“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.