Girl Before a Mirror (28 page)

“He'd better pull us back on that stage, I swear to God,” I say, eyeing Audrey, who is inching her way to the stage. I motion to Sasha to look.

“No.
No
. This . . . this can't be happening,” she says.

“I can't believe it. I thought—”

“We have a meeting with Quincy next week!” Charlton thrusts Chuck's arm into the air and the crowd goes wild—although around Sasha and me, the crowd is more measured, clapping and checking us, clapping and gossiping. Audrey looks as though she's about to erupt as she melts back into the crowd. “Yippee-ki-yay, mothe—”

“Why didn't we hear about this meeting?” I hear myself say from the back of the restaurant. Sasha tries to stop me as I pick my way through the crowd and toward the stage.

“Wh—” Charlton asks, shielding his eyes from the spotlight. He registers who it is and his face drops, but then . . . anger. And not because I'm undermining him. Nope. Charlton Holloway IV is pissed because I'm ruining his stupid party.

“Why haven't we heard about this meeting?” I say, now standing in front of the stage. It's in this moment that I get a shot of me in the mirror behind the stage and remember that I'm dressed as Princess Leia.

“It's the Halloween party, Wyatt; we'll discuss this la—”

“Charlton! Why didn't we hear about this meeting?”

“Why would you guys have?” Charlton looks to Chuck, who is just as confused.

“Why would we have?”

“Yeah,” he says. A sniff. “I'm sending Chuck.” And that's all I need. I pull myself up onto the stage, resituate my cinnamon roll buns while holding my stupid businessman trophy and the cloyingly patronizing pink envelope.

“Because you wouldn't have a meeting without the work Sasha and I did on Lumineux, that's why,” I say. The crowd is quiet. The music plays in the distance.

“You're being emotional, and like Chuck said, this was a tough decision,” Charlton says.

“Yeah, you two seem all broken up about it,” I say.

“Look, we have big plans for you and—”

“No, this is bullshit. I'm done. I quit. I
quit
.” I slam the trophy down on the stage floor and it hits with a hollow thud. And then I bring my white go-go Leia boot heel down hard onto it—shattering the stupid thing into a million pieces. “And you can find business
women
trophies; you just have to look a little harder.” I hop down off the stage and take the bonus check out of that stupid pink envelope and throw the envelope at Charlton. The pink envelope floats to the floor as I make a show of tucking the check itself into the little white clutch that I thought would be the most Leia-like.

“Anna, come on. Calm down,” Chuck says. I walk past Audrey. I stop. A moment. Her eyes are rimmed in red and there's nothing I can say or do to her that her own father hasn't already done. She forces out a smile. It's genuine. The first tear looses itself from her heavily made-up cat eyes, and she can only shrug. Chuck hops down off the stage and follows me through the crowd.

“Anna, come on,” Chuck says. Charlton is standing on the stage. A spotlight on him in all of his
Die Hard
glory. I stand at the entrance to the restaurant. Everyone is quiet. Mouths hanging open. Watching me. I look back at Sasha. She is smiling. I smile back. I give her a wink.

“Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker,” I say, and walk out of that restaurant.

“Yippee-ki-yayyyyyy,” I say again, shooting the rubber band that was wrapped around the sushi container Sasha brought by along with everything that was in my office at Holloway/Greene. The rubber band hits the TV screen and tumbles to the floor. It's early afternoon and I'm in my pajamas. I've been unemployed for three weeks.

I spend my days asking the one eternal question I can handle right now: How did it get to be three thirty
P.M.
?

I've gone from feeling like the heroine of my own story to feeling like a tantrumming baby who didn't get her way and took her toys and went home. It's funny how heroism can feel a lot like recklessness in the harsh light of morning. I've spent the last three weeks fighting with myself—mostly aloud—about whether I did the right thing. Why wasn't Lumineux good enough for me? Maybe I should ask for my old job back because the idea of going to work for another agency, another Charlton, another hustle, and another master key to the pink ghetto makes me sick to my stomach.

So, I sleep. I sleep and I take showers. I take showers and I walk. And as autumn tumbles in around me, I isolate. I take to wearing the same blue-striped pajama bottoms I wore in Phoenix and one of Ferdie's old hockey jerseys. At first I wear this outfit around the house and then I rationalize that if I wear this outfit at nightfall for one of my meandering walks, people won't be able to tell that it is essentially pajamas. Then I decide I can wear the outfit at dusk. Then I decide I can wear the outfit to the corner store in the afternoon when I need tea and maybe some of those brownie bites.

Then I decide I can wear the outfit when I make my task for the day procuring a
pain au chocolat
and a latte from the café down the street. It's ten thirty
A.M
. I sell that particular field trip by wearing a tank top underneath the jersey in place of a bra. If someone asks, I say to myself as I pull the café door open, I'll say I've just come from pilates. Today “pilates” is code for the depths of despair.

“Just the pastry and the coffee?” the girl behind the counter says.

“Yes, thank you. I worked up quite an appetite at pilates. Phew!” The girl takes my money and gives me change. I dump the change into the tip jar. Hush money. She smiles. I move to the side and await my latte, pulling a bite off the
pain au chocolat
.

