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Something wakes me up, some pain in my stomach, and I sit up in bed.
I lunge to my bathroom and take a crouching position before the toilet. Beads of perspiration form on my upper lip. My head is hot and then cool. I’ve got a fever and—oh no, I’m going to be sick soon. The gross feeling is getting worse.
I see Eva’s shadow just as I start to retch. My eyes burn and tear with the acid bitterness. My nose burns, and my throat’s raw and on fire.
And just when I think it’s all over, it starts again.
I’m nearly crying when Eva pushes a cool, damp washcloth into my hand. “Here, Mom, wipe your face. It helps.”
I look up at her, grimace at the acid burning in my nose and mouth. Yet with her standing there, smiling bravely at me, I think she’s right. A cool washcloth always helps.
“Thanks, baby,” I croak even as my stomach starts churning again.
“Can I do anything?” she asks.
I don’t want her here to watch me barf. It’s bad enough going through it myself. “No, baby, just go back to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
“Okay.”
She kisses the top of my head and leaves, and not a moment too soon. As she closes my door, I clutch the toilet, gag, and am sick all over again.
Tiana wakes me up the next morning with a phone call. I drag myself out of bed to grab the phone from the bedside table. “Hey,” I croak into the receiver. “How are you?”
“Better than you. You sound like hell, Marta. You okay?”
“I’ve got the flu. Was up most of the night.” I shudder just remembering.
“Yuck, poor thing. A bug’s been going around the studio here, but I’ve missed it, thank God.” She pauses. “I won’t keep you long, then, but thought I’d check. I have a chance to interview Laura Bush. She’s stumping with the president, and they’re going to be making a last minute campaign sweep through the West Coast, ending in Seattle. Hoped I’d have a chance to see you if I came up.”
“When is it?”
“End of next week. Will you be around?”
“Definitely. I’m not going anywhere, at least not anytime soon.”
“Okay. I’ll call back and set something up with you once the trip details are finalized.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Now take care of yourself and get rid of that bug. Hear me?”
“Hear you loud and clear, Tits.” She laughs, and I even manage a shaky grin as we say good-bye and hang up.
But once I hang up, my eyes feel scratchy and I feel horribly emotional. I feel like crap. I can’t drag myself from bed. But I can’t stay here feeling bad, either. I’ve got Eva, and even if I feel like death warmed over, I still have to take care of her.
Monday morning, Eva’s planning on going to school, and I’ve snuck out for a very slow run. I still don’t feel a hundred percent, and it could be the stress I’m feeling regarding work and cutting short the Freedom Bike Group meeting.
I know it’s impossible to have everything. I know professional moms have to juggle their responsibilities at home and work. But even after nine years, it doesn’t get easier.
When Eva’s sick, I miss work. When Eva has a school holiday, I miss work. When Eva needs extra homework help, I miss work.
But what else can I do? Hire a nanny again? Someone to step in and be a surrogate me?
Today I run, albeit slowly, to quiet the tumultuous voices inside me, the ones that make me frightened instead of fearless. I’m running to remind myself that I won’t be afraid. I won’t be timid. I won’t be intimidated by life.
As I run, I repeat a silly mantra, but it helps. It works. The mantra goes like this: I like challenges. I welcome the unknown. I welcome change. I can handle anything. I can do anything. I’m wonderful at what I do.
It sounds funny when you say it aloud, but as I run, with the music playing in my earphones and my feet hitting the pavement, one step after another, it makes a difference. It reminds me to take the risks I need to take to do what I want to do.
I’ve traveled down Points Drive to 84th, 84th to 8th Street, and then 8th to 92nd, and I’m on my way home, approaching the stop sign at 24th Street, when I see a beaten-up stone-colored Land Rover coming toward me.
My heart does a funny free fall, and I go cold all over. I know that Land Rover, and I recognize the massive arm resting on the door.
I try to speed up, to pass the Land Rover more quickly, but a squirrel dashes across the road and then stops abruptly in the middle, forgetting why it’s running in the first place.
Luke brakes before he reaches the squirrel, braking nearly next to me.
