take
credit for Owen, seeks praise for a job well done.
I
open my briefcase and shuffle some papers until I find the lab report, which I
have painstakingly concealed from Tim for weeks.
One
last time I look, still disbelieving. Tim and I are both blood type A; type AB
is not a possibility.
I
feel around under my desk, my fingers landing on the power switch of a
shredder. I press it and feed the report through. Of course, this evidence
still exists outside my realm of control, in God knows how many medical
databases by now. But for a moment, relief descends.
Roofie.
The word is familiar, yet I can’t place it—at first. And when I do, I wish I
hadn’t. Those days and weeks—months and years—I spent numbing the pain of what
happened to Ricky have come back to haunt me.
Rohypnol.
It’s a date-rape drug with a variety of street names, chief among them roofie.
I can see that small white pill pinched between my fingers, masquerading as a
simple muscle relaxer with the promise of smashing my migraine to smithereens.
Instead,
this.
There
is a tower of work clogging my inbox that looks as if it will take six months
to slog through, including a sexual harassment lawsuit in which I am both a
representative of Hazelton United and a primary witness. A low-level department
head got handsy with her intern, who didn’t return the favor. Now he’s suing us
for a million five. The hope is that my testimony will be deemed immaterial, if
it comes to that, since the incident I witnessed occurred off company grounds.
I’m recommending a settlement.
I
buzz Laurie’s extension. “Can you set up a meeting with legal on the Harper
case?”
“When?”
“As
soon as possible.”
“Sure
thing.”
“And…”
I know there’s something else I need her to jump on, but it escapes me, my
brain awash in mommy hormones. “That’s all, I guess.”
----
I
have found a way to shut Eric Blair’s mouth for good, a plan that leaves Tim, Owen,
Ally and me untouched. But I need Jenna’s help.
“Can
I ask you a favor?” I say to her a few days later at lunch. I catch myself
subconsciously nibbling my lip and stop.
She
breezily replies, “Yeah. Shoot.”
“Can
you get me a copy of IT’s credit card statement for the last year or so?”
She
squints. “What for?”
“I
need to check something. It’s a personnel matter,” I lie. It’s clear she wants
more, so I add, “There may have been some unauthorized charges by one of the
techs. I want to nip it in the bud.”
In
reality, I hope to find the noose Eric Blair has looped around his neck, so I
can kick the box out from under him.
“Give
me a couple of days,” she says. “Things are really hectic right now.”
I
don’t want to appear too desperate. “No problem. Take your time.”
She
grins. “You know, I thought you were going to ask me to babysit.”
This
idea wouldn’t have occurred to me in a million years. Two million. “Really?”
She
nods, rolls her eyes. “Can you imagine?”
“I
think I can,” I say, because I am. Some time alone with Tim would be heaven-sent.
----
Jenna’s
convertible wheels into our driveway at quarter to six on Saturday, a ripple of
silver in a sea of black. Even our luxury minivan has not escaped this
unwritten rule: Black is classy, chic, sophisticated. The elegance of a well-tailored
suit.
“I
love your neighborhood,” Jenna says as I greet her at the door. “It’s so
peaceful.”
“Thanks,”
I reply. “It’s great for the kids.”
This
statement once seemed a foregone conclusion, a fact so indisputable it rivaled
Newton’s third law. But I now wonder if we’re doing Ally and Owen a disservice
by raising them in the insular bubble of this gated community-equivalent, a
place so separate it defies even the need for bars.
“My
condo’s great, but you can breathe out here,” Jenna says, puffing her
lungs full of crisp autumn air.
I
tug the door shut and lead the way to the kitchen, where Tim blots
credit for Owen, seeks praise for a job well done.
I
open my briefcase and shuffle some papers until I find the lab report, which I
have painstakingly concealed from Tim for weeks.
One
last time I look, still disbelieving. Tim and I are both blood type A; type AB
is not a possibility.
I
feel around under my desk, my fingers landing on the power switch of a
shredder. I press it and feed the report through. Of course, this evidence
still exists outside my realm of control, in God knows how many medical
databases by now. But for a moment, relief descends.
Roofie.
The word is familiar, yet I can’t place it—at first. And when I do, I wish I
hadn’t. Those days and weeks—months and years—I spent numbing the pain of what
happened to Ricky have come back to haunt me.
Rohypnol.
It’s a date-rape drug with a variety of street names, chief among them roofie.
I can see that small white pill pinched between my fingers, masquerading as a
simple muscle relaxer with the promise of smashing my migraine to smithereens.
Instead,
this.
There
is a tower of work clogging my inbox that looks as if it will take six months
to slog through, including a sexual harassment lawsuit in which I am both a
representative of Hazelton United and a primary witness. A low-level department
head got handsy with her intern, who didn’t return the favor. Now he’s suing us
for a million five. The hope is that my testimony will be deemed immaterial, if
it comes to that, since the incident I witnessed occurred off company grounds.
I’m recommending a settlement.
I
buzz Laurie’s extension. “Can you set up a meeting with legal on the Harper
case?”
“When?”
“As
soon as possible.”
“Sure
thing.”
“And…”
I know there’s something else I need her to jump on, but it escapes me, my
brain awash in mommy hormones. “That’s all, I guess.”
----
I
have found a way to shut Eric Blair’s mouth for good, a plan that leaves Tim, Owen,
Ally and me untouched. But I need Jenna’s help.
“Can
I ask you a favor?” I say to her a few days later at lunch. I catch myself
subconsciously nibbling my lip and stop.
She
breezily replies, “Yeah. Shoot.”
“Can
you get me a copy of IT’s credit card statement for the last year or so?”
She
squints. “What for?”
“I
need to check something. It’s a personnel matter,” I lie. It’s clear she wants
more, so I add, “There may have been some unauthorized charges by one of the
techs. I want to nip it in the bud.”
In
reality, I hope to find the noose Eric Blair has looped around his neck, so I
can kick the box out from under him.
“Give
me a couple of days,” she says. “Things are really hectic right now.”
I
don’t want to appear too desperate. “No problem. Take your time.”
She
grins. “You know, I thought you were going to ask me to babysit.”
This
idea wouldn’t have occurred to me in a million years. Two million. “Really?”
She
nods, rolls her eyes. “Can you imagine?”
“I
think I can,” I say, because I am. Some time alone with Tim would be heaven-sent.
----
Jenna’s
convertible wheels into our driveway at quarter to six on Saturday, a ripple of
silver in a sea of black. Even our luxury minivan has not escaped this
unwritten rule: Black is classy, chic, sophisticated. The elegance of a well-tailored
suit.
“I
love your neighborhood,” Jenna says as I greet her at the door. “It’s so
peaceful.”
“Thanks,”
I reply. “It’s great for the kids.”
This
statement once seemed a foregone conclusion, a fact so indisputable it rivaled
Newton’s third law. But I now wonder if we’re doing Ally and Owen a disservice
by raising them in the insular bubble of this gated community-equivalent, a
place so separate it defies even the need for bars.
“My
condo’s great, but you can breathe out here,” Jenna says, puffing her
lungs full of crisp autumn air.
I
tug the door shut and lead the way to the kitchen, where Tim blots
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