Pretty in Ink Read Free Page B

singing, “Hasta mañana, nos vamos a la cama,” a tune the girls love regardless of whether it’s actually bedtime. Maria is a gift. When she gets finicky Rose to go down for a nap or tickles Lulu’s belly and makes her explode into hiccup-y laughs far more excited than I can elicit, I feel not at all wistful in the ways I’ve heard some working moms talk about their children’s caregivers. I’d clone Maria if we could afford to shell out double her salary.
     
    It’s around the time the frozen ground begins to thaw (when you may as well face it that whatever shoes you wear will end up matted with mud) when Louisa’s and my private language starts deteriorating. It used to be, we could maintain an entire conversation with glances and gestures. Louisa would conclude a meeting and offer hearty assurance to some VIP and then shoot me a split-second peek that meant, “No way in hell!” or “Thank the Lord that’s over,” and I’d nod politely and understand just the right way to dismiss the visitor. But lately Louisa’s looks have become garbled. Now she fixes on her Competent Editor mask and forgets to remove it when we’re speaking privately.
    The day it proves to be all over is one of those unseasonably warm days in April. Ed the mail guy enters Louisa’s office bearing a bouquet of lilacs; I wonder who’s sent them and why: her husband as a gesture of support? a public relations rep eager as always to woo? the corporate suite as some kind of final offering?
    “Thanks, those are my favorite.” Louisa’s voice is wooden, like she’s reciting lines, like she doesn’t remember that of course both Ed and I would know what her favorite flowers are. She stares perplexedly at the bouquet, looking as if she’s aged about a decade.
    “We’ll have Jenny put them in water,” I say, going to grab a vase.
    I’m still sitting in Louisa’s office, awaiting instructions from our formerly fearless leader who’s now putzing around her space like she’s lost, when Jenny patches through a call from the teacher of Louisa’s five-year-old son. “She claims it’s urgent,” says Jenny, who knows closed-door meetings are usually noninterruptible. Louisa puts the phone on speaker.
    “Hi, Ms. Harding,” we hear over the line. The teacher sounds nervous. “We had a double recess today. You know, because of the nice weather. So we stayed at the playground through what would have been reading. I know, I know, reading is important. But the kids were excited, and—” I start to zone out, wondering if the $40,000 sticker price for the private school where Louisa sends her kids includes this kind of mundane daily update from the teachers. My ears perk up when I hear the words “sprained ankle.”
    “Is Jasper OK?” Louisa gasps, her voice shrill.
    “Yes, he’s fine. He fell from the monkey bars, but he’s all right. The nurse set him up with an ice pack and a cherry Popsicle, but we do need you or your husband to come fetch him immediately and take him to a doctor.”
    “I’ll be right over,” Louisa says, then hangs up.
    “Shit,” she shrieks. “Shit, shit, shit.” She shrinks in her seat and her eyes go misty and brim over with tears. The fact that I’ve never heard my boss curse, never mind seen her slump or cry, makes me want to break down, too. I manage to maintain my composure, and offer Louisa a tissue. She draws me in for a hug, which shocks me into silence. With her mouth inches from my ear, she whispers, “An hour ago they fired me.”
    At first I say nothing. Still pressed up against her body, I can feel the narrow fragility of Louisa’s frame—my shoulders are a good six inches broader than hers. She’s like a frail kid. This realization stirs up my anger. My boss is like a child, delicate and innocent. How could they do this to her? “But, but . . .” I stutter idiotically.
    “I know.” Louisa plucks the tissue from my hand and blows her nose, a horrible honk. “They’re