Page 115 of Pick-Up
But then, as I bend to hide my face and help pack up a tripod with my back to him, he adds: “But I had a single mother. And I think what you’re doing for your kids is really nice.”
I turn to look at him, surprised. “Thank you, Peter.”
“They’ll remember,” he says, then he goes back to work.
I hold back tears.
Then the others appear. One by one, they trudge through white sand toward us.
The others, that is, except Ethan, who is notably absent. His perfect T-shirt of the day still packed in his suitcase or worn behind closed doors. I am part relieved and part sad. This is easier, I tell myself as I tear my eyes away from our villa for the eight hundredth time.
Stephanie arrives next to me, holding out a fresh cup of coffee. I take it gratefully. “That didn’t go how I expected at all with you guys,” she says, following my gaze. “My radar is usually so on point.” Then she shakes her head and walks away.
I want to agree. I want to say,Me either. I want to ask her why she thinks Ethan didn’t text to check in last night or this morning. Why he didn’t try to make up or talk things through, even though I know I might have told him it was pointless. I want to tell her how I stared at that door separating our rooms as I lay on my side in bed the night before, a portal to a different outcome, thinking about how we could have at least made use of it for one last night. Maybe? If we hadn’t imploded.
But I don’t. Because, though I haven’t maintained my countenance at all times, I am now Professional Sasha, for real. And PS doesn’t freak out over a PT. Or, in this case, the absence of one.
I am able to oversee the entire final shoot before it’s time to leave. That’s the good news. By noon, I have hugged all those in attendance goodbye (no Martin, no Ethan). I am on that small plane again, hovering over the transparent sea with Jimmy and the head of housekeeping, who is taking a day off on Provo to celebrate her sister’s birthday.
By 3:43 p.m., I am on a flight to JFK, surrounded by strangers. I am no one special. I no longer have a villa or remote-control shades. I no longer can depend on Michael and his golf cart. I no longer have an outdoor shower—or anyone to defile me in it.
The more time passes, the bluer I feel and I can’t sort out which part is bugging me most: Am I disappointed or angry? Am I upset about my argument with Ethan or about its lack of resolution? About getting my hopes up or having them dashed? About glimpsing something I hadn’t in years or the fall from grace when it fell apart? About sleeping with someone else’s ex-husband or about caring too much what others might think? Or am I most mad at myself for trashing this career opportunity?
Last night, when Ethan and I clashed, was my rage about my stress? About the way life is unfair? About how his cavalier attitude reminded me of Cliff? About how it’s different in amicable divorces? About the fact that I—and not Ethan—have to choose between my responsibilities and my freedom?
About how I’m afraid?
Or was it about being called out in front of people? Being portrayed as overprotective and matronly? Having my worries reduced to hysterical womanhood?
I have none of the answers. What I do have is a job well-done, at least. A week or so to work with the editor to deliver the finished footage, which I think will be strong. And two kids at home, equally excited to both see me and, the following day, to count the number of Sour Skittles pouches in their stuffed jack-o’-lanterns. And that is a lot.
When I turn my keys in the door at home, they cheer. Before I even see their little faces, I have to smile. I always miss them most when I return.
Nettie swings the door wide open, almost smacking Bart in the face inadvertently.
“Mommy!” she yelps. She throws her arms around my waist and sighs. Bart is the baby. I worry about him. But, of course, as grown up as she seems, Nettie needs me too. Parroting his sister, Bart runs up a few seconds late and wraps his arms around one of my legs. The one with the jellyfish bite. There is pain involved.
I grin up through the hurt at my mom and dad, who picked the kids up from Celeste’s this afternoon and returned them home.
“Hi, guys!” I say. “I can’t walk.”
“All right, all right,” my mom says, as she holds open the door, which has come to rest against my foot. “Give the woman some space! Let her inside.”
Nettie gives me the deets on everything that happened while I was away, including the field trip she almost missed, which turned out to be so fun. When she comes up for air, I turn to Bart.
“How about you? What did you do while I was gone?”
He thinks for a minute, and then he shrugs. “I don’t know!” But then he pulls seven thousand crumpled drawings out of his backpack to show me. Mostly of spooky ghosts.
I show them pictures of the lizards and tell them about my stingray.
By the time the kids are fed and in bed, I am beyond exhausted. It’s been a transportation triathlon. I feel like I trekked home from the Caribbean instead of flew.
“We’re going to go,” my mom says as she and my father slip on their coats. She can read me like a book.
“But we never got to talk,” I say, even as I yawn.
“Next time,” she says, wrapping a gray cashmere scarf around her neck. “Get some rest.”