I try not to look at the Land Rover, and I definitely don’t want to make eye contact with Luke, but it’s way too awkward not to.
In the early morning light, the interior of his vehicle is dark, but as I pass him, Luke turns his head and I see him.
His gaze fixes on me, and it’s the same direct gaze it’s always been. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, and there’s dark color high in his cheekbones and his hair is damp, as though he’s just been working out.
He looks at me with that steady, long, unsmiling gaze of his, yet his pale blue eyes always make me think of heat. Fire.
“Hey,” I say, nodding and trying to smile even as I push a long dark strand of hair back from my face. My hand is suddenly shaking, and I realize the lower half of me is, too. I’m nervous, and I don’t even know why.
“How are you?” he asks, leaning slightly out the window.
“Good,” I answer briskly. I will myself to start running again, but my legs don’t move.
“How’s work?”
“Great,” I say even more brightly, yet I don’t feel good right now, I feel bad. I feel . . . hurt. He never called. He never e-mailed. He just pursued me and then, after taking me out for dinner, kind of dropped me. “And you? How are things in your world?”
“Uh, good. Busy. I just got back from three weeks in China.”
Three weeks in China? Has he been there ever since our dinner? “When did you get back?”
“Last night.” A car appears behind Luke’s Land Rover, and with a glance into his rearview mirror, he pulls over onto the side of the road.
I slowly approach his driver’s-side door. “I didn’t know you were heading to China.”
He grimaces, runs a hand through his short, reddish gold hair, spiking it on end. “I didn’t either. A problem popped up the night we were out to dinner. I was on the first plane out in the morning.”
I nod, but I’m still upset, which is silly. My ego can’t be this fragile. “So that’s why you didn’t call?”
I don’t know if it’s the flinty note in my voice or my question, but Luke arches one eyebrow. “Was I supposed to?”
I’ve given myself away, revealed that I do care and that my feelings were hurt. How mortifying. I usually play my cards closer to my chest.
“You could have called me,” he adds. “Or e-mailed.”
“I don’t have your e-mail address,” I say flatly. “And I don’t call men.”
“That’s old-fashioned.”
I glance at my watch, checking the time I’ve been gone. It’s nearly half an hour since I left for my run. “Eva’s home alone. I better get back.”
But Luke doesn’t let me off the hook so easily. “You wanted to go out again?”
I turn and look at him. His expression is hard, almost fierce, and my heart gallops off like a high-strung horse.
“I enjoyed your company,” I say simply. “But at the same time, I don’t want to lead you on.”
The edge of his mouth quirks, and his blue gaze hardens. “Do you always put the cart before the horse, Marta?”
My face flames. I deserved that. I struggle to find the right note. “I just don’t like wasting time—yours or anybody else’s.”
“Spending time with friends is never a waste.”
A lump fills my throat. “I’m a friend?”
He
gives me a penetrating look. “What do you think?”
I have to go now. I’m feeling disgustingly emotional. “Maybe coffee this week?”
Luke releases the clutch. “You call me.”
“But—”
He shakes his head, cutting me short. “You want to see me, you call me.” He takes off.
I watch his Land Rover disappear and then force myself to move again. My legs feel impossibly heavy, though, and the run home is hard.
I tell myself it’s the morning mist that makes the run feel extra long. I mentally add that I’m still recovering from the flu. But the truth is, it’s Luke and the conversation we’ve just had.
I do want to see him. I’d love nothing more than to meet him for a cup of coffee. But call him? I haven’t called a man, pursued a man, in so many years that I don’t think I can anymore.
Outside my house, I lean against the wall and stretch my hamstrings. My muscles feel tight, and my mind keeps replaying the conversation with Luke.
Should I be offended or encouraged that he wants me to call him?
Does it make sense to call him?
God, I don’t know, and frankly, I hate the way I obsess about him. I dwell on him way too much. And it’s not my cavewoman wiring telling me to mate. It’s not. It can’t be.
I’m not a cavewoman, and he’s not a caveman. We’re both modern people, and I happen to be one very independent, self-sufficient person.
