chapter twenty

MEREDITH

Nolan and I barely talk the week following our anniversary, and when we do, our exchanges are strained and formal. I’m not sure whether I’d call it a stalemate or a standoff or simply the calm before the storm, but I find myself seriously contemplating his “suggestion” that I go to New York. I can’t imagine leaving Harper for more than a few days, but the prospect of spending some time alone becomes something of an obsession. It doesn’t help my mental state that I’ve just been staffed on a mammoth product liability case with Larry Goldman, the biggest asshole partner in the firm, who gave me a scathing review last year because I dared to miss a deposition when I came down with a 103-degree fever.

When I give Ellen the update over the phone one morning, she tells me I’m welcome to stay at her apartment in the city.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “Absolutely.”

“Oh, thank you…It would only be for a few days….”

“Stay as long as you want. Stay a week.”

“I don’t know…I think I’d feel too guilty leaving Harper for longer than a couple of nights.”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty,” Ellen says. “I’m often gone from Isla a week at a time, and she’s totally fine with Andy and his parents.”

“That’s different—you’re actually working,” I say.

“Yes. But we all need time to ourselves sometimes,” Ellen says. “It doesn’t make you a bad mother.”

“Maybe not,” I say, thinking that it might not make me a bad mother, but I’m pretty sure the way I’m feeling does make me a lousy wife.

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, I call in the big guns and meet with Amy, telling her everything I told Ellen, only more candidly. She listens intently, then says, “Why New York?”

I frown, thinking for a few seconds before I say, “I don’t know why Nolan suggested New York. Maybe because that’s where I lived when we started to date…maybe because he knows I’d have a free place to stay there—my friend Ellen has an apartment….Honestly, though, it doesn’t have to be New York. I just want to get away. From him. From work. Even from Harper.”

I wait for a lofty psychological explanation—something about how common my feeling is among mothers with young children.

Instead, she simply says, “You should do it, Meredith. You should go now.” She looks into my eyes with her trademark confident, clear-eyed stare.

My heart skips a beat. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.” She nods again, her bob in full motion.

“And do what, exactly?” I say, wanting to be clear about the permission slip she’s signing for me.

“Take a vacation. Maybe even a short leave of absence, as Nolan suggested. Go to New York. Alone.”

I shake my head. “They’ll never let me take a leave, especially now that I’m on this big case….”

“Yes, they will,” she says. “Especially if you tell them you need the time for your health.”

“You mean imply I have cancer or something?” I look at her, appalled.

“No, I’m talking about your mental health. Which can be just as critical.”

I sigh, considering the implications. “If I admit to some mental problem, then I’ll never make partner. Even if I go back to full-time.”

“First of all, they legally can’t hold that against you. Second of all, I didn’t realize that making partner was your dream?” she says, calling my bluff because she knows that making partner has never been something I cared much about. I mean, it would be a satisfying accomplishment; it would translate to more money; and it would make my parents very, very proud. But basically, I’m perfectly fine as a senior associate.

“It’s not my dream,” I say. “You know that.”

“Well, then? What’s your next excuse?”

I stare at her, my heart now racing. It was one thing when Nolan told me to go to New York. And even Ellen. It’s another thing altogether hearing it from Amy. “I guess I don’t have one,” I say.

“Okay, then. Tell your firm you need some time off. They’ll put someone else on this case. You’re replaceable.”

“What if I’m so replaceable that they fire me?”

She shakes her head, adamant. “They wouldn’t do that…especially not if you cite your health….But who knows? Maybe you’ll quit when you get home.”

“Maybe,” I say, wondering why I haven’t already. Was it nerve that I lacked? Or simply a viable alternative?

“There’s really no downside here,” Amy says. “So go home and book your flight, pack your bags, and head to New York City for a week or three….”

“Three weeks?” I say, her advice suddenly sounding so rash and extreme that I fleetingly question everything she’s telling me. “That’s out of the question. I could never be gone from Harper for longer than a week….Besides, wouldn’t that constitute abandonment?”

Amy shakes her head. “Absolutely not. A few weeks away does not an abandonment make…and after all—it was Nolan’s idea. Your husband made you the very kind offer to take some time to think—”

I interrupt her, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t call it ‘kind.’ I’d call it passive-aggressive. I actually don’t think that he thinks I’ll do it.”

“All the more reason,” she says.

“How do you figure?”

“Because this is just another sign that you aren’t on the same page. He’s challenging you, your love for your family, maybe even your mothering.”

“Okay…so doesn’t going to New York simply prove to him that I’m somehow inadequate?”

“Do you feel inadequate?” Amy asks.

I consider the question carefully, then say, “Sometimes. Yes.”

“Because you need some time to yourself?”

“Well, yeah,” I say, biting my lip. “Because I want to be alone. Among other reasons.”

