food line. “You schooled that flagpole” is a line that’s been haunting me for a while
.
Anyway, I have an HR situation I need a consult on. Can we hop on the line when you have a chance?
Best
,
Jeff Manning
I hit Send without reading it through, feeling like I’d asked her on a date. Which was ridiculous. Ridiculous.
Ping!
There was a reply from her in my inbox.
Jeff
,
Please call me Tish. And how could I forget your knight in shining armour act on the driving range? If you hadn’t dragged that guy away, there might’ve been a homicide
.
Besides, I
was
trying to school that thing, so no need to be haunted, if you were
.
Hop on whenever you’d like
.
Tish
A slight pause and then,
Tish
,
Hop on now?
Jeff
Seconds later,
Hop away
.
I glanced at her phone number and dialled it. My fingers felt shaky and I kept clearing my throat, like I had a cold coming on, which I didn’t.
Ring, ring
.
“Jeff,” she said, a laugh in her voice. “What took you so long?”
CHAPTER 10
Playing in the Dirt
I wake on Thursday feeling something , some measure, like myself. I have a bit of that thumping energy I get, the will to do something, something, I always have to be doing something. I want to leave the house so badly I wish I had somewhere to go to like Seth does. School, I want to go to school I realize as I’m eating my sugar-coated breakfast while trying to ignore the never-ending flow of my parents’ bickering. And I have a school to go to. My school.
With Beth’s encouragement and over my mother’s halfhearted protests, I shower, dress, make an attempt to arrange my hair, and walk to Playthings. The day promises glorious and the trees are greening. Life, it all screams. Life.
Driving’s still out of the question, but I leave the funeral pills behind. They make me too fuzzy, too lizard-brained, and if my mind’s now full of racing thoughts, at least they aren’t only about Jeff. The slow-motion slideshow of our life together that seems to wend endlessly through my brain hassmall commercial breaks.
We need some better food in the house. Seth should get a haircut. Is there any chance I might convince Beth to move home and, possibly, in with us?
It turns out that Playthings is exactly what I need. Not the work, or the bills waiting for my attention, or the lease that needs renegotiating, but the kids. When I enter the building and breathe in the familiar smell of fruit-based children’s snacks and papier-mâché materials, I decide to bypass my office and the red light I can see on my desk phone blinking
message, message, message
and head right for the primary colours.
I feel the strange looks aimed my way from some of the staff, but none of them try to dissuade me. The tiny little children don’t know any better. They have a new big person to pay attention to them; all’s right in their me, me, me world.
I play blocks, I read the same story about Thomas the Tank Engine (go,
Thomas, go, Thomas, go go go
) more times than I can count. I roll around on the floor and let the boys take out their aggression by pouncing on me with squeals of delight. I plunk out a few tunes on the child-sized piano, all off-chords and tinny sounds. When snack time arrives, I scoot around the low plastic table, scooping little Ruby Adams into my lap. We share a cut-up apple, some grapes, and a handful of Goldfish.
We play a game with the fish-shaped crackers, pretending they’re swimming in an imaginary sea. After snack comes nap time, and I’m as ready for it as the children are. Ruby pats the space next to her with her slightly yellowed fingers, and I tuck a plush toy under my head.
As I start to drift, the feel of the plastic mat underneath me knocks a new memory into my brain. And as much as I don’t want to think about it, I fall asleep to thoughts of the last time I was on a mat in this room, and with whom.
I leave Playthings before the parents start arriving for pickup, wanting to avoid the uncomfortable
.
Anyway, I have an HR situation I need a consult on. Can we hop on the line when you have a chance?
Best
,
Jeff Manning
I hit Send without reading it through, feeling like I’d asked her on a date. Which was ridiculous. Ridiculous.
Ping!
There was a reply from her in my inbox.
Jeff
,
Please call me Tish. And how could I forget your knight in shining armour act on the driving range? If you hadn’t dragged that guy away, there might’ve been a homicide
.
Besides, I
was
trying to school that thing, so no need to be haunted, if you were
.
Hop on whenever you’d like
.
Tish
A slight pause and then,
Tish
,
Hop on now?
Jeff
Seconds later,
Hop away
.
I glanced at her phone number and dialled it. My fingers felt shaky and I kept clearing my throat, like I had a cold coming on, which I didn’t.
Ring, ring
.
“Jeff,” she said, a laugh in her voice. “What took you so long?”
CHAPTER 10
Playing in the Dirt
I wake on Thursday feeling something , some measure, like myself. I have a bit of that thumping energy I get, the will to do something, something, I always have to be doing something. I want to leave the house so badly I wish I had somewhere to go to like Seth does. School, I want to go to school I realize as I’m eating my sugar-coated breakfast while trying to ignore the never-ending flow of my parents’ bickering. And I have a school to go to. My school.
With Beth’s encouragement and over my mother’s halfhearted protests, I shower, dress, make an attempt to arrange my hair, and walk to Playthings. The day promises glorious and the trees are greening. Life, it all screams. Life.
Driving’s still out of the question, but I leave the funeral pills behind. They make me too fuzzy, too lizard-brained, and if my mind’s now full of racing thoughts, at least they aren’t only about Jeff. The slow-motion slideshow of our life together that seems to wend endlessly through my brain hassmall commercial breaks.
We need some better food in the house. Seth should get a haircut. Is there any chance I might convince Beth to move home and, possibly, in with us?
It turns out that Playthings is exactly what I need. Not the work, or the bills waiting for my attention, or the lease that needs renegotiating, but the kids. When I enter the building and breathe in the familiar smell of fruit-based children’s snacks and papier-mâché materials, I decide to bypass my office and the red light I can see on my desk phone blinking
message, message, message
and head right for the primary colours.
I feel the strange looks aimed my way from some of the staff, but none of them try to dissuade me. The tiny little children don’t know any better. They have a new big person to pay attention to them; all’s right in their me, me, me world.
I play blocks, I read the same story about Thomas the Tank Engine (go,
Thomas, go, Thomas, go go go
) more times than I can count. I roll around on the floor and let the boys take out their aggression by pouncing on me with squeals of delight. I plunk out a few tunes on the child-sized piano, all off-chords and tinny sounds. When snack time arrives, I scoot around the low plastic table, scooping little Ruby Adams into my lap. We share a cut-up apple, some grapes, and a handful of Goldfish.
We play a game with the fish-shaped crackers, pretending they’re swimming in an imaginary sea. After snack comes nap time, and I’m as ready for it as the children are. Ruby pats the space next to her with her slightly yellowed fingers, and I tuck a plush toy under my head.
As I start to drift, the feel of the plastic mat underneath me knocks a new memory into my brain. And as much as I don’t want to think about it, I fall asleep to thoughts of the last time I was on a mat in this room, and with whom.
I leave Playthings before the parents start arriving for pickup, wanting to avoid the uncomfortable
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