Not Ready for Mom Jeans (14 page)

Life is supposed to get better every year, not worse.

And Sara.

What would Sara do without her grandmother?

What would I do without my mother?

I need more time with her.

Oh God.

I can’t even begin to think like that.

She’s going to be fine. She’s going to be great.

Everything’s going to be fine.

She’s going to get through this with flying colors and we’ll all have a big party. Maybe she and my dad can even take a trip or something to celebrate.

So, yeah. She’s going to beat it.

Fuck you, cancer.

Tuesday, April 15

I went to work this morning, kept my head down, and slunk into my office. I couldn’t deal with anyone, least of all Mule Face. She has an uncanny ability to sense when something’s wrong, and the last thing I wanted was for her to twist the knife in my heart any deeper by asking asinine questions. Thankfully, though, as I turned on my computer I heard Christina mention to Abby, the receptionist, that Mule Face was out for a few days due to a severe allergic reaction to one of the facial creams she peddled from her mail-order catalogs. Normally, that news would make me smirk, but all I felt was relief.

It’s hard to feel much of anything, though.

Jake stayed up late with me last night, saying and doing all the right things, but my body still feels completely hollowed out.

I sat at my desk for ten minutes this morning before I felt compelled to
do
something, so I went to my trusty friend Google, who helped me when I first discovered I was pregnant, and started looking up as much information as I could find about breast cancer. I skimmed a few articles until I caught sight of Scary Things like survival and remission rates, so I quickly closed the Internet. I sat at my desk and stared at my penholder for a while, wondering if the workers in the pen factory who made my black pen knew anyone who had cancer. Even just that word: “cancer.” They need to come up with a new way to describe it, something that sounds hopeful, like “Kinda Serious but Your Mom Will Be Fine” disease.

As I kicked around the covers last night in bed, one sentence ran through my head like a neon marquee: I need more time with her.

With my mom. With my daughter.

And I was brought right back to the same question, the same dilemma. If my family is the most important thing in the world, if my world can crumble so quickly due to my mom’s illness, what am I doing here at work?

Don’t I owe it to Sara, to myself, to at least consider the option of spending our days together?

I was so engrossed in my mental battle, I completely forgot about my meeting with Greg this afternoon at the golf club until I caught sight of the meeting reminder on my calendar. So I jumped into my car and flew over to the club as fast as was humanly possible. I found him inside, waiting, looking bemused.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry! Traffic!” I panted.

“Sure there was.” He smiled knowingly at me. “You forget we dated. I think the only thing you were ever on time for was a beer pong contest.”

Uncomfortable that he referenced my, um, less-than-professional days, I said, “Uh, yeah. Sure.” I quickly regained my composure. “Let’s go meet with the club’s golf pro, shall we?”

“Sounds good,” Greg said, and we walked over to the pro shop.

“Len Kasper, please,” I said to the clerk, a teenaged boy who looked incredibly bored.

“Sure,” he mumbled, and trudged his body over to an office, clearly very put out from having to stop texting on his phone. “Some people are here,” he announced.

Len appeared outside his office. “Clare Finnegan?” he asked.

“That’s me,” I said, and shook his hand.

“And Greg. How’s everything going, Mr. Thompson?”

I smiled at his formal greeting. Len looked quizzically at me.

“Sorry, it’s just … nothing,” I stammered.

“I address all of our club members formally,” Len said stiffly. “Let’s go into my office.”

“Yes! Let’s!” I said just a bit too enthusiastically.

We sat down in Len’s office and I quickly became aware he was much more comfortable speaking to a male.

“So, we’re going to have a shotgun start, right?” I asked Len, glancing at my notes.

“Yes, shotgun start at eleven a.m.,” Len said to Greg.

“And you know we’re giving prizes out to the winning foursomes for things like best score, longest drive, and closest to the pin, right?”

“Yes, I have it all here.” Len smiled at Greg.

“And everything is set up for the golfers’ lunch and dinner, right?”

“The menu is complete, Mr. Thompson.”

It started to become a game.

“Len, if you could just review this list here of the foursomes.” I stuck the paper in front of him. “Look here at the handicaps for the golfers.” I pointed to the third column. “Does everything look copacetic?”

“Sure does.” He lifted his head and craned his head to nod at Greg.

I pretty much gave up at that point.

A few minutes later, we all stood up and Len shook Greg’s hand and said, “You’ve really got everything covered, Mr. Thompson, this is going to be a great event because of you.”

Greg didn’t say a word the entire meeting. I think he grunted once.

“So, are you hungry?” Greg asked as we walked back toward the lobby of the club.

“I’m good, thanks,” I said quickly. I was still exhausted from last night. I think I got about an hour of sleep in between crying hysterically, and obsessively searching on the Internet for rah-rah breast cancer survival stories. Not to mention all the questions popping up in my brain like in that Whac-a-Mole game.

Should I really consider staying home? Would I be happier if—

“Are you sure? The food here is great. My treat.” He smiled at me.

“I’m not really hungry, but thanks,” I said, and pointedly fished around in my purse for the keys.

“We should probably eat, though, we need to make sure the quality of the food is still up to snuff for the event.”

He had me on a technicality. It was a good idea to do a tasting before the event.

“OK, fine. But I can’t stay long.” I sighed. I prayed the dark circles under my eyes would magically disappear. Much like my memories of last night.

“Great,” he said, and pointed toward the dining room.

I was determined to keep the conversation strictly professional, but before I even had a chance to order a Diet Coke, he started with the personal questions.

“So, tell me what Jake’s up to these days.”

“Um, IT sales,” I said, and delicately sipped my water.

