Left Neglected Part 4

"I snuck out. I saw Abby when she dropped Charlie off and told her I'd take him home."

"We don't both need to be here."

I check my phone. No bars.

"Can I use your cell?"

"It's a dead zone here. Who you calling?"

"I need to be in a meeting. c.r.a.p, what am I doing here?"

He puts his arm around me and squeezes.

"You're watching your son play soccer."

But I'm supposed to be staffing the GE case right now. My shoulders start chasing the tops of my ears. Bob recognizes my telltale sign of building tension and tries rubbing them into submission, but I resist. I don't want to relax. This isn't relaxing.

"Can you stay?" he asks.

My brain races through the consequences of missing the last half of the GE meeting. The truth is, whatever I've missed, I've already missed it. I might as well stay.

"Let me just see if I can pick up a signal somewhere."

I wander the perimeter of the field, trying to find a coordinate that might catch a bar on my phone. I'm not having any luck. Meanwhile, first-grade soccer is hilarious. It shouldn't really even be called soccer. From what I see, there are no positions. Most of the kids are chasing and kicking at the ball all the time, as if the ball were a powerful magnet and the kids were helplessly pulled toward it wherever it goes. About a dozen kids are now gathered around it, kicking feet and s.h.i.+ns and occasionally the ball. Then the ball is aimlessly knocked free of the mob, and they're all chasing it again.

A few of the kids can't be bothered. One girl is doing cartwheels. Another girl is simply sitting on the ground, ripping up the gra.s.s with her hands. Charlie is spinning. He spins in circles until he falls. Then he gets up, staggers, falls again, gets up, and spins.

"Charlie, get the ball!" encourages Bob from the sidelines.

He spins.

The other parents are cheering their kids on, too.

"Go, Julia, go!"

"Come on, Cameron!"

"Kick it!"

I missed an important meeting for this madness. I make my way back over to Bob.

"Any luck?"

"No."

It has just started to snow, and now most of the kids have abandoned any thoughts of the ball or why they're here in favor of trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues. I can't help checking my watch more than once a minute. This game, or whatever it should be called, is going on forever.

"When is this over?" I ask Bob.

"I think they go forty-five minutes. You coming home after this?"

"I need to go see what I missed."

"You can't do that from home?"

"I shouldn't even be here."

"See you at bedtime?"

"If I'm lucky."

Bob and I don't often get home in time to have dinner with the kids. Their little bellies start growling at around 5:00, and Abby feeds them macaroni and cheese or chicken nuggets then. But we both try to be home to eat dessert together at around 6:30. The kids eat ice cream or cookies while Bob and I typically have cheese and crackers and wine, our dessert being more of an appetizer for the dinner we eat after the kids go to bed at 7:30.

The referee, a high school boy, finally blows the whistle, and the game is over. As Charlie walks off the field, he still hasn't noticed that we're here. He's so cute I can barely stand it. His mop of wavy brown hair always seems a little too long, no matter how often he gets it cut. He has blue eyes like Bob's and the longest black eyelashes I've ever seen on a boy. Girls are going to go crazy someday over those eyes. He's suddenly so old and yet so young all at once. Old enough to have homework and two adult teeth and be on a soccer team. Young enough to want to play outside every day, to still have baby teeth and missing teeth, and to care more about spinning and catching snowflakes than winning the game.

He sees us now, and his eyes light up. His whole face stretches wide with his goofy jack-o'-lantern grin, and he runs straight into our legs. I shove my phone into my pocket so I can hug him with both hands. This is why I came.

"Great job, buddy!" says Bob.

"Did we win?" asks Charlie.

They lost 103.

"I don't think so. Did you have fun?" I ask.

"Yup!"

"How about pizza tonight?" asks Bob.

"Yeah!"

We begin walking to the parking lot.

"Mom, are you coming for pizza?"

"No, honey, I have to go back to work."

"Okay, bud, race you to the car. Ready? Set? Go!" yells Bob.

They tear across the baseball infield kicking up clouds of dusty dirt. Bob lets Charlie beat him and hams it up. I can hear him saying, "I can't believe it! I almost had you! You're a speed demon!"

I smile. In my car, I check my phone. Three bars and seven new voice messages. I sigh, brace myself, and hit Play. As I wind and inch my way out of the parking lot, I end up right behind Bob and Charlie. I beep and wave and watch them turn left toward pizza and home. Then I turn right and head in the opposite direction.

CHAPTER 4.

I'm strolling through the Public Garden, past the statue of George Was.h.i.+ngton on his horse, past the swan boats in the pond, beneath the giant willow trees, past Lack, Mack, and the rest of the bronze ducklings.

I'm wearing my favorite Christian Louboutin, black patent leather, four-inch, peep-toe shoes. I love the sound they make as I stroll.

Clack . . . Clack . . . Clack . . . Clack . . . Clack . . . Clack.

