CHAPTER 5
The alarm blared, but I awakened slowly, reflexes dulled by the heavy weight of a wine hangover. My pillow felt gritty against my cheek, and when I raised my head, more dried dirt fell from my hair onto the white linen.
Dirt was everywhere. Smeared across my sheets, lodged under my fingernails. Grains of it stuck to the inside of my bra. When I hauled myself up, I could see my feet were filthy, the bottoms blackened as though I’d charred them in the night.
Memories of what I’d done came back, watery, dreamy images. How long had I stayed out in the backyard, stabbing at the ground? Gingerly, I walked over to the window to sneak a peek and found myself staring at a large hole, the approximate length and width of a grave.
“Fuuuuuuck.”
I’d have to worry about resodding it later. I’d have to put off evaluating my mental health as well. Lukas had called the meeting for nine in the morning, and here I was, dirty as an unsupervised toddler, with nothing to wear (why hadn’t I done laundry yesterday?) and nothing to show Lukas (why hadn’t I worked last night?). I would think in the shower. The best thoughts came in the shower.
Except when the shower was so icy the droplets felt like tiny needles pricking the skin (why hadn’t I asked Jesse who to call?). I stayed in the shower only long enough to rinse the dirt off, shivered in a towel until I could find the suit I wore yesterday, and attempted to make myself presentable.
When I left for work, Mr. Eckhardt was standing in front of a pile of dandelion carcasses, his long pale index finger shaking with the effort to command my attention.
“Unacceptable,” he said before I could apologize. “Completely unacceptable behavior.”
“Give them to me,” I said, thrusting my hands over the fence.
Without another word, he scooped them up and dumped them into my waiting arms. I tossed them onto my patio.
“You need to—”
I didn’t let him finish. I got into my car, dirty hands and all, and sped off to work.
The parking lot showed no sign of the farmers’ market, and without the stark white tents and colorful people, it looked a little dreary. Still, I could park within a few yards of the door. That was a plus.
9:08 a.m. The conference room door was shut, and I heard the low sound of one voice, female, and knew they’d already begun.
If Big Frank were alive, he’d have shoved a cup of coffee in my hands and made a crack about being glad I’d decided to show up.
If Jesse were alive, I wouldn’t have been late.
Since my first day at Giacomo, my work performance would have been rated exemplary, had Big Frank actually believed in annual reviews. Frank understood that I was both responsible and artistic, a combination he felt was rare. He’d tried to balance it out with the other employees (Jackie and Glynnis had practical, grounded souls, and Byron, Seth, and Rhiannon, while not the most reliable people, were idea factories). “But you’re the whole enchilada, kiddo,” Big Frank frequently told me, and I appreciated his appreciation. It took a great deal of work to give myself the freedom to create while helping Frank maintain an organized, well-run operation. I made every deadline he set for me. Until Jesse died.
I’d fallen apart like a sloppily sewn scarf, a thread here, a thread there, until the unraveling got to be so noticeable that Big Frank picked up a needle and did some repair work. “Pick a few things you don’t want to let slide, and let the rest sort itself out,” he said gently after one particularly rough day. “When someone leaves this world, everything else gets jostled because of the empty space. You’re gonna land in the wrong spot for a while. Sooner or later, you’ll find where you fit again.”
That kept me going, until it was Big Frank who left a hole, and I found myself surrounded by emptiness.
I slipped into the conference room as quietly as possible, but every head swiveled in my direction, disapproval etched on each face. Glynnis, standing in front of her ad, let whatever was tumbling from her mouth trail off into silence. Her cheeks flushed a concerning shade of crimson.
“Lateness isn’t merely a sign of disrespect,” Lukas began, his gaze never shifting from the front of the room, “it’s an affront to the creative process. Any interruption in the flow can have disastrous consequences. Petra addresses this in chapter 6.”
I took a seat quickly. “I’m very sorry. I had some plumbing issues at the house.”
“Glynnis,” he said, ignoring my apology. “Do you feel you can go on?”
