“I don’t know,” he says almost hesitantly. “He seemed like a stand-up guy. I kind of agreed to talk to him at some point in the future.”
“Oh?” I ask carefully. We’ve waded into these waters before and they’ve proven to be shark-infested, something along the lines of me floating the idea of giving his grandfather a chance only to have it instantly pulled under and thrashed to within an inch of its existence.
“Oh?” he mimics, definitely mocking my neutral tone. “Don’t pretend you’re not thrilled.”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m thrilled. What matters is how you feel about it.”
His amusement dims. “You don’t think getting involved with them will be a mistake?”
I don’t want to be obtuse or pretend like he shouldn’t have misgivings, but frankly, I’ve never understood his dread. “A mistake in the sense that they’ll all be like your father?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “What I’d really like is to forget about them. Permanently. But I haven’t been able to do that.”
“They’re your family, Scott.” He makes a noise of disgust, but I go on. “It’s only natural to want to find out more about them. I understand you not wanting a relationship with your father, but I think maybe your brothers deserve a chance.”
“I just can’t picture it,” he whispers. “What could we possibly have in common?”
“You’ll never know if you don’t try.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He heaves a sigh. “But how do I shake the feeling that I’m being disloyal to my real family.”
Reaching for the hand that’s still fisted on the table, I give it a reassuring squeeze. “Your real family love you. They’d never begrudge you this chance.”
He nods like he agrees with me, but there’s still doubt drawn into every line on his face.
“Whatever you decide, you have my full support. No matter what, I’m with you.”
“Thank you, sweetness. You don’t know how much that means to me.”
The next morning, my commute doesn’t go well. I try not to dwell on the irony of being late on today of all days as I slip through the rabbit warren of cubicles with hurried steps. These offices are a decided improvement over the completely open floor plan of the previous ones. Here at least clients have a bit of privacy with their assigned caseworker. That doesn’t help me at all though because I can see Mara through the glass wall of her office, already at her desk, hard at work. Shit.
I get my jacket off and stow my purse in the bottom drawer of my desk before I knock on her open door. She acknowledges me with a cursory glance, not bothering to stop what she’s doing. For a moment, I just listen to the clacking of her keyboard. Mara isn’t one for pleasantries, so I dive right in after clearing my throat nervously. “So, did you get my email?”
At first I don’t think she’s heard me, but after a few more clicks of her keyboard, she turns her laptop toward me. “You mean this one?”
The subject line clearly reads Letter of Resignation. “Yeah.”
“Please,” she says, the single word weighed down with sarcasm. “Save your martyrdom for someone who’s interested. I’m not training someone new.”
“Mara –”
“You’ve proven you can do the job. So do it. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
I exhale noisily, half in relief, half in frustration. “Are you sure?”
“Unequivocally sure. I may not have appreciated being told who my assistant would be, but I saw your worth from the beginning. The way you connected with that woman in the waiting room right before your interview? That can’t be taught.”
My mouth opens, then closes, unsure of how to respond. Turns out I don’t have to.
“If you bring it up again, Ellie, I’ll fire you.”
A short, high-pitched noise escapes my lips. “Okay, then.”
“Glad we got that sorted out,” she says, moving her empty coffee mug toward me on the desk.
“Coming right up, boss.”
I spend the rest of the day wrapped up in a sense of unreality, wondering if I should be feeling guiltier or even saddened that my principles aren’t as solid as I thought they were. Instead, all I can think about is what a relief it is not to have to go back to job hunting.
On my lunchbreak, I text Scott.
Ellie: Mara wouldn’t accept my resignation.
Scott: What? I told you not to quit.
Ellie: I don’t do well with commands.
Scott: Ha. We both know that’s not true.
Ellie: Very funny. I’m relieved though.
Scott: SMH. Stubborn woman. Maybe I’ll spank it out of you this weekend.
I smile at that. Scott and I have big plans this weekend. We’re going to cook for ourselves at my apartment, and then he’s staying the night – the whole night – for the first time. And I have Rosa’s mother, Lolita to thank. After the choir performance debacle, she disappeared from Rosa’s life over the summer, but resurfaced when the school year started. She’d completed an out-patient rehab stint; I was thrilled for her, but Scott was suspicious as hell. He’s only allowed Lolita supervised visits at their house . . . until now. This Saturday will be Rosa’s first overnight visit with her mom, and we’re taking advantage of it.
Ellie: You can try.
Scott: Challenge accepted.
I chuckle low. Oh, it’s on, Mr. McCarthy.
The timing of our Saturday together isn’t ideal. It follows too closely on the heels of Richard McCarthy’s visit to the house, a visit that Scott claims to have moved past. But I know better. He’s been off; a little down, a little withdrawn. Even if I know he needs time to process and come to terms with what he learned, I wish I could help him. It can’t be easy to accept that both of your parents lack whatever gene gives impetus to the instinct to put a child’s welfare first.
When we drop Rosa off at Lolita’s mother’s house after lunch on Saturday, he seems fine, though. Then the trip to the grocery store to get the ingredients for our cooking project is mostly upbeat. But as the afternoon wears on, it becomes more and more obvious that Scott isn’t himself. A lot of little things are irritating him or even out-right grating on his nerves, and I waffle on whether I should challenge his attitude or ignore it.
My indecision doesn’t pay off.
We’re side by side at the kitchen island – I’m chopping the celery and green pepper for our attempt at making chilli, and he’s chopping the onion – when life gives him a nice firm shove off the edge of reason.
He hisses, making my head jerk up. The blood welling on his index finger sends a shot of tingly adrenaline to my fingertips. “Are you okay?” I cry.
Grimacing, he shoves the injured finger into his mouth.
I pull on his wrist. “Let me see.”
We both examine it. “It’s fine,” he says tersely, but the blood’s welling up again.