I cross the street to the Common. A tall man in a dark suit crosses behind me. I walk through the Common, past the baseball fields and the Frog Pond. The man is still behind me. I walk a little faster.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.

So does he.

I move quickly past the homeless man asleep on the park bench, past the Park Street T, past the business tyc.o.o.n talking on his cell phone, past the drug dealer on the corner. The man follows me.

Who is he? What does he want? Don't look back.

Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack.

I pa.s.s the jewelry stores and the old Filene's Bas.e.m.e.nt building. I weave and wind through the crowds of shoppers and turn left down the next side street. The cars and crowds are gone now. The street is empty except for the man pursuing me, even closer. I run.

CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!.

So does he. He's chasing me.

I can't shake him. On the side of the financial building ahead of me, I see a fire escape. Escape! I run to it and start to climb. I hear the man's footsteps echoing mine on the metal stairs, bearing down on me.

CLINK! CLOMP! CLINK! CLOMP! CLINK! CLOMP!.

I crisscross up and up and up and up. My lungs are screaming. My legs are burning.

Don't look back. Don't look down. Keep going. He's right behind you.

I reach the top. The roof is flat and empty. I run to the far edge. There's nowhere else to go. My heart is hammering against the bones in my chest. I have no choice. I turn to face my attacker.

There's no one there. I wait. No one appears. I cautiously make my way back to the fire escape.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.

It's not there. I walk the perimeter of the roof. The fire escape is gone. I'm trapped on the top of this building.

I sit down to catch my breath and think. I watch a plane take off into the sky out of Logan and try to imagine a way down other than jumping.

W E D N E S D A Y.

I'm a Boston Driver. Traffic regulations like speed limits and do not enter signs are more suggestion here than law. I navigate the city's one-way, helter-skelter streets, dodging potholes and nervy jaywalkers, antic.i.p.ating the next construction detour, and gunning every yellow light with experienced bravado. All in the s.p.a.ce of four blocks. The next traffic light turns green, and I'm on my horn in less than a blink of the eye when the Honda in front of me with New Hamps.h.i.+re plates doesn't move. Like any self-respecting Boston Driver would.

Driving home at the end of the day requires infinitely more patience than coming in, and having any patience at all has never been my virtue. There is always traffic both times of day, but the evening exodus is significantly worse. I don't know why this is. The whistle blows, the gates open, and we're all off, like a million picnic ants converging onto one of three trails of cookie crumbs-Route 93 for those who live on the North or South Sh.o.r.e and the Ma.s.s Pike for those, like me, who reside west of Boston. The civil engineers who planned and designed these roads probably never conceived of this many commuters. And if they did, I'll bet they live and work in Worcester.

I accordion along the Pike, wearing out my brake pads, swearing that one of these days I'll start taking the T. The only reason I subject myself to this daily erosion of my brakes and sanity is so I can see my kids before they go to bed. Most people at Berkley don't leave before 7:00, and many order dinner and stay well past 8:00. I try to leave at 6:00, right in the thick of the Going Home parade. My early departure doesn't go unnoticed, especially by the younger, single consultants, and as I walk out of the office each night, I have to resist the urge to remind all their judging eyes just how many hours a night I work from home. I have my faults, but I'm not, and never will be, a slacker.

I leave "early" because I hope to muddle through the traffic and get home in time for dessert, baths, stories, and tucking the kids into bed at 7:30. But every minute I now sit unmoving in my Acura is another minute that I won't get to see them today. At 6:20, it's already been dark out for over an hour, and it feels even later than it is. It's started to rain, which is slowing down progress even more. I'll probably miss dessert at this point, but we're creeping along, and I should get home in time for bath, book, and bed.

And then everything stops. It's 6:30. Red brake lights glow in an unbroken chain all the way to the horizon. Someone must've gotten in an accident. I'm not anywhere near an exit, so I can't even bail out early and take the back roads home. I turn off whoever's complaining on NPR and listen for sounds of an ambulance or police siren. I don't hear any. It's 6:37. No one is moving. I'm late, I'm trapped, and my barely contained anxiety breaks open. c.r.a.p! What is going ON?

I look to the guy in the BMW next to me, like he might know. He sees me, shrugs his shoulders, and shakes his head in disgusted resignation. He's on his cell phone. Maybe that's what I should do. Use this time wisely. I pull out my laptop and start reading case team reviews. But I'm too aggravated to be productive. If I wanted to work, I would've stayed at work.

It's 6:53. The Pike remains paralyzed. I text Bob to let him know. 7:00. Bath time. I rub my face and breathe in and out into my hands. I want to scream the stress out of my body, but I worry that the guy in the BMW will think I'm crazy and gossip about me on his phone. So I hold it in. I just want to be home. I just want to click my Cole Haan heels and be home.