The poor girl looked terrified. I felt horrible then, and had to give this one to Petra—it did suck to be interrupted. I smiled broadly at her. “Sorry, Glynnis. I’d really like to hear about your ad. It looks great.”
I wasn’t entirely sure it did—I’d forgotten my glasses—but the compliment seemed to work. Glynnis nodded and directed everyone’s attention back to the whiteboard behind her. She finished up, and after offering her some generic compliments, Lukas called Jackie to the front.
Jackie had dressed up, which for her meant her usual look dialed up a notch. Creased mom jeans. Frosted lipstick. I could see the curling iron marks in her hair. She wore a button-up shirt with a pink tank underneath. She looked fantastic. Like a suburban, middle-aged Lita Ford.
Up went Jackie’s ad. She’d used a stock photo, a cute, freckled kid about to stick his fingers into a jar of jam. In bold font at the bottom, it read: This is only going to get better.
“Nice job,” I mouthed to her.
The others sat silent, turning their heads and attention from the ad to Lukas. “What do we think?” he asked, and I could tell from the tilt of his head that he knew exactly what he thought.
“It’s cute,” I said loudly. “Appeals to both mothers and kids. I can see bits of fruit in the jam, which makes it seem natural and wholesome.”
Jackie flashed me a quick smile.
Rhiannon clucked her tongue, which I was fairly certain was the most annoying sound in the world. “I’m not so sure,” she said slowly, pretending to ponder my contribution. “Mothers and kids? Haven’t we all agreed using that demographic is dated and pointless? How many mothers still make their kids’ lunches? And anyway, they’re already buying jam—shouldn’t we be targeting the people who would normally pass it by?”
Lukas nodded sagely. “Go on.”
Rhiannon unwound her legs from their yogic position and straightened up. “Well, I hate to use the word ‘hip’ . . .”
Lukas laughed. “We all hate to use that word. You’re not alone.”
The others nodded so vigorously I worried for their cervical spines.
“I just think the whole point of this assignment was to focus on fresh. This doesn’t feel fresh. I’m not saying it’s bad, Jackie—”
“Oh, no,” Jackie said quickly. “Of course not. Because it isn’t.”
“Jackie,” Lukas warned.
Jackie’s voice wobbled when she said, “I’ve been doing this for thirty years.”
“That’s apparent,” Rhiannon said under her breath.
Lukas steepled his fingers, and I readied myself for a lecture. “We know you’re experienced, Jackie, but collaboration must be part of our process if we’re to succeed. This isn’t a critique session—it’s, as Petra calls it, a group exploration into the possible. Do you understand how that works?”
“Perfectly.” Jackie switched off her laptop and took her seat.
“Paige?”
“What?” I’d been so distracted by Jackie’s defeat that I hadn’t realized Lukas had recalibrated his laser beam stare for me.
“You have the next opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what?”
“You’re up,” he said tersely.
Working in advertising had taught me to think on my feet, but this required more than a quick joke or a tossed-off tagline. Lukas’s expression, a slightly predatory look of anticipation, clued me in on how important my success was, and I basically had nothing. An idea had occurred to me as I rushed through the kitchen, but it was so fuzzy and unfinished I knew it would look exactly like what it was—my very last resort.
I pulled the ziplock bag from my purse and walked to the front. Six heads tilted, and fingers began punching at laptops.
“Did you send it to everyone?” Rhiannon asked.
“Er, no. What I have is a visual presentation.”
Puzzled, she kept tapping at her keyboard. “What do you mean? Did you post something to YouTube?”
“No, I brought something with me.” During the endless walk to the front of the room, my brain was like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep, dashing around my skull and grabbing whatever it could. Trembling, I took the cardboard plate from the plastic bag and held it up to the whiteboard. The beetroot cake had left a circular mahogany stain, crumbs stuck to the center. Splashes of red wine dotted the space surrounding it, along with a dark smear of dirt.
I pointed to the one remaining white spot. “Imagine a line printed here that reads, ‘When a vegan clears her plate, you know it was good!’”
Seth groaned.
Lukas leaned forward. “Seth, can you verbalize what you feel is the issue with Paige’s ad?”
