took me in when I needed it, when he gave me the job that I certainly hadn’t earned. If I have to endure his wrath for my tardiness, so be it.
Doesn’t mean his words don’t wake up the nag in my head. Just like you to drop the ball. Did you expect anything different? You always fuck it up.
My usual weapon of defense isn’t helpful at the moment. Where’s the proof? Well, the proof is that I forgot about an important deadline. That’s the fucking proof.
But I have my laptop in hand now. I awkwardly open the computer as I head back to the kitchen, well aware that the pasta could boil over again if I don’t keep an eye on it. “Give me half a second,” I say, the mobile again propped up with my cheek. “I just need to get online and look it over. It should be a quick approval.”
Unless it isn’t. There’s been more than one occasion that I’ve had to send creative back twice.
Please God don’t let this be one of those times. I drop the laptop on the kitchen work top and study the image now on the screen. It’s good. I mean, it’s fine. It has all the elements I asked for, and the mistake from yesterday is gone.
I also suddenly have a flash of an idea, a different design altogether. More curved, less angular, a friendlier message for the alliance of three powerful companies.
It’s too late to pursue the vision now. What could be has to be left at what could have been. On too many occasions, it seems. Never enough time. Never enough energy. Never enough bandwidth.
A more talented artist would have seen it earlier.
I ignore the nag and forward the file to Edward. “I sent it. You should have it shortly.” Then I’m cursing again as I abandon the laptop to rescue the pasta. This time I turn down the flame when I return it to the burner.
“Got it,” Edward exclaims. He becomes more compassionate with his relief. “Is everything okay over there? It’s not like you to miss a deadline. Is there anything I should be concerned about?”
It’s a loaded question, isn’t it? Whether he means to or not, he’s reminding me of all the times he’s had to be concerned in the past. How often has he had to rescue me? He’s been a better knight than I could ever ask for, which is another privilege, really. Especially considering that I never would ask that of him if he ever gave me the option.
There’s the other reminder there too, of the time he didn’t know to be concerned. How different would things be if I’d told him earlier about Frank? If I’d told my brother about the beatings and the gaslighting and the verbal abuse years before, my escape might have come at less of a cost.
But I’m not faced with a foe now as I had been then. What is there in my privileged life to concern my brother about? I can imagine how the conversation would go.
“Parenting’s hard.”
“Then get more help.”
“It’s not as easy as that.”
“Should I send money?”
“That’s not the support I need.”
“Have you heard of an app called Tindr?”
The weight of depression is immeasurable outside of its confines. It’s indescribable. There are never words to express the burden of being underneath.
It’s a waste of time and energy to even discuss.
So I answer the question on the surface instead of the one he’s really asking. “Just a lot going on. Shelly’s on holiday, and Anwar called off sick, and Fred’s a handful.” I immediately feel guilty for even that. His baby is only two months old. How hard is it to run a billion dollar corporation when you never get a full night’s sleep? “You know how it is.”
“I do.” He hesitates. I can feel him warring with himself, wondering if he should pry. “Camilla…?”
I think of Hendrix on Saturday night, the way my name sounded hanging on his tongue. I’d wanted to say more then, too. I’d wanted to say more than I’d ever said, wanted to unburden everything on him. Wanted him to hold me and tell me I was okay.
But then I’d hid, like I always do. I don’t think I know any other way.
“I’m fine,” I say to Edward. “Really. But if I don’t get off the phone, my pasta is going to be overcooked.”
He laughs, likely because the man doesn’t have the slightest idea of what it takes to cook