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Fine. Well, as long as we’re on the subject . . .
“And less demanding,” I add.
She nods in stride, as though we’re talking about something as objective and impersonal as the latest stock-market numbers and not all her pitfalls. But it’s an enjoyable experience, telling her all the ways she drives me crazy and having her, for once, take it all in. Like a flash sale where I decide to run in and grab everything I can, I throw out every issue with her I can think of while the doors are still open.
And sure enough, she studiously writes it all down.
And for several minutes, it feels like I’m experiencing that impossible moment when you wish on a loose eyelash and then blow it away, and your wish actually comes true.
But after about ten minutes, the euphoria starts to wear off. She looks so sincere and earnest, I can’t help slowing down. I take a step toward her. Cautiously take the legal pad from her while she writes.
She looks up.
“Are you happy, Olivia?”
For a moment she gives me an incredulous look.
“I don’t mean right now. I mean, in general. Are you happy?”
She looks around her room, looking to give it real thought.
“Because I don’t know about you,” I say, “but I’ve lived under your roof for a while now, and I’ve seen the cost of what success really is. It doesn’t seem so bad at first. From a distance, when I lived with Lyla, all I heard about were your new promotions, your published papers, your marathons, nonprofit creations, and admissions into doctorate programs. But from up close, I see how hard you push yourself to do everything. Not just everything, but everything at once. Lunges while cooking for the elderly, while listening to audiobooks in French. Biking while wedding planning, while calling it a ‘date.’ Ferris couldn’t live under that kind of pressure. And maybe you might consider slowing down and really asking yourself if you can either. If you can happily.”
“Can I . . .” I can see Olivia’s hand is itching for the legal pad, and no doubt by Monday morning, if I don’t manage to really get this across to her, there’ll be a stack of self-help books a ceiling high waiting for her beside her Peloton.
“You’ve tried to persuade me to take up your lifestyle for a while,” I continue. “Why don’t you let me persuade you to live mine for a little bit and see how it goes?”
Several moments pass in silence. As if the very idea is too stunning for words.
“So . . . if I tried living like you—”
“I’d watch that attitude,” I interject.
“Then,” she continues, shifting tone, “what would you recommend I do? Now?”
“I think you should finish your ice cream and then take a nice long nap,” I say. “And on Monday morning, first thing, I think you should make an appointment for the Float Spot.”
* * *
Two tubs of ice cream later, I’ve finally deposited Olivia into bed and dashed off for Pennington Pub. I’m late. Quite late.
But given the circumstances, it couldn’t be helped.
And of course he will understand.
He’ll have to.
Any mature adult would.
Or at least that’s what I’m chanting to myself.
We’re adults. Life comes up. Family is priority.
And anyway, I know he will understand.
Because we’re adults. Life comes up. Family is . . .
On and on the broken record goes. As I dash up the creaky front steps of Pennington Publishing in my heels, I fumble with my purse for my keys. The foyer is dark through the glass. No light on to be seen through the entire building.