“She’s insulted vegans, the main demographic for the product,” Seth said disdainfully. “It isn’t funny enough to get away with it.”
“I thought it was pretty funny,” Jackie contributed.
Rhiannon ignored her. “The line sucks, but the image isn’t bad. We could work with it.”
We. My presentation was shit, but it was mine. “I could rewrite it. The concept isn’t—”
“Isn’t right,” Glynnis quietly offered. “But it could be, Paige, and then the ad would be fine. Good, even.”
She meant well. I smiled weakly in her direction.
“Let’s help her out,” Lukas said, sweeping his arm to encompass everyone but me. “How can we make this ad shine?”
Seth jumped in immediately. “I like the circle. The richness of color, the crumbs sticking to it offer depth and texture. The dark line—what is that?”
“Dirt,” I said, unable to think of anything else. “It’s dirt. I was eating outside.”
Lukas flinched. “Regardless of how unsanitary that sounds, it does add something to the sum total. We’ll leave it in.”
Glynnis cleared her throat. “It reminds me of a work of modern art, like something you’d see at MoMA. Who is that artist I’m thinking of? With the colors and lines and shapes?”
Every single artist who ever lived? But then I saw what she was getting at. “Rothko,” I said. “Glynnis, you are onto something. What if I put a frame around it, and instead of a line at the bottom, it reads something like this—” I picked up a black marker and wrote:
Beetroot Cake
Beetroot, cocoa, and brown sugar
Mom, Family Dinner, 2016
“People won’t get it,” Rhiannon pronounced.
“Unless you set it on a wall, next to other stained plates made to look like art hanging in a museum,” Byron suggested.
“Or in a dining room,” Seth added. “That would broaden the appeal.”
“I guess I like that idea,” Jackie said.
Rhiannon pushed back from the table and crossed her arms. “Though it is sexist. Replace ‘Mom’ with ‘Dad’ and I guess I’m in. What do you think, Lukas?”
Lukas stood abruptly, his face resplendent. “I’m thrilled—not so much with the ad, but with your process! This is exactly what Petra is talking about. We’ve taken a lackluster idea and together turned it into something we wouldn’t be embarrassed to present to a client. I gave you a challenging assignment—not impossible, but definitely difficult—and not only did you all bring something to the table, but you offered substantive suggestions in the spirit of collegiality. Impressive.” He fell back in his chair, apparently exhausted by such a show of emotion. “But there is always room for improvement. Petra has so much more to say about working collaboratively. I want you all to read chapter 2. I guarantee you will find it absolutely enlightening. We’ll discuss the concepts next Monday, and at that point I’ll fill you in on the next challenge.”
The day felt endless, and when I finally pulled into my driveway, I’d almost forgotten about what I’d done to my backyard while drunk and moonstruck, so it was a shock to find Trey sitting at the edge of the patch of dirt, his stuffed backpack propped next to him.
“I didn’t do this,” he said before I could get a word out.
“I know you didn’t, because I did it.”
He shot me a dubious glance. “Seriously? Why?”
I removed my heels and dropped onto the grass. “I honestly don’t know.”
“It looks . . . raw,” he said. “Like something we shouldn’t see.”
“It’s just dirt.”
“You hate dirt.”
I shrugged. “Maybe not so much. But I need to figure out how to fix it, or Mr. Eckhardt is going to have a coronary.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t called the police on you.”
“I’m sure they have better things to do.”
Trey snorted. “Not in Willow Falls. Nothing happens here.”
I wanted to tell him he was lucky to live in such a place. I certainly hadn’t when I was his age. But he’d never experienced that kind of fear, and I didn’t want to put it in his head.
“Were you bored?” Trey asked, because that was something he could understand.
“I guess that’s what it was.” I nudged his shoulder. “Come on. I need to call a plumber, and then I’ll help you unpack. We can order a pizza with extra cheese. I’m too tired to cook.” I slowly got to my feet, joints creaking, and held out my hand. “I’ll even watch a few episodes of American Ninja Warrior. We can make a night of it.”
