That was true in the sense I'd sat on the floor of my bathroom and cried for twenty minutes before work one morning last January after waking up to a dozen rage-filled emails from a dozen different ragey people. I didn't know that wasn't a normal way to start the day. I figured everyone cried all the time. That was the definition of adulting, right?
"I know you always have a plan," she said, the uncertainty dripping from her words.
"Oh, I do. I definitely do. I'm looking at some consulting opportunities. I have a lot of interest from media outlets as well. I have a lot to choose from."
"Is that what you want?"
"Of course it is," I said quickly. I didn't recognize my voice. It sounded hollow. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know. I'm just asking."
We were silent a moment, the sun still blazing over my face. I knew my cheeks would be pink when I stepped away from this window.
Then, "I'm all right, Mom. Really. I'm just taking a break."
"And Preston?"
Please don't go blowing that storm in. "Taking a break from him too."
"You're sure you're all right?"
"I am. I'm actually really busy with projects here." I glanced at the ceiling, which needed several coats of paint. "Really busy."
"How's the house?"
"It's a little worse for the wear but I don't mind. It's amusing, you know, working on little updates, little projects. It's mostly painting, ripping up old carpeting, cleaning out the basement."
I didn't mention the bats. It didn't seem like a necessary detail. Neither did the husky woodsman next door. Didn't need to talk about him at all.
"I miss her," Mom said softly. "I wish I'd visited more. Called more. Letters and emails weren't enough."
I felt a sudden rush of tears stinging my eyes. "Me too."
"I regret it," she said. "Not spending more time with her. That's the shitty price of grief. You're always left with one regret or another and it never leaves you alone."
I didn't want to talk about regrets. "Mmhmm."
"I'm not sure I could do what you're doing," she said. "So many memories. I couldn't possibly go through her things. It's just too hard."
"I haven't started working on her room yet. Not more than pulling up the carpet because it was musty."
"It takes a lot out of you," she said. "You need to be ready for it."
My face was so hot. I knew I wouldn't burn from a few minutes in front of a window but it felt like I might. "Yeah, well, I have some calls to return today and I should probably get to that. There's a think tank looking to talk to me about some of their strategic priorities and I need to look over my notes."
"I understand," she said. "Call me, okay? Let me know if anything changes or…or you need anything."
I turned away from the window and headed into the kitchen. "All right, Mom. I will."
I wouldn't. I didn't need her or anyone else, and that wasn't about to change. Just like I wasn't about to stop thanking Linden for his generosity with some homemade goodies.
The oven was still acting fritzy so I was relying on my crockpot to cook two small pecan pies this morning. I'd never made pie dough before, not on my own, but what else was there to do after waking up at daybreak, yesterday's clothes plastered to my body and the memory of a breathtaking kiss buzzing on my lips?
I didn't have the exact ingredients required by the recipe but I knew enough about pecan pie to wing it. I'd seen it done plenty of times. After growing up on a three-hundred-year-old pecan farm, I knew a thing or two about making these pies.
Linden would like them. He looked like the kind of man who enjoyed a good slab of pie. He probably liked cheddar folded into the crust of an apple pie. The senator from Vermont always served cheddar crust apple pie—all from his home state—at special gatherings for his staff. It was legendary.
After making an unpleasant story about his daughter hazing sorority pledges go away, I always received an invite to those gatherings.
I did in my past life.
That senator forgot my name weeks ago. Even if his daughter was caught on tape making a pledge choke on a strap-on again, he wouldn't call me. No one was calling me, not even the think tank I'd mentioned to my mother. My scandal made me radioactive and I was nowhere near the half-life of my toxicity to fix anyone else's.
The pies looked ready so I pulled them out to cool. Linden would like these. He'd do it grudgingly but he'd do it.
I returned to the front window, glancing toward his driveway to confirm he hadn't circled back for some reason. A lucky chainsaw or…whatever arborists used. Finding the driveway empty, I swung my tote bag over my shoulder and hefted my laundry basket. I'd come back for the pies after I'd showered and the wash was running.
While rolling out dough, I'd decided I'd only use Linden's shower. There was a perfectly good laundromat nearby. But going to the laundromat and sitting there through the wash and dry cycles would eat into my day, and I'd decided I was very, very busy handling Midge's affairs. Too busy to sit in a hard plastic chair and scroll through emails that seemed to take a cherry pitter to my soul.
There was the hate mail. The people hopped up on contempt and condemnation because I'd joked about the senator's digestive distress. I should know better and I was a whore and they hoped I died. Some even offered to help me with the last one.
There were the late-night talk show requests. Those bookers did not stop. They wanted me to spill tea and shit-talk all of Washington, and basically turn myself into a precious little dancing monkey who didn't care if she ever got a job again.
There were the interview requests from across the print journalism spectrum. People, Us Weekly, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post. All the Georgia papers. They wanted an act of contrition or a tell-all, and nothing in between. And print was desperately unforgiving. Everyone thought television edited with a hatchet but that was print.
The broadcast journalists came at me hard. They promised to let me tell my story and offered to paint me as a staffer forced to work in a hostile environment, but I knew better. Those stories were only meant for individuals needing to save face after stepping in problematic mud. They didn't work on people who'd stepped in the mud, tracked it through the house, and found themselves disowned on television. Besides, the only time a woman could sit for one of those interviews was after she'd been fucked over and fired or forced out, and now had a book or documentary on the fuck-over to promote. I had neither.
Yet cable news hosts, the source of this scandal, were the worst of them. They didn't say it in their emails but it was clear they wanted me to unleash on live television again. They wanted the same unfiltered, insider info I accidentally blabbed when I should've been talking about states closing polling locations and making it harder for people to vote.
For every thirty messages I had from the media, I had one vague response from my contacts at consulting or lobbying firms, or political action committees.
If I had to guess, my inquiries were handled something like this: "Jasper-Anne Cleary? She's one helluva campaign strategist. But isn't she the one who went on TV and complained about Timbrooks? And said he had no chance of placing in the primaries? Hmm. No thanks. Whatever she's asking, we can't answer. No turncoats on this team. Send the thanks-but-no-thanks."