“Anna?” Nope. I don't turn around. This is not happening. “Anna?” The voice again. A deep breath and I turn around. It's Nathan. Oh, that's fine. I don't like him anyway.

“Hey,” I say with a smile. He smiles back and then scans my outfit. “Pilates.” I clear my throat and take another bite of my pastry.

“Great,” he says. The café buzzes around us as drinks are
called out and the music plays and people chatter at tables and all this happens while I'm wearing my pajamas.

“How are Hannah and the kids?” I ask.

“Oh, fine. I hear they're fine,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

“Hannah and I are spending some time apart,” he says.

“What? I had dinner with her . . . when was it . . . ,” I say.

“I don't think she's telling many people. Or anyone, I guess. We're in couple's therapy, so . . . it's not like we're thinking it's permanent,” Nathan says.

“I'm so sorry,” I say.

“Here . . . this is bugging me,” he says, taking a napkin and wiping my cheek. He shows it to me. Chocolate. Or . . .
chocolat
, if you want to be fancy about it.

“Thanks,” I say, shocked that my appearance could actually be any worse. We are quiet. I don't know what to say. “I hope you guys can work it out.”

“My parents were married fifty-two years,” Nathan says.

“Oh, wow, that's—” I say.

“And they hated each other the whole time,” he says.

“Oh . . . uh . . .”

“I don't want to be like that,” Nathan says. We get jostled a bit as the crowd awaiting their coffees grows. Nathan continues once we settle back in next to the condiment bar. “They constantly said they stayed together for the kids. As if we didn't know they hated each other.” I am quiet. This is the most Nathan has ever said to me. Ever. “We felt like it was our fault they were so unhappy.”

“I'm . . . I'm so sorry,” I say. The girl calls out Nathan's name and he excuses himself. I push back my headband and resituate
my glasses, not knowing where else to put my nervous energy. Another bite of
pain au chocolat
and I've finished it before I even get my latte. I crumple the bag up and toss it in the bin. Nathan settles back in next to me with his steaming coffee. The name “Merthon” scrawled on the side of the cup.

“They get it wrong every time,” he says, laughing. “Nathan. How hard is it?”

“Merthon is such a common name,” I say. Nathan laughs.

“I don't want our kids to feel like I did,” he says.

“I get that,” I say.

“When my dad finally passed away, everyone was so worried about what Mom was going to do. Fifty-two years they were together.” Nathan says these words like a swooning old lady. It's kind of adorable. I smile. “My brothers and I weren't worried, of course. Mom moved into a condo in Arlington and has been traveling the world with her girlfriends ever since. I follow her on Instagram,” he says. I laugh and he smiles. He pulls his phone out of his coat pocket and pulls up her Instagram account. He flicks through photo after photo of a group of older ladies in visors and matching floral separates in front of various wonders of the world. “She's happy.” He smiles again and his eyes crinkle up as he slides his phone back into his coat pocket. The girl calls out my name and I go pick up my latte. Nathan waits for me. I walk back over and show him my cup. It reads “Lana.”

“Close,” he says as we wend our way through the crowded café. He holds the door open for me and I walk through with a thank-you. “It was good seeing you, Lana.”

“You too, Merthon.”

“If you would, I'd wait for Hannah to approach you with this. If that's okay,” he says.

“Absolutely,” I say.

“I think she's embarrassed we're having problems,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I won't mention it,” I say.

“Thanks,” he says.

“I wasn't at pilates. I quit my job,” I say. Blurt, really.

“I was wondering,” he says.

“Thanks for letting me lie to you,” I say.

“No problem,” he says.

Nathan and I say our good-byes, and I walk back to my apartment. I realize I've been happily numb for the last three weeks and after one random meet-up with Nathan, I feel . . . embarrassed. Annoyed. How is my plan to achieve oblivion going to work if people from my life keep reminding me that there's a world beyond my apartment?

I unlock my door, throw my keys down on the side table, and am happy to be back home. Safe. In the dim haze of late morning. Time-Outs and Thunder Roads. Phoenix and romance novels. Marpling and Machiavelli. Being the heroine and finding my hero. That's the thing. You hear these stories about people reacting bravely and decisively in the face of certain death or wondrous miracles. When something miraculous happened to me, I told it I wasn't ready.

I sip my coffee, tucking my foot underneath me on the couch as I've done every day for the last three weeks.

I had no plan when I quit that night. Talk about messy. And look what's happened. All the work I've done, everything I've changed, everything I've worked for equals me having no job, no hero, and no friends. Apparently when I let myself Just Be, things turn to shit.

I pull out my phone and take a picture of the wreckage surrounding me: takeout containers, empty water bottles, little aluminum candy wrappers, dirty laundry in the background, and a box containing everything that was in my office. My tube-socked foot is in the foreground.

Messy.

I text the picture to Lincoln. I tap out several clever things to say and then erase them all. The picture really is worth a thousand words.