It's 7:18 when I arrive in front of 22 Pilgrim Lane. Fourteen miles in seventy-eight minutes. The winner of the Boston Marathon could've beaten me home on foot. And that's exactly how I feel. Beaten. I reach up to the visor and press the b.u.t.ton on the garage door opener. I'm inches away from pulling in when I realize that the garage door didn't open, and I slam on the brakes. I made it through the gnarly streets of Boston and a gridlocked Pike without a scratch but almost totaled the car in my own driveway. I repeatedly click and curse at the stupid garage door b.u.t.ton a few times before I get out of the car. As I run through puddles and freezing rain from my car to the front door, the saying "The straw that broke the camel's back" comes to mind.

I pray that I've at least made it home in time for bedtime stories and good-night kisses.

I'M LYING IN BED WITH Lucy, waiting for her to fall asleep. If I get up too soon, she'll beg for one more book. I already read Tacky the Penguin and Blue's Best Rainy Day. I'll tell her no, and she'll say please, stretching the eez out for several seconds to show me that she's being extra polite and that her request is extra important, and I'll say no, and in the course of this arousing tete-a-tete, she'll wake herself up. It's just easier if I stay until she's out.

I'm spooning her small body, and my nose is on her head. She smells like heaven-an elixir of Johnson's Baby Shampoo, Tom's of Maine Strawberry toothpaste, and Nilla Wafers. I think I'll cry the day all my kids stop using Johnson's Baby Shampoo. Who will they smell like then?

She's so warm, and her deepened breathing is hypnotic. I wish I could let myself drift off with her, but I have miles to go before I can sleep. This is the trick every night, to leave after she's surrendered the fight to be up, but before I give in to the desire to close my eyes. When I'm convinced she's fully unconscious, I slide out from under the covers, tiptoe around all the toys and crafts (land mines) strewn on the floor, and steal out of her darkened room like I'm James Bond.

Bob is eating a bowl of cereal on the couch.

"Sorry, babe, I couldn't wait."

No apologies necessary. I'm relieved. I love it when I don't have to think about what we're going to eat for dinner, and I love it even more when I don't have to cook anything. Well, I should admit, I don't exactly cook. I microwave. I heat up already prepared and cooked food. And the Takeout Taxi phone number is programmed into our speed dial. But cereal might just be my favorite dinner at home. It's not that I don't enjoy a sumptuous and elegant meal at Pisces or Mistral, but dinner at home on the couches with Bob isn't about ambiance and fine dining. It's about getting rid of the hunger pangs as quickly as possible and moving on.

We spend the next three hours in the living room on separate couches with our laptops on our laps. CNN is on the TV for background noise and the occasional interesting sound bite. I am mostly emailing our offices in China and India. Boston is twelve hours behind China and ten and a half hours behind India, so now is tomorrow morning for them. This still blows my mind. I'm a time traveler, doing business in real time on Thursday when it is still only Wednesday where I sit on my couch. Amazing.

Bob is clicking around the internet and networking for jobs. He's at a promising information technology start-up, and the payoff is potentially huge if they get acquired or go public, but as with most fledgling companies in this economy, things aren't looking so good. The recession is. .h.i.tting them hard, and the skyrocketing growth trajectories Bob projected when he signed on three years ago feel like a distant, silly fantasy. At this point, they're simply trying not to bleed to death. He just survived a second round of layoffs, but he isn't planning on sticking around and holding his breath through a third. The problem is Bob is picky, and not many companies are hiring. I can tell by his pinched mouth and the vertical ravine between his furrowed brows that he isn't finding anything.

The uncertainty of his job, both current and future, has been really weighing on him. When he starts sliding down What-If's slippery slope to Doomsville-What if I lose my job tomorrow? What if I can't find another? What if we can't make the mortgage payments?-I try to brush them all off and make the load lighter for him. Don't worry, honey, you'll be fine. The kids will be fine. We'll all be fine.

But the What-Ifs take up residence in my head, and in my head, I'm captain of the champion luge team, barreling at record speed to Doomsville. What if he does get laid off and can't find another job? What if we have to sell the house in vermont? But then what if we can't sell it in this depressed market? What if we can't pay the student loans, the car payments, the heating bill? What if we can't afford to stay in Welmont?

I close my eyes and see the word debt written in all caps and red ink. My chest tightens, and it feels like there's no air in the room, and my laptop is suddenly unbearably hot on my legs, and I'm sweating. Stop thinking about it. Take your own advice. He'll be fine. The kids will be fine. We'll be fine. Deluded mantra.

I decide to watch TV for a minute to take my mind off of Doomsville. Anderson Cooper is reporting about a San Diego mother who accidentally left her two-year-old toddler in the backseat of her locked car for eight hours while she worked at her job. When the mother returned to her car at the end of the day, her toddler was dead from heat exhaustion. Officials are deciding whether or not to press charges.

What was I thinking? CNN is the capital of Doomsville. My eyes fill with tears thinking about this woman and her dead child. I imagine the two-year-old, helpless to escape the car seat's five-point harness, terror and fevered desperation giving way to organ failure. How will that mother ever forgive herself ? I think of my mother.