month since Brad’s been back?”

“Something like that,” I say. Darcy’s question would be offensive between lesser friends, but she has sat through enough of my laments over babies—or the lack thereof—in my life that it’s a safe topic. “It’s complicated, though.”

I say this as I sip my coffee and Darcy blows on her tea and Mia babbles in her high chair while knocking her sippy cup to and fro. I don’t say any more because I need to talk about me for once. I need to unload on Darcy all that’s going on, all that’s been going on for weeks now. I need someone to confide in. But I don’t know how to say everything that’s bouncing around in my head. And I’m hyperaware that,
since Darcy’s husband didn’t come back and mine did, our friendship has grown uneven. The same rules that once governed it no longer apply.

In a nod to that unevenness, Darcy doesn’t ask the follow-up question I’m hoping for, the only natural one to ask: “Why is that?” Instead, she rolls her eyes and, as if only half listening, says, “Well, are you at least trying?”

This question throws me. Despite wanting a baby more than anything in the world, despite thinking of little else besides trying for one as soon as Brad returned, I haven’t felt I can broach the subject with him. And trying to do much more than talking about it has been difficult at best—between all of the readjustment hiccups and the fact that Brad is spending his nights sleeping on the floor next to our bed. But how do I complain to Darcy about this? Brad and I are separated by only a few feet. It’s not a traditional arrangement, but it’s not eternity, either.

“Depends what you mean by trying,” I say.

“Do or do not,” Darcy says in her best Yoda voice. “There is no try.”

“Is it worth it?” I ask Darcy.

She looks at Mia. “You mean her? Is she worth it?”

I nod.

“Without a doubt the best thing I ever did,” she says. “Even right now. Especially right now.” Darcy’s voice wavers. She stops and takes a deep breath. Then she exhales. “It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever done, too.” She smiles at me and pats my hand. The gesture is motherly, and nice.

“I hope so,” I say.

Darcy raises an eyebrow.

I feel like a can of soda that someone has shaken. It’s the result of the strain from the past weeks spent with this new version of Brad,
and now that look from Zach—and the reaction it stirred in me. It’s a pressure that has me straining against myself, ready to explode. I need to get it out, into the open.

Darcy reaches out and puts a hand over mine. “I know so,” she says, her voice steady and certain now. “You’re going to have it all.” A cloud of sadness settles over her as she speaks those last few words. I realize too late, probably just as Darcy does, that she had it all, and she’ll be settling for only a fraction of that vision. I realize, too, looking down at her hand resting on mine, Collin’s wedding band floating below Darcy’s on her ring finger, that I can’t tell Darcy any of this. I can’t confide in her—definitely not now. Maybe not ever.

I pick up Darcy’s hand and examine it, turning it over and back. “You look like hell, Darce,” I say, joking. “Why don’t you let me take Mia tonight? Go for a power hour at the spa. Relax a little.”

Darcy is a hard person to take care of. She’s like a selectively permeable membrane, always doing for others but never taking any of that kindness in.

“The spa? Do I look like a spa kind of girl? I don’t even know what I’d do there.”

“Get a mani/pedi. Have your hair done. Get a massage. Meet someone for a drink. Do all of the above.” I look at Darcy, who is staring me down, scowling. “Is that enough for one evening, or do you need additional suggestions?” I ask.

“You can be a real smart-ass when you want to be,” she says.

I shrug. “It’s starting to come back to me.”

“I don’t think it ever left.” Darcy wads up her tea bag wrapper and napkin and places them in her empty cup. “I’ll let you know,” she says, standing up. Mia’s patience for the high chair has waned and her sounds have shifted from babbling to little squawks. Though I’ve never actually heard her out-and-out cry, Darcy claims she will put on a full-volume performance if she’s overtired.

She packs Mia’s things and we hug good-bye before she picks Mia up out of her high chair.

“You call me,” I say, wagging a finger at her.

Darcy nods. “I’ll let you know,” she says again, and we both know that she will likely spend tonight just as she’s spent every other night since Mia was born—feeding and playing with her daughter, giving her a bath, singing her to sleep. Then she throws one arm around me in a hug.

“Thank you,” she says.

There are tears in Darcy’s eyes and she’s looking wistful. I imagine her going home to where Collin’s winter jackets still hang in their front hall closet, to where his shirts still lie folded in their dresser, and I wonder how I worked myself up to the point where I thought that my issues the past few days warranted the level of concern I’ve awarded them. I am lucky that Brad has come back, that he is alive; and although this phase of our relationship isn’t an easy one, it’s one that will pass. Standing here with Darcy, I see my situation for what it is: bumps in a road that will eventually be smoothed by time.

“You’re welcome,” I say, hugging her back. And when I step through the café doors and into the crisp winter wind coming full force off Lake Monona and barreling up the hill to King Street, I feel better. I feel settled.

Zach brings Susan in for our afternoon meeting, and any awkwardness between us has faded. Maybe I simply needed some fresh air, or maybe I imagined it all. Either way, the three of us settle into an easy rhythm, brainstorming various strategies that might work on
Rowland
and deciding who will be responsible for managing them. There is no small talk. Susan has been through the process of trying cases like this one many, many times before, and I get the distinct impression that she is going through these motions purely for our benefit.
As a result, we finish earlier than I anticipated we would. Susan asks Zach to stay behind, and I’m suddenly free to duck out of work, if not early, then at least at a reasonable hour—and without any potential for additional weird exchanges between me and Zach.

I decide to walk the mile or so home. The wind is less fierce than this afternoon, and the sky hangs black and clear overhead. As I walk, I breathe in through my nose, hold, and let my breath escape in one swift exhale from my mouth. It’s the only thing I ever picked up from my attempt at yoga years before. I was always too impatient for the deliberateness, the slowness, that yoga demanded. But tonight, the breathing works just as well as holding some ridiculous pose. By the time I’m home, my muscles have loosened. My mind has slowed. I’m ready to go in search of that dark-haired, handsome guy from our wedding picture, because I know he’s still in there, somewhere.