Within minutes he texts back. The picture is of a drawer; it looks like the bottom drawer of his desk. He's taken the photo with the drawer open to reveal everything from five tape dispensers to several candy bars to a bottle of aspirin and several unsent thank-you cards. It's an absolute disaster. His hand is holding on to the drawer pull. He's wearing a black sweater with a stark-white oxford cloth shirt peeking out underneath. I smile, staring at the picture for a few more (okay, several) minutes. I finally set the phone down.

I flip the remote control around in my hand over and over, my coffee resting on my knee. The warmth of it feels good. I can feel my breathing begin to quicken as I see what my life has become. And not just in the three weeks since I left Holloway/Greene.

I set my latte on the coffee table, tuck the remote control into the sofa cushions, and stand. I scan the takeout containers and the dirty clothes on the ground. I look at the box of my belongings from Holloway/Greene still over by the door. Unopened. The mail piled up. The Princess Leia costume is on the floor right where I left it that night. And I stand there. Trapped in it all, the walls closing in around me. The walls that were so comforting
now . . . I can't breathe. I bend over and put my hands on my knees as I try to catch my breath. What have I done? I whip off Ferdie's jersey and throw it into the corner. What have I done?

Is this how it ends? I step off the conveyor belt that my life had become and just . . . cease to exist? Without a plan and the trajectory and the hierarchy and the promotions and the gold stars for a job well done and the road more traveled—without all of that, I devolve into this?

Oh my God. I begin to pace.

It's not even my plan. You want to be good? You want to be happy? Do this. Live this way. Be this person. Follow these rules. Read these books. Think these things are important. Love this way.

I didn't have to think about how I felt or who I was or what I was missing because I was too busy checking off boxes on someone else's to-do list. It comforted me, and as I grew up, it came to define me. If I'm part of their plan, then I don't have to be left out in the cold again. If I'm part of their plan, I'm tethered to something bigger than myself.

Now I know why I chose to live that way. Someone else's idea of happiness was a lot easier to attain than a happiness I could not envision and didn't think I deserved. Truth is, I wasn't striving toward happiness. What did I want more than anything? To be someone the world had to acknowledge was important.

What would actually make me feel good or happy or meaningful to me versus something I'd been told was worthy of my legacy? Again, if I'm part of their plan, then I never have to be left out in the cold ever again. If I'm part of their plan, then I'm tethered to something bigger than just myself.

It goes back to what Helen was saying—what do I think would happen if I made an entire playlist of just the songs I was too ashamed to admit I liked? This feeling bubbles up inside me just thinking about making such a playlist. Shame. Its black sticky tendrils tug and pull as I imagine the freedom of doing it. That's what it is at the root of this: my own flawed humanity. I'm not cool enough, steely enough, or perfect enough. I poo in other people's bathrooms, for crissakes.

I feel like I should dramatically slide down a wall at this point in my complete breakdown. The heroine in a romance novel would definitely slide down a wall sobbing right now. I scan my apartment and there are no slide-downable walls in the bunch.

“I can't even do that right!” I scream. I slump into one of my dining room chairs. Okay. Okay. Come on.

My idea of success was to make partner at Holloway/Greene. It's firmly established and everyone's opinions of it are based on decades upon decades of highly regarded work. Making partner would mean that I embodied those things. People would have to respect me. Like leaving out that unreadable tome on your coffee table. Whatever you may think of me, I'm a partner at Holloway/Greene and am working my way through this Nobel Prize–winning masterpiece—so, you have to kiiiind of think I'm at least a little clever. Why did I think I needed to act like I was intelligent? I
am
intelligent.

I
am
intelligent.

I flatten my hand on my dining room table. Feel something real.

I've got to burn it down. Burn their plan down. Burn down the safe trajectory and someone else's idea of happiness. Throw
what they think is important onto the raging fire. I have to stop trying to make myself fit into someone else's idea of what it means to be exceptional. The problem isn't that it wouldn't work. The tragedy comes when it does.

I stack the newspapers that are piling up on the dining room table. Stack them. Pick them up and toss them in the garbage. The full garbage. I take it out to the chute. I grab another kitchen bag and fill it with takeout containers and carry that out to the chute. I do a load of laundry. And another. I open the mail, pay the bills, and put the kettle on. I change the sheets and clean the bathroom. I open the curtains.

As night falls, I take a shower, put on actual clothes (including a bra), and walk down to the corner market for dinner fixings. As I meander through the aisles, I grow frustrated thinking about what the new plan is. My plan. What is it that I want? Right at this very moment? It's cheese. I ask the man behind the cheese counter for Midnight Moon and grab some crackers to go with it. I put a few bubble waters in my basket, along with the makings for my famous salad (knowing full well that I'll fill up on the cheese and call it a night).

I get a look of concern from a husband and wife and realize that I've been muttering “Burn it down” to myself as I've meandered around the market. Great. That's . . . that's fantastic.

I head back to my apartment, get back into my pajamas, and settle into my now clean surroundings with the cheese and crackers, the salad fixings nestled safely in the refrigerator, where they'll stay until they rot and I throw them away with a muttered “why do I bother?” I click on the TV, switching channels and stopping at this one show and that one for a while. Cheese. Bubble water. Mutter “Burn it down.” More cheese. Change
channels. Scroll through no e-mails. Daydream about Lincoln and replay our last interchange on Wooster Street over and over again.