Page 14 of Midlife Crisis

[Hank]

“I quit my job.” Instantly, I recognize her voice. Finally hearing from her, after her silence in the bathroom and no communication over the past few days, my heart taps an extra beat. Then I realize what she said.

“Wait, what?”

“Sweet cheese. What did I do?” She pauses. “I quit my job.” The hysteria in her voice warns me she’s on the verge of tears. I do not want her to go to pieces on the phone. I want to be there to pick them up for her, and I can’t do it from the crisis center. She called in again. Going against every oath I made, the code of conduct, and patient privacy, I do something I shouldn’t do.

“Hang up,” I snap.

“What?” Her voice cracks. This woman has haunted me for weeks, and I can’t subject our conversation to the recording of a hotline. Morally and ethically, it’s undeniably not right to say this to someone in need, but I repeat myself.

“Hang up.” A sharp gasp and the line goes dead.

Instantly, I dial another number from my personal cell phone, cursing as the line rings. “Come on, come on, come on,” I mutter.

“Hello?”

“Tommy, I’m calling in a favor.” A snort follows my request. Lord knows I owe him more than he owes me, but then again, this isn’t exactly true. I don’t have time for those thoughts, though. I need to get to someone. “I need Midge Everette’s number.”

“Why?” The sharp question startles me. Has she said something about me? Did she tell Edie what we did? What I did, and how she walked away? But then again, why did she finally call me?

The truth hits me like a sucker punch. She didn’t call me; she called the hotline. For a moment, I’m reminded of Kit—never calling me directly but sending someone to fetch me. I shake the memory and try again with Tommy.

“Look, something happened, and I need to speak to her.”

“Is she in danger?”

“No, nothing that extreme. Just…she needs me, and I don’t have her number.” I would have gotten her number had she not disappeared again after her son interrupted us. I lost her in the crowd of kids, parents, and the ongoing party.

“How do you know she needs you?” I didn’t. In fact, it might be I need her. There’s just something drawing me to her and I don’t want to look away. Maybe, I just want to make myself feel better about taking advantage of her. I overstepped boundaries, and I’ve tortured myself all week with what we’d done. I remind myself, she isn’t a groupie. She’s a lady.

“Tommy, I know you and I have history. And I know you have every reason to distrust me. But I have reason to distrust you. Can we just call it a draw for a second and you give me the number of a woman who needs my help?” Silence follows a beat.

“Darlin’, can you get me Midge’s number?” There’s a shuffle, and I’m assuming he covers the phone to give a brief relay to his wife before he comes back to me. “If you fuck her, I mean really fuck her, you better not fuck her over. Don’t make me regret this.” Seconds later, he gives me the digits.

“I owe you.” I hang up without further explanation.

It’s Hank. Answer this number. I text and then hit send. Then I dial her number. It goes to voicemail.

Fuck.

I try again.

And again.

Finally, she picks up.

A quiet sniffle crosses the line.

“Don’t cry, Middy baby. Talk to me.” Her silent tears kill me. I project back to the days of Kit, but I don’t want to go there. This isn’t her. Midge is nothing like my former lover. “Tell me what happened.”

“I work for Bigle Marketing. We design graphics, event displays, and campaigns for clients. I like my job, I really do, but my boss…” She exhales. “I can’t stand her. How can women be so insensitive to other women? A mother to another mother?”

I don’t actually know what she means about motherhood, but I know how cruel women can be to each other. I saw it often enough with Kit and how the other female artists were jealous of her success. My silence causes her to continue.

“She just pushed me too far today. I mean, I work hard. I give everything to my job when I’m there, and too often work over weekends and holidays. I have something for Liam this weekend and she asked me to work on a campaign she refused to give me in the first place. Mark Vanderburg needs a vacation,” Midge mocks. “I snapped. I’m just…I’m over it. I’m over everything.”

“What do you mean ‘everything’?” I sit back in the rickety swivel chair. I have got to replace this thing. Swiping a hand over my hair, I hold my breath, waiting for her reply.