Amy pushes her hair behind one ear, then the other, and says my name calmly, reassuringly. “Meredith, all mothers occasionally fantasize about an escape. Taking some time off. You, however, are in the unique position to actually take that time. You have financial security…and a husband who has given you his permission, albeit passive-aggressive permission. So go. Think. Decide what it is you want and need. Maybe it’s a divorce. Maybe it’s a new career. Maybe it’s nothing more than a little time to yourself and a fresh perspective on things. Regardless, I do believe that you’ll be an even better mother on the other end of some reflection.”

I smile, grateful for the inclusion of the word even. I tell myself that I am a pretty good mother, otherwise I might have been long gone by now.

“If you end up happier…this could really be a gift to Harper in the long run.”

“Maybe,” I say, frowning as I picture my daughter’s face peering at me in her darkened bedroom, telling me that she needs another story, a drink of water, or simply a “mommy cuddle.” She can’t even fall asleep in her own bed if I’m not sitting in the rocking chair beside her. How will she ever be okay for a week or more without me? I suddenly shift gears, fast-forwarding years from now, picturing Harper as a young woman sitting in an office like this one while she discusses her deep-seated issues. How they all stem from the time her mother left her when she was only four.

I hear Amy say my name.

I look at her. “Hmm?”

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “I just don’t know if I can do this….”

“Yes, you can,” she says.

I take a deep breath, then exhale as Amy reassures me that Harper will be fine. “She’ll be with her father and grandparents and aunt, in competent, loving hands.”

“I wouldn’t call my sister particularly competent,” I say, but feel my first real urge to talk to her since our fight, if only for Harper’s sake.

“Harper will be fine,” Amy says again. “And you, Meredith, need to find a way to be fine, too.”

THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up and decide to go for it. Take Nolan’s dare, Ellen’s offer, Amy’s advice, and most important, follow my own gut. I take a shower, put on my best black suit and heels, and get to the firm early, even before the most dogged associates with no children or personal lives. I head straight for my office and promptly begin to take inventory of my cases, realizing, with some mixed feelings, that Amy is right—I am indispensable on absolutely nothing. A very small, insignificant, albeit overworked cog.

About an hour later, I work up the nerve to send an email to our managing partner, Mike Molo, requesting a short meeting with him. I am pretty sure Molo has no clue who I am, our only real interaction occurring on the elevator when he asks me to push the button for floor sixteen, one above mine. So I’m flabbergasted when I spot him in the hallway outside my office, reading my name plate, an expandable Redweld file in one hand, a Starbucks Venti in the other. After confirming that he has the correct utterly replaceable associate, he takes a sideways step, now filling my doorway, and says, “Good morning, Meredith.”

“Good morning, Mike,” I say, my heart pounding as I stand to meet his gaze.

“You wanted to talk about something?” he asks, his voice as imposing as his frame.

“Yes….Yes, I do…but I would have…come to you,” I stammer.

“It’s okay. I was in the neighborhood. Why don’t we have a seat?” he says, pointing to my desk chair.

I sit back down as he walks the rest of the way into my office, glances around the crammed quarters, then eases himself into the chair across from my desk.

“So what’s up?” he asks, taking a long sip of coffee, as if we’re old pals, or at least equals.

I take a deep breath, then give him my rehearsed opener. “Well, first of all, I’d like to say that I’ve been working at this firm for more than seven years…and that I’ve had mostly excellent reviews….And I have met or exceeded my billable requirements every year, both as a full-time associate, and after my daughter was born, as a part-time associate.”

“Yes. You have an excellent reputation. Thank you for your fine work and commitment.” He nods, looking serious, but I detect a sparkle of something in his eyes, like he knows what’s coming and is somehow amused by it. “So what are you working on these days?” he asks.

“The Lambert case,” I say, trying, likely unsuccessfully, to hide my distaste. “Pretty much exclusively.”

He whistles, then winces. “Ohh. Sorry to hear that. Goldman’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I say, giving him a genuine smile. “He is, indeed.”

Molo grins, then says, “So is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Goldman?”

“Oh, no. Not exactly. Actually, not at all…” I babble. “I just wanted to talk about work in general….”

“Okay. Let’s cut to the chase. Are you resigning? Or just requesting a leave of absence?” He takes his last sip of coffee, then aims the cup toward my wastebasket, a full four or five feet away. He makes the shot, then says, “Because I would really recommend the latter.”

Stunned, I say, “Yes, sir. The latter. I would love the latter.”

“How long do you want?” he asks.

“Two weeks? Maybe three?”

He raises his brows and says, “You sure that’s all?”

“Three would be amazing.”

Molo nods, then says, “How about a month?”

My smile turns into a grin. “Thank you so much. A month would be amazing.”

“Fabulous. Enjoy,” he says, glancing at his watch, then abruptly standing. “Just tell Goldman and HR I signed off on this. See you in a month. I hope you come back. But Godspeed either way.”

Then, before I can thank him, let alone process the magnitude of the gift he’s just bestowed upon me, my boss’s boss winks and walks out the door.