call me at least once a week, even now that he’s back in Hamilton, though I mostly ignore these phone calls because he’s married to my best friend, Daisy. I don’t have time to talk to them both, and anything I tell her, she can pass along to him.
Not to mention, lately I feel like he’s been operating as a spy for our mom during these weekly chats. He can’t help but ask about my job, my future, my investment holdings, my love life—can’t we just argue politics or religion like a normal dysfunctional family?
Even now, there’s a voicemail from him waiting for me on my cell phone, telling me about a housewarming party, but I have no time to call him back because I’m currently circling the toilet bowl of life. I’m late for work again, and I’m tripping into my heels as I rush out the door. My coffee is in one hand. My keys and cell phone balance precariously in the other. A banana is wedged in my mouth and a granola bar tucks into the front of my bra. I bolt out of my apartment, lock up, and turn just in time to find my landlord, Mr. Hall, pruning his herb garden across the covered pathway. He looks so innocent with those tiny shears, but I know better. Those damn herbs have already been trimmed to perfection. He’s outside, pretending to garden for another reason.
“Ah, Madeleine, there you are,” he says, removing his protective eyewear. As if stray rosemary clippings are the most underreported causes of gardening death in America.
I rush past him, waving as I go. After all, with my banana in place, I can hardly carry on a conversation.
“I need to talk to you about rent!” he shouts after me.
I wave again and then add a thumbs up just for good measure. I hold out hope that he means Rent the musical, but I’m reasonably sure it’s about money. I’m not sure why he bothers. Mr. Hall and I have a very healthy arrangement going where he asks for rent on the first of the month and I pay him piecewise on the subsequent days of the month. But what I lack in timely payment, I make up for in baked goods. Mr. Hall hasn’t wanted for banana bread in the three years I’ve lived here. Muffins, cookies, and cakes have rained down on him like some sort of delicious plague from the Book of Revelations.
I do recognize, however, that I’m pushing it more than normal this month. I’m majorly overdue, but I have every intention of paying him—just as soon as I make it to work and earn a commission. That’s just what I intend to do, if only my car would start. It likes to pretend it’s going to fail on me once or twice a month. I slide onto the faded seat and twist the key, and it putters morosely.
“Come onnnnn,” I groan, twisting the key again.
There’s a low clicking noise, like it wants to start as desperately as I want it to.
I mimic the people in movies and TV, pumping the lifeless gas pedal before twisting the key once more, nearly hard enough to break it in two. The starter clicks pathetically and then, by some miracle, my car sputters to life.
“YES. THANK YOU!” I shout to myself, banging my hands against the steering wheel.
I do not have time for car issues this morning. I look at the bright red clock on my dashboard; I’m already five minutes late for our staff meeting. By the time I pull into the last available spot at the agency, I’m nearing the dreaded ten-minute mark. By that point, I should just feign illness and go home. But, as it is now, I skate into the room by the skin of my teeth and a half-dozen pairs of eyes snap up to look at me.
My boss, Helen, sits at the head of the conference table wearing an ill-fitting chartreuse dress. The rest of planet Earth has agreed to stop making chartreuse happen, but Helen isn’t quite ready to give up. The color makes her look ill, but I would never tell her that. Fanned out on either side of her are my fellow real estate agents, all women, all carbon copies of one another. There’s a leader, of course—Lori Gleland. She’s positioned on Helen’s right side and she watches me enter the room with a thin, arched brow carefully raised.
“Is this your third late