Trey didn’t take my hand. Instead, he dug the toe of his sneaker into the dirt. “I just packed that bag. I want to stay at Colin’s again, maybe for a couple of days. His dad bought a new sound system, and he wants to teach us how to install it. That’s okay, right?”
No. No, it wasn’t at all okay. I wanted Trey sleeping in his own bed. But then I thought about how starved he must be for a male influence. “Is his dad a nice person?”
“Yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Of course he is. He also gives good advice. He wants me to make decisions for myself.”
“Is the implication that I don’t want you to?”
Trey made a sound of frustration. “Why do you take everything so personally? Colin’s place has a great vibe. That’s it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why can’t you explain it?”
“Colin’s trying to figure out who he is. He’s exploring. I can relate.”
“You can? What exactly is he exploring? Wait, what are you?”
“I knew you’d take this the wrong way.”
Desperate to be right about something, I said, “Does that include learning how to drive? Are you ready for that? We can explore that together.”
“I don’t want to drive.”
Trey would be a senior next year, and still he hadn’t signed up for a driver’s ed class. The school wouldn’t let him graduate without it. It was a sore subject between us. He claimed his refusal was political (They can’t force us to consume oil!), but of course there was more to it, a fear he attempted to hide underneath his anger. The image of Jesse’s Volvo, battered and broken, never really left our minds—it sat there like a nightmare that didn’t fade once morning came.
“Colin said this was the time for me to really think about who I want to be, creatively. Soon, I’ll be so wrapped up in trying to decide which college to attend and what I’m going to do with my life, and there will be no time left for myself, for just being me in the moment. Colin said I need to figure out who I am with minimal interference.”
“Apparently Colin talks a lot. But I think I understand.”
“Do you? Like I said, it’s nothing personal. Colin’s going to set up a gallery wall at his place. We’ve got some friends coming over to help.”
Trey’s desire to take pictures for a living was one of the many things Jesse and I had been in perfect agreement about—we both felt it was a bad idea. As the son and daughter of working-class people, we had trouble with our child pursuing a creative degree. Not because we were dismissive of art, but because we were distrustful of debt. We knew the true price of owing money, whether it was to the guy on the corner or Uncle Sam. Jesse had been quieter about his disapproval, assuming Trey would come to his senses, but I’d made the mistake of telling him photography would be a really nice hobby.
“So, basically you’re saying only rich people’s kids should get degrees in creative fields,” he’d huffed in response. “That’s so elitist. And you’re a hypocrite. You use your creativity to make a living.”
“I minored in business. My job relies more on those skills than anything. Maybe if you minored in photography and chose a major like accounting? Or, international business?”
“Could you see me in a suit?” he’d countered. “Like, sitting at the head of a table in some boardroom?”
Yes, I’d thought. I could. But then I could also see him living like the many photographers I knew through my job, scrambling for the next gig photographing a car dealership, or busy placating bridezillas at weekend weddings. It was a lifestyle that ended up producing more anxiety than artistic satisfaction.
When Jesse and I talked about it, late at night, I’d conceded that Trey had made some good points, but we needed to stick to our guns if we were going to put ourselves in financial peril to send him to the university of his choice. Stability was the name of the game. It was the thing that gave happiness a pedestal to stand on. Jesse agreed. Trey would come to understand this, he’d said.
But now, watching Trey twitch with the need to leave, I realized that maybe I should have been encouraging and optimistic, even if I had to fake it. “Well,” I began after quickly gathering my thoughts and strategizing, “if you think you can do some self-reflecting at Colin’s, then I’m not going to stand in your way.”
“You’re not?” He was always skeptical of me, always questioning my sincerity.
“Nope. I’ll even drive you. Just give me a minute to change clothes.”
“Colin’s already on his way,” Trey said, smiling as he got to his feet. “I’ll text you later, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, comforted only that he still needed my consent, even if it was perfunctory.
Later, when I was alone, I sat staring into the patch of dirt in my backyard. After a while, I grabbed the garden spade and did the only thing that made me feel better. I dug.