Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [73]
And now, standing in front of the mirror at Vera Wang, everyone else, it seemed, knew, too. Only they knew that this one, beaded and buttoned and strapless and regal and so distinctly different from the gown I’d worn when I’d betrothed myself to my other love, was the one for me.
So I turned to Deidre and told her that I’d take it. My instincts had proven wrong the first time, and now, it was a relief for someone else to decide.
MY MOTHER HAS called me three times at work, but I haven’t called her back. I tried to seek advice from Jack but he offered little clarity.
“Do you think I’m making a mistake?” I asked him two nights ago. Jack was hovered over his laptop, attempting, I guessed, to eke out his manuscript, but mostly relieved that I’d wandered into the bedroom and interrupted.
“Jesus, I don’t know,” he said, and spun his chair in a circle. I flopped on the bed and pulled a pillow over my head.
“I just want someone to tell me what to do!” I said, my voice muffled. Tell me what to do, Jack! I’m surprised by the thought, given my resentment at Henry when he tried to do just that.
“Well, you know, it’s a tough situation,” he answered. “That whole sister thing . . .”
“Right,” I said, sitting up. “I mean, she’s had a daughter all this time—I have a sister—and she expects me to just roll with it?”
“Well, to be fair, what else was she supposed to do?”
“Um, I don’t know—tell me?”
“But she did try to tell you,” he echoes. “And now you won’t talk to her. Maybe it’s not black and white.”
“Duly noted,” I said. “So you’d return her call?”
Jack plopped on the bed and kissed the underside of my elbow as an answer, and then he worked his way up to my neck. And from there, that was as far as we got on my mother.
Later, while Jack slept, I replayed his passing comment. Black and white. I remembered how I left Jack seven years earlier, after one fight too many, and turned it off completely, as if someone flicked a switch in me, and then I thought of how I ended up back here to begin with: tired and lonely and fed up with my stale, crusting life, such that I might have literally willed myself out of it. Black and white. Maybe there was something to it.
And now, today in my office, my mother’s number is once again displayed on my caller ID, her fourth call since I left her with her minisandwiches and cooling tea and the photo of my button-cute half-sister who, if I’d peered at any closer, might look a little too much like my own daughter for me to stomach.
I consider Jack’s words, and make a small movement to pick up the phone, but just as I do so, the ringing stops. She’s flipped into voice mail where, surely, she won’t leave a message. I know this because I’m learning that my mother and I aren’t so different, and while she might be brave enough to punch in my digits, she’s not so sure of herself as to leave a lasting reminder that she was there.
I sigh with both relief and a small amount of regret, and then notice the time. Shit. I am way behind approving graphics and copy for the Christmas print ads. My hands scramble over my desk, rooting through old memos and half-eaten granola bars, to find the images and layouts. I squeeze the bridge of my nose and exhale, urging myself to find the mental space for this but still feeling mostly depleted. I don’t remember resenting work in my old life as I’m slowly growing to in my new one. I am in the office nearly round the clock, helming the team and reporting to Josie. Every moment that doesn’t circle around my wedding seems to circle around ad copy and new ideas and storyboards and Photoshopped images and “finding the quintessential Coke models,” as an exec put it to me recently, as if certain people literally bubbled this stuff from their noses.
Half a decade ago, I remember thriving on the camaraderie and the joy of launching a new idea and the thrill of the occasional late night when the team pulled together like Olympic relay racers, working to cross the finish line before the buzzer ran out. But like so many things, I’m