The Duet (7 page)

Lucky for me, Veronica and her husband pulled in at that moment. After the mess was straightened out, and a few laughs and pats on the back were exchanged between my bosses and the cavalry, it was time to face the music.

I listened as a still jovial Veronica explained the alarm system one more time (I was to do the entire sequence, hit the green button one time, then repeat the entire sequence again – huh!). Mr. McDonald didn’t say much. He just smiled at me and walked into his office.

As soon as his door clicked shut, Veronica whirled on me. I nearly fell backward as her finger jabbed my chest. “Do you have any idea how much this little stunt of yours will cost us?” she said in a voice that sounded oddly like the Exorcist.

“I…”

“Shut up! Now I have a lot to do today, so I can’t be babysitting you. There’s a stack of billable hours that need to be entered and I want all the bills to be mailed before lunch.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. She stormed off, and I had to do a double-take when I looked over at my desk to see a mountain of paper; no, make that three mountains, all piled neatly, side by side.

Well, this was no investment firm. I would clearly have no time to take one of Cooper’s quizzes or shop for office supplies.

I worked in silence for several hours. I thought it somewhat odd that the phone didn’t ring once in that time. With this volume of paper I was dealing with, you’d think one of the hundreds of clients would be calling.

Just before lunch, Veronica danced out of her office. It was as if the morning had never happened. “Izzy! Take a break for goodness sake. You’re working so hard. I just love the dedication!”

Holy shit, this lady was crazy.

We chatted amiably while I sipped a cup of coffee in the break room. Or rather, Veronica never shut up for two seconds. She’d ask me questions about myself, but wouldn’t wait for me to answer before chatting on about something completely unrelated. I wondered what kind of medication she was on.

She spent most of the afternoon in her husband’s office again. The phone still did not ring, and I made a big dent in the piles of papers on my desk. I even caught a rare glimpse of one of the paralegals, and she may or may not have given me a nod as she walked past.

“Izzy!” I was so immersed in my typing that I hadn’t even realized Veronica was back in her own office. I walked in, wondering if she was going to tell me more about the amazing sale they were having at Nordstrom’s or her allergic reaction to the body cream she’d ordered from Paris.

“This is not working out,” she said as I approached her desk.

“I’m sorry?”

She waved her hands over her head like a mental patient. “This. You’re not a good fit for this law firm.”

What. The. Hell.

I didn’t really know what to say, so I just stood there.

“Get out!” Okay then. I silently gathered my purse and my keys. Veronica stood in her doorway staring at me with her beady little Damien eyes. “You owe me those notes on the American Express charges. Give them to me and then leave.” She turned and slammed her office door.

I pulled out the file with the credit card statements and jotted down a few things. Then I wrote “All highlighted charges to be removed. Spoke to Michael Rotch (Mike for short), supervisor. He will take care of everything.” I added a smiley face for good measure, then left my brief legal career behind, without an ounce of regret.

8

Dear Izzy,

They found out I had dyslexia when I was nine. There was a big to-do about it. My parents blamed the teachers and the school administration blamed my parents for not noticing. But honestly, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. I did a great job covering it up. I knew I learned differently than others and I’d figured out ways around it. I observed more than your average person, and was able to think on my feet much more quickly, as a result.

I still use those survival skills today. They’re coming in handy here at the Center. For instance, I already have my shrink figured out. I know exactly what he wants to hear and what he expects to hear. If I wanted, I could probably turn the whole thing around and have him crying on the couch while I asked him how that made him feel.

People are pretty transparent. Most people, anyway. I don’t know if you are yet. But I’ll admit, I’ve spent more time observing you than you would guess. I know when you came back to live with us, you thought I didn’t like you; that I didn’t want you around. But it was just the opposite. You are a powerful presence, Izzy. I fell into your trap right away, and though I’ve tried to figure you out, I have yet to succeed. I don’t even know if I want to anymore. I like watching you just be you. And not knowing what you’ll do or say next, is what makes you so compelling.

Jay

“Cooper? Are you awake?”

“Uuumph. Uh, yeah. Now that you just bounced on my mattress and yelled in my ear.”

I tossed a pillow at his head. It was a rare Sunday morning that Cooper and I were home alone. I wasn’t going to let him sleep all day. I wanted company.

I crawled up the bed and rested against the headboard. Cooper rolled onto his back and looked up at me. “What’s on your mind, kiddo?”

“Do you think Jay and I make sense?”

“You mean, as a couple or individually?”

“As a couple.”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t just say that because it would be convenient for you to have your two best friends dating. Really think about it. I mean he’s so closed off and introverted and I’m so… well, loud.”

“You are loud. Especially when a guy is trying to sleep but you suddenly need dating advice.” He took my hand, letting me know that though he was joking around, he was also taking me seriously.

I slid down, leaning on my elbow to face him. He tugged on my hair. “Why couldn’t you and I just fall in love?” I asked. “We’re practically the same person.”

Cooper chuckled. “That’s exactly why it wouldn’t work. We’d kill each other trying to be the center of attention all the time. Besides… yuck! You’re like my baby sister.”

I rested my head on his chest and we lay in silence for a while. I was enjoying just spending time with him. Trisha was always around and we never got to do this anymore.

“You doing okay, Coop?” I asked.

“Just ducky. Why do you ask?”

“I worry about you sometimes is all.”

He kissed the top of my head. “I don’t know how I survived all those years when you were gone,” he said. “You’re always looking out for me.”

