Page 5 of Plunge

CHAPTER FIVE

Thistle

One week down,I whisper as my alarm sounds by my head. I slap at my phone in frustration. Back home—I tend to think of my current apartment as “home” and this as the place I’m staying—I’m a morning person. I snap my eyes open ready to greet each day.

Back home, in my penthouse apartment now being occupied by a 23-year-old, the sounds of lower Manhattan usher me into my morning routine. At home, I sip fresh Italian espresso from the little shop on the ground floor of my building. I hail a cab to work, rocking my perfected New Yorker stance.

I close my eyes again and imagine my stilettoed feet splayed shoulder width, my hand extended confidently in the cab salute. “Aaah,” I groan and climb out of the twin bed. The wrought-iron frame squeaks as I stand up.

I tug on my high school track sweatpants and zip up my high school track hoodie. This has become my new uniform here in Oak Creek, where instead of brokering international mergers, I help my mother with tasks like using the toilet and eating oatmeal.

Today I have to rush a bit to help my mom get situated because I finally have that call set up with HR. Larry gets uncomfortable and cryptic each time I ask him about why it’s taking so long. I haven’t had much time to dwell on it, though.

Mom has had hours and hours of physical therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy. Some of these people come to the house and help me learn how to help her, but most of them work out of office buildings outside of town. I’ve been driving a station wagon. An automatic station wagon.

I shiver and remind myself that soon enough, I’ll be back behind the wheel of my Mercedes.

I consider asking Larry to arrange for someone to drive it here, but the thought of someone else behind the wheel of my baby is too distressing. She’s just fine in the garage for now.

I flick on the coffee pot in the kitchen, feeling grateful I could at least have Larry overnight coffee beans from my preferred shop. It doesn’t quite taste the same, but it’s a nice comfort.

I lean out the front door to snag the Oak Creek Gazette and set that up on the table next to my mom’s tablet device.

It turns out she can still type with her left hand and write out her thoughts. She just can’t form them into verbal words. Brain stuff is all very foreign to me, but her doctors say this is relatively common for stroke victims. I hate that word victim, but haven’t thought of a better one yet.

“Ok, Mom, you ready?” I call out to her as I walk down the hall. I’ve taken to narrating my entire day, which is really foreign to me and utterly exhausting. I can tell it’s useful for her, though. It just doesn’t feel right to barge into her room unannounced.

She pats my hand feebly and smiles, her eyes watery as I help her into fresh sweats. “Hey, we match,” I tell her, pointing out our twin Oak Creek High outfits. Between Rowan’s swim gear and my track stuff, she amassed quite a collection of spectator sweats.

Once I get her situated at the table, she types out a message on the iPad. The female robot voice says, “I love you so much, Thistle. Can we do peach oatmeal today?”

I smile at her. “I love you too, Mom. Peach oatmeal coming right up.” As I stir in the milk, I remind her about my call, that I’ll be unavailable for about an hour.

I feel a little uneasy about it, wishing I’d arranged for someone to come hang out with us at the house while I take the call. But who? It’s not like I’ve kept in touch with anyone. A few neighbors have dropped by with some generic offers for me to call them if I need anything, but how do I pick up the phone and call someone I haven’t spoken to for ten years and ask them to babysit my mother while I take a phone call.

Plus everyone’s super busy getting ready for Thanksgiving. I convince myself nobody here is interested in helping us.

I sigh, and slide the dish of oatmeal to my mother. She squeezes my hand lightly and, wobbling a bit, brings the spoon to her lips.

At 9:30, my cell buzzes in my hand and I point to it, making sure my mother sees. I walk down the hall to my bedroom and shut the door before I answer.

“Yes, good morning, Ms. McMurray. As you know, this is Nancy from Human Resources. I’m here on a recorded line, on speaker, with Walter Townson.”

“Excuse me?” Why is my boss in the room with the HR rep to talk about my family leave?

I hear Nancy clear her throat. “During today’s call, we will be discussing the terms of your leave of absence as per the policy—“

I stand up from my perch on the flowered duvet cover. “Leave? There must have been some sort of mistake. We’re talking about me taking some family leave here.”

“Thistle, it’s Walter.” I swallow. “You know the position you’re in is essential to our company’s success.”

“Thank you, Mr. Townson. I hope you know I have no intention of leaving my position at Smith and Townson!”

“Yes, well, here’s the thing, Thistle. We can’t simply do without you for two months.”

I’m so stunned by what he’s saying that I can’t think straight. Did Larry mess up this meeting somehow? I’ve emailed everyone at the company from the top down to say I’m using my vacation time and want to activate family leave for the rest of the time. “There must be some misunderstanding…”

Nancy pipes back in, saying, “Smith and Townson, while a global corporation, actually has fewer employees than the minimum number required for family medical leave accommodations. The bulk of the employees are in different locations and so—“

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