Page 30 of Plunge

CHAPTER TWENTY

Thistle

THE QUIETEST PART of my day is always the hour or so my mom is back with one of her therapists. Physical, occupational, speech…they all work out of the same medical building about 20 minutes away and sometimes I can stack her appointments so I get a 2-hour block of time to mope about my career options.

Lately I’ve been wondering if I even want to go back to my job. I don’t blame them for the way they’ve had to approach me being gone, but I also feel unsettled by the whole thing. I definitely don’t want to stick with the straight up tax accounting I’m doing with Archer, even if it’s fun to look into the business aspect of a shooting range.

But I don’t know if there are other options.

I’m having one of those mornings where I feel like a listless failure. Mom pats my hand as we park and waves me away when I try to help her out of the car. She fishes for her cane alongside the passenger seat and balances it on the pavement like the therapist showed her.

“Watch,” she says, and grins because it’s the right word at the right time. She adjusts her weight and stands straight up out of the car and starts walking away. “Heel to toe. Heel to toe!” She shouts as she practically struts into the office.

I realize, watching her go, that’s she is getting to the point where she doesn’t need me as much. And then I’m blown away by the realization that this fact doesn’t fill me with relief or joy. No. Quite the opposite. As Mom leans on her cane like Fred Astaire, all I feel is dread.

What do I do now?

I suppose I could go move back into my apartment and…what? Live off my savings? I have a gap on my resume now and something tells me my stint working part time for a small-town CPA won’t be a competitive filler for high level positions.

I shout to Mom to have fun with her appointment and plunk down on a bench outside. It’s been unseasonably warm this past week and I can see a confused crocus trying to poke up through the mulch around the little tree out front of the building. “Wrong place at the wrong time, buddy,” I mutter.

My phone rings in my hand and I’m glad to see it’s Larry. “Hey!” I say, too eagerly. “How is everything?”

“Ugh!” He moans, exaggeratedly. “Well your replacement is totally competent and simultaneously nice. Plays golf. Smells good. I hate him for you.”

I laugh. “You don’t have to hate him. I’m glad he’s good to work for. How’s everything else, though?”

“Well, I’m never going back to Brooklyn. I’m moving into your guest bedroom permanently, so get used to that idea.” I laugh as he tells me about the building gossip—whose dog pooped in the elevator, who has been stuffing clothing down the garbage chute, and which neighbors he’s shipping.

“You are enjoying my house way more than I ever did, sounds like.”

“Well, yeah. You were never home,” he snorts. He’s got a point there. He sighs. “There is something, though. The super keeps leaving notes about the parking garage.”

“The parking garage…where I’ve got my car? Did something happen to it? Have you checked?”

He puffs a breath at me. “Relax. The car is fine.”

“Well what’s the issue?” My heart starts racing. I never should have left my car unattended this long. I could give two shits if the apartment burns to the ground, I’m surprised to find myself feeling, but the car is my baby. The car is the most expensive, luxurious thing I’ve ever bought.

A glistening black Mercedes Benz 300, it handles like a dream. After a long week at work, I love taking the car out of the city and opening her up on winding back roads. I find a little bed and breakfasts or inn and zoom there by myself, nestle into the sheets and wake up and head back refreshed. It’s literally my only hobby, which I also realize is a huge problem.

I decide to add it to the list of issues in my “mid-life crisis” file. “Larry, what’s wrong with the car?”

“Thistle!” He shouts. “The. Car. Is. Fine. They’re painting the garage and they sent a notice that everyone needs to find somewhere else to park for like two days.”

I pause for a minute, considering the problem, and Larry continues. “So…can I move your car?”

“No,” I blurt out immediately. “Absolutely not. Nobody drives my car.”

“Ok, well, you better get here quick because they’re painting on Monday.”

Shit. “Can you even drive a stick,” I ask him, knowing the answer before he starts laughing.

“Hell, I can’t drive at all! You know I grew up in Brooklyn, right?”

We talk for a bit longer about the beauty of excellent public transportation and I tell him I’ll call him back later when I have a plan.

I make my way inside to the waiting room and stop in my tracks when I see Fletcher Crawford sitting there reading an old issue of Oprah’s magazine.

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