“Sounds like it. And you guys are doing well?” Greg brushed an invisible piece of lint off the tablecloth and looked at me earnestly.

“Great! Better than ever! We’re fantastic!” I felt like Pollyanna on uppers, but I hoped if I seemed
really, really
excited he’d lay off.

“Good to hear. How’re Julie and Reese?”

“They’re doing well,” I said quickly. I mentally sat on the words:
Why do you care? You never seemed thrilled about my friends anyway.

“That’s great. Tell them I said hello,” he said.

“Sure.” I nodded and thought about Julie’s response. Which would include several four-letter words and a few obscene hand gestures. “So, how’s everything with your friends?” I avoided mentioning his friends by name, as though they were so insignificant and unimportant, I couldn’t be bothered with remembering each one personally.

Greg nodded. “Great.” He smiled, flashing his white teeth. “Couple are married, couple are single. I was just in Ethan’s wedding.” He laced his fingers together on the tablecloth as I nodded.

“Great, great!” I smiled, even though the ticker running across my brain said,
Who the hell would marry Ethan? That guy is the biggest asshole on the planet.

“Yeah, he’s pretty happy. Just bought a place out in the suburbs. On the North Shore. Right on Lake Michigan.”

I kept the smile pasted on my face, willing my features to show no discernible dismay. But seriously? North Shore? Right on the lake? There had to be more zeros attached to that sale price than chips in my nail polish.

“His wife is great. She used to work in advertising but now volunteers and things like that.” Greg shrugged.

“Sounds fabulous!” I said brightly.

I was suddenly and furiously aware of the great divide. The chasm between Those Who Can Buy Million-Dollar Houses at Thirty and the rest of us. And just how firmly I belonged in the second group.

Working mom. Long hours. Never enough time, quiet moments, sleep. No volunteering.

But it doesn’t have to be like that,
whispered the voice on my shoulder.

“How’s work?” I said before my thoughts began to appear across my face.

“Business is good. Sales are up. Even though the market’s not doing so well, my investments are.” He said it nonchalantly, like he wasn’t just in
Crain’s Chicago Business
30 under 30 last month thanks to the success of his law firm.

I nodded, like,
Yeah. Totally. I totally have investments, too. I definitely don’t have
ANY
credit card debt, car payments, student loans, or anything like that. Just investments. Good ones.

“Still living in the city?” I said instead.

“Of course. I can’t imagine living in the suburbs, can you?” He laughed.

“Um, yeah. Jake and I moved out of the city a couple of years ago.”

“Oh, well, sure, it makes sense. Of course.” He shifted uncomfortably.

“We like it.” I shrugged.

“Do you have a minivan, too?” Greg teased, and flashed his white teeth.

“No! But what’s so wrong with minivans? I mean, the extra space would be nice and there’s a lot of room for my groceries and—” I stopped when I saw the teasing look in his eye. “Yeah, yeah,” I said, and smiled. “So what if I’m domesticated now?”

“There’s something I never thought you’d be.”

“What?” I said, and stared at him.

“Nothing. You just always talked in college about how you never wanted to have kids or live in the suburbs.” He crossed his arms across his chest and smiled at me.

He had me there. “I know, but …” I trailed off. “Things change. People change. Plans change,” I finished. Suddenly uncomfortable again, I said, “We really should order. I have to get back to the office.”

I opened my menu and pretended to study it. But his words rang true in my head.
I never wanted this.
Well, at least at one point in my life I didn’t. I planned on living in the city (“suburbs are for people who can’t make it in the city”), remaining childless (“kids are for people who don’t like to sleep in”), and having lots of disposable income (“beach house in South Carolina”).

In ten years, it was as though my life wholly shifted from white to black, without stopping to hang out in the gray for a while.

Not to mention, at one point I thought that I would spend my white life with Greg—expansive condo in the city, the best restaurants, country club memberships, important friends with clout. I don’t care about most of those things anymore, but I do wonder how I got from point A to Z seemingly all at once.

Maybe it was Jake. After I met Jake, everything changed. He muddled my black and white into gray. Having children didn’t seem like a burden; it seemed like a possibility. Of course, I thought we would have Sara much, much later in life.

As I closed my menu, Greg asked, “So how’s your family doing?”

“Fi—,” I started to say when life punched me in the stomach. A jolt of emotion ran through my blood. I cleared my throat and opened my menu back up again. “Fine,” I said into the dessert list.

“You OK?” I felt Greg lean in closer.

Keep it together, Clare. There’s no getting emotional in business.

“Yeah, they’re great,” I said. I said it as though it was three days ago, as though I truly believed it. “Yours?” I dragged my eyes upward and met his gaze.

“They’re good. Been back to school at all recently?” Greg’s voice brought me back to reality.

I shook my head. “Nope. Life’s been kind of crazy. I’d love to go back soon and check out some of the bars.”

“Yeah, although you’d only be allowed in two of them.” Greg leaned forward slightly and his eyes sparkled.

“Oh, whatever! I was kicked out of a bar one time in college and it was completely justified. You can’t just cut in line for the bathroom at a bar.” I smiled at him and tucked my hair behind my ears.

“Right.” He nodded and smirked.

“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes and laughed, grateful to think about something other than my mom for even a few moments.

I survived the rest of the lunch by keeping the dialogue out of my court. I took advantage of silences by asking, “How’s that been?” and, “What’s that like?” to anything he mentioned. By the end of lunch, I felt exhausted, like I’d just conducted an intense interview.

As we left the restaurant and walked to the door, he said, “It’s been great catching up, Clare. Maybe we can do this again sometime soon.”

“Well, with all of the golf outing tasks, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” I said lightly.