alone. We need an expert, Brad. Don’t you know someone who can help?”
He goes to his desk and returns with his cell phone. “I do have someone I use occasionally with divorce cases. Steve Pohlonski. He’s pretty good at detective work. But I can’t guarantee he can find Johnny Manns.”
“He’s got to!” I cry, suddenly desperate to find my father. “If he can’t, there’s got to be someone else who can. I won’t stop until I find this man.”
Brad studies me and nods. “Good for you. This is the first time I’ve seen you embrace a goal with enthusiasm. I’m proud of you.”
He’s right. It’s no longer my mom pushing me to accomplish goal number nineteen. It’s no longer that girl’s goal. A relationship with my father is something I want with all my heart, something I’ve wanted my whole life.
I leave the office wondering why it is I have this strange need to please Brad. Like my mother, he seems certain I can obtain these goals. Together, maybe we really will make my mom proud. Before I have time to ponder further, my phone rings. I open the double doors to Randolph Street and fish my phone from my purse.
“Brett Bohlinger? This is Susan Christian from the Chicago Public Schools. We’ve received your application and immunization records, and we’ve conducted your background check. I’m happy to say everything looks satisfactory. You’re now eligible to substitute-teach. Congratulations.”
A blast of October wind smacks me in the face. “Uh, okay, thanks.”
“We need a fifth-grade sub tomorrow at Douglas J. Keyes Elementary, in Woodlawn. Are you available?”
I ’m lying in bed with my novel, reading the same paragraph for the third time, when I hear the door open. I used to be so happy to see Andrew at the end of the day. Now my chest constricts and I have trouble breathing. I need to tell him the truth, but at ten o’clock at night, when he’s exhausted and needs to relax, it hardly seems the time. At least that’s how I rationalize it.
I slap shut my book and listen to him rifle through the cabinets and the fridge. Next I hear the sound of his feet slogging up the stairs to our bedroom as if he’s wearing forty-pound boots. I can always gauge Andrew’s mood by the sound of his feet as they climb the steps. Tonight he’s exhausted and discouraged.
“Hey,” I say, tossing aside my book. “How was your day?”
He plops down on the edge of the bed holding a bottle of Heineken. His face is ashy, and dark circles hover like crescent moons beneath his eyes. “You’re in bed early.”
I glance at the bedside clock. “It’s almost ten. You’re just later than usual. Can I get you some dinner?”
“I’m okay.” He slides his tie down his chest and unbuttons his miraculously crisp blue shirt. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” I say, feeling my blood pressure soar at the thought of tomorrow’s substitute-teaching assignment. “But tomorrow’s going to be a bitch. Big meeting with some new clients.”
“You’ll adjust. Your mother handled it. You will, too.” He takes a swig of beer. “Catherine being helpful?”
I wave dismissively. “She runs the place, just like she always did.” Dear Jesus! I’m walking a wire, and I need to get off before I slip! I gather my knees to my chest and lock them in a hug. “Tell me about your day.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “It sucked. Got a client who’s accused of murdering a nineteen-year-old for throwing a rock at his Hummer.” He sets his beer on a coaster and goes to his closet. “Makes running a cosmetics company look like a day at Disney.”
Though I’m not running the company, nor am I even a menial advertising exec, the insult hits its mark like a knuckle sandwich. As far as he knows, I’m the president of that cosmetics company. Therefore I’d appreciate a modicum of respect, and frankly, a bit of awe and admiration as well. I open my mouth to defend myself, but snap it shut before I utter the
He goes to his desk and returns with his cell phone. “I do have someone I use occasionally with divorce cases. Steve Pohlonski. He’s pretty good at detective work. But I can’t guarantee he can find Johnny Manns.”
“He’s got to!” I cry, suddenly desperate to find my father. “If he can’t, there’s got to be someone else who can. I won’t stop until I find this man.”
Brad studies me and nods. “Good for you. This is the first time I’ve seen you embrace a goal with enthusiasm. I’m proud of you.”
He’s right. It’s no longer my mom pushing me to accomplish goal number nineteen. It’s no longer that girl’s goal. A relationship with my father is something I want with all my heart, something I’ve wanted my whole life.
I leave the office wondering why it is I have this strange need to please Brad. Like my mother, he seems certain I can obtain these goals. Together, maybe we really will make my mom proud. Before I have time to ponder further, my phone rings. I open the double doors to Randolph Street and fish my phone from my purse.
“Brett Bohlinger? This is Susan Christian from the Chicago Public Schools. We’ve received your application and immunization records, and we’ve conducted your background check. I’m happy to say everything looks satisfactory. You’re now eligible to substitute-teach. Congratulations.”
A blast of October wind smacks me in the face. “Uh, okay, thanks.”
“We need a fifth-grade sub tomorrow at Douglas J. Keyes Elementary, in Woodlawn. Are you available?”
I ’m lying in bed with my novel, reading the same paragraph for the third time, when I hear the door open. I used to be so happy to see Andrew at the end of the day. Now my chest constricts and I have trouble breathing. I need to tell him the truth, but at ten o’clock at night, when he’s exhausted and needs to relax, it hardly seems the time. At least that’s how I rationalize it.
I slap shut my book and listen to him rifle through the cabinets and the fridge. Next I hear the sound of his feet slogging up the stairs to our bedroom as if he’s wearing forty-pound boots. I can always gauge Andrew’s mood by the sound of his feet as they climb the steps. Tonight he’s exhausted and discouraged.
“Hey,” I say, tossing aside my book. “How was your day?”
He plops down on the edge of the bed holding a bottle of Heineken. His face is ashy, and dark circles hover like crescent moons beneath his eyes. “You’re in bed early.”
I glance at the bedside clock. “It’s almost ten. You’re just later than usual. Can I get you some dinner?”
“I’m okay.” He slides his tie down his chest and unbuttons his miraculously crisp blue shirt. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” I say, feeling my blood pressure soar at the thought of tomorrow’s substitute-teaching assignment. “But tomorrow’s going to be a bitch. Big meeting with some new clients.”
“You’ll adjust. Your mother handled it. You will, too.” He takes a swig of beer. “Catherine being helpful?”
I wave dismissively. “She runs the place, just like she always did.” Dear Jesus! I’m walking a wire, and I need to get off before I slip! I gather my knees to my chest and lock them in a hug. “Tell me about your day.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “It sucked. Got a client who’s accused of murdering a nineteen-year-old for throwing a rock at his Hummer.” He sets his beer on a coaster and goes to his closet. “Makes running a cosmetics company look like a day at Disney.”
Though I’m not running the company, nor am I even a menial advertising exec, the insult hits its mark like a knuckle sandwich. As far as he knows, I’m the president of that cosmetics company. Therefore I’d appreciate a modicum of respect, and frankly, a bit of awe and admiration as well. I open my mouth to defend myself, but snap it shut before I utter the
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