I chuckled. “If there’s one thing you have plenty of, it’s people who look out for you.”

“That’s different. They’re all family, they have to worry. But you’ve always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

Something in his voice made me look up at his face. Cooper was rarely ever serious; not about anything. But he sounded almost forlorn. His eyes were gentle, then the mischievous twinkle was back. I decided that if he were really in trouble, he would tell me. I didn’t want to push.

I rested back down and closed my eyes. “I love ya, kiddo. You’re good people,” he said after a while. He was snoring within minutes.

“Don’t get hurt, you big goofball,” I said quietly, and I drifted off to sleep.

9

Dear Izzy,

Do you think weakness is a character trait that’s hereditary? If it is, I am going to do everything in my power to fight it. Most kids say they want to be just like their dads when they grow up. Not me. I want to be just opposite what he turned out to be. I thought he was weak because of my mother; because he couldn’t function without her. But I was wrong. He had a choice. He could’ve left her, broken that cycle of pain they inflicted on each other year after year. But he chose instead to numb the pain with pills and booze. Would it have been hard for him to walk away? Yes, of course. But how can we ever know joy without feeling what it’s like to suffer?

Jay

The relationship between parent and child is the most complex, ever-changing phenomenon there is.

My mother and I were a testament to this fact.

When I was young, before my father died, I adored my mother. She was so beautiful and so free and so loving. She took such good care of me, always laughing or smiling. After my father died, my adoration turned to worry. My mother was a mere shell of the woman she once was. And she worked all the time – day and night. All I wanted was for her to be around more; to see her laugh again and dance around the house like she used to.

Then came the day when my mother announced we were leaving California to go help my Uncle Fred with his tackle shop in New Jersey. She tried to make it sound fun – we’d be living near the ocean, we’d be a couple of beach bums. But I knew she was lying. We were running away, plain and simple. From that moment on, it was no longer worry over my mother that consumed me. I resented her.

Now that I was grown, I no longer felt that resentment. This phase of our relationship may have been the worst. Because I had become indifferent. It was one of the reasons I had been in such a hurry to move back to California. I couldn’t stand by and watch my mother wallow in self-pity and helplessness for one more minute. She was so fragile, so sensitive about everything – and the tears were almost a constant thing anymore.

I had to get away.

“You should try to talk Uncle Fred into selling the shop,” I said into the phone for probably the tenth time. My mother, whom I had taken to calling Miranda since I was a teenager, was sniffling on the other end, and my patience was growing thin. I fought back the urge to say something that would no doubt make her cry more. Sometimes I felt like she’d just given up.

“But the shop is Fred’s whole life. What will we do for money?” There was panic and the unmistakable weariness in her voice.

I sighed. “Miranda, we’ve talked about this before. You work day and night in that place, and it hasn’t made a profit since Walmart opened two years ago. You’re exhausted, Fred is frustrated, and the place is crumbling more every day. It’s in a great location. Sell it before you lose everything and use the money to put a monster kitchen in the house. You can start baking again; do what you love. Maybe you can start getting some catering jobs.”

“What about Fred?”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it for a minute as if it had grown horns. “What about Fred? He’s been a business owner for thirty years; twenty-eight of those were successful years. I’m sure Uncle Fred will be fine.”

“I don’t know, Izzy. Fred isn’t like your father you know. He isn’t aggressive. I feel like if he loses his store, he’ll just curl up and die.”

Like you’re doing? I thought to myself, and instantly regretted it.

“Fred has always lived in the shadow of your father. Even when they were kids. Your father was so confident, so energetic, larger than life. He was…”

“Yes, I’ve heard this all before. Dad was the most wonderful man, his life was taken way too early, his light extinguished. But you seem to be forgetting something. Dad was never there for you, and Uncle Fred is.”

“Don’t talk about your father like that!”

I groaned. “I’m sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t; not really. My father had broken her heart hundreds of times before he shattered her world by dying. She just refused to remember that, and chose instead to place him on a pedestal he didn’t deserve.

“I have to go, Miranda. Just think about what I said.” I hung up the phone, feeling drained like I usually did after one of my weekly phone chats with my mother. But there was another nagging feeling that I was completely unfamiliar with and it was unsettling. I felt guilty, and a tiny part of me was starting to understand what it was like to long for something just out of my reach.

Perhaps our relationship was changing yet again.

10

Dear Izzy,

Today was a bad day.

In group sessions, they forced me to talk about my parents’ deaths, and I’m not ready to talk about that. With anyone. I don’t know if I ever will be.

I don’t know, Izzy. I’m twenty-three years old and sometimes I feel like a child; scared shitless of some invisible bogeyman who I know is just inside my closet door. Or do I feel more like an old man, so weary and sick of it all?

Jay

I’ll tell you what I was weary of; it was rich, pompous assholes who thought the whole universe revolved around them, no matter where they were.

It was a toss-up which of these things was worse; working for lawyers, or serving them. Now I am not saying that all lawyers are mean and spiteful and superior and greedy. I’m sure there were some that weren’t like that, and I was sure that someday I would meet one and prove my point. I am also not suggesting that lawyers are in any way the worst affront to humanity. In my brief stint working as a hostess at a posh, pretentious, overpriced restaurant in the court district of Kingston, I had come across many different varieties of jackasses and they ranged from soccer moms to CEOs of multimillion dollar corporations and everything in between. The lawyers only accounted for about half of the jackasses. Throw in the judges, paralegals and legal assistants, and we were at about seventy-five percent.