The ticket, p.1
The Ticket, page 1
The Ticket
By
Heather Grace Stewart
The Ticket
By Heather Grace Stewart
Copyright 2016 by Heather Grace Stewart, Graceful Publications
Edited by Jennifer Bogart
Cover design copyright 2016 by D. Preston and H.G. Stewart
ISBN: (digital) 978-0-9918795-7-1
ISBN: (print) 978-0-9918795-6-4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher. Thank you for respecting this author’s hard work.
Also by this author
Strangely, Incredibly Good
Remarkably Great
The Friends I’ve Never Met (digital screenplay)
Three Spaces
Carry On Dancing
The Groovy Granny (Kindle, Kobo; audio version on iBooks)
Leap
Where the Butterflies Go
More info: http://heathergracestewart.me
All Books: http://amazon.com/author/heathergracestewart
Dedication
For Kayla, because you told me, “You’d better get going on that, pronto, Mommy!” when I told you about my idea for this novel. Thanks for the big shove, sweet girl!
For Bill, my love and my office technician! Thanks for all the support, emotional and technical, and for believing in me on the days that I don’t.
Thanks
A self-published author is nothing without her readers, and her creation software.
Thanks to my wicked Wattpad readers, my wonderful Wordpress readers, and Canva, for keeping me creating and for making it fun.
Thanks also to my amazing Facebook and Twitter followers.
ALLIE
CHAPTER ONE
“Ouch! Mother fucker!”
“Shhh! You’ll scare all the patients in the waiting room!”
My OBGYN sounded ashamed as she said it, and yet, she kept on digging and scraping like a miner searching for gold. I lay back and tried to focus on the white ceiling. It had a bold blue sticker on it: Follow Me On Facebook. I moaned, but not from the pain. I heard the cold clink clink sound of tongs hitting a metal bowl. What did that make my vajayjay, a cobb salad?
Don’t you think the patients outside should know that you’re ripping my insides out? I wanted to scream at her; instead, I bit my tongue, pushed my feet further into the stirrups, and did a series of those tiny breaths I learned nearly two decades ago in Lamaze. Breathe in, then out, out, out, out. Try not to panic or it will make it hurt more. You are not going to die from a pap and an IUD replacement! Except, why is the doctor’s face so grim?
Dr. Halo stared at me a moment, then back into that dark place, and then she started cursing to herself quietly. Most of what she muttered was undecipherable to me.
“Murble, murble, marshmallow brains! You forgot to tell me you had a tilted uterus! Damn! I’m using the wrong tools!”
I bolted up, but she pushed my chest, forcing me back down, ripping my skimpy paper gown up the backside in the meantime. “Not yet,” she said, and I felt a painful pinch.
“There! Isn’t it beautiful?”
She was dangling the T-coil in front of my face with an inane grin on her face. I looked around for cameras. This had to be some prank show. It had to be. Jimmy Kimmel was going to walk through those doors laughing, tell me to get some clothes on, and offer me a luxury weekend at a resort in Maui, just for being a good sport.
It had been my idea to get an IUD after the birth of our second daughter. A vasectomy felt so permanent in the beginning and neither of us wanted it, despite that Dan had told me numerous times he didn’t want any more kids. In the end, he never had the surgery because he never got around to it. As I laid there in agony, having one IUD removed and another inserted, I wondered, why bother? It wasn’t like we were having sex anymore. Things dried up for us in the bedroom years ago. I was just trying to be responsible, and you’re supposed to replace it every five years. Still, it was weird when I found that condom in Dan’s suitcase this morning. He swore it was an ongoing prank between him and Brian, his longtime boss, but did men over 40 seriously still play frat school jokes like that?
“One condom. Allie, come on, what am I going to do with one condom? If I were cheating on you, I’d buy boxes.”
“Thanks, that’s consoling.” I tried to chuckle and brush the whole thing off by offering to make him pancakes. I felt like a royal bitch for not trusting him.
“Never mind about the pancakes—I have to get to work early.”
“But you just got back from LA.”
“Tax time. You know how busy it gets. See you at counseling.”
We’d been going to see our marriage counselor Lori for almost a year, but clearly, it hadn’t done much for our marriage. I still had trust issues, and Dan wasn’t even kissing me goodbye as he raced out the door.
“Yup. She said she had a full morning, but could see us at six. I’ll put the girls’ meals in the fridge, and they can just heat it up. Maybe we can grab a bite after,” I said.
“Maybe. Bye.”
Getting Dan to go to counseling had been like pulling teeth, but after a few weeks, he seemed more comfortable and was really opening up in our sessions. The three of us were even laughing together.
“Okay, get dressed.” A low female voice startled me out from my deep thoughts, and my dreams of Jimmy Kimmel sweeping me off my feet and onto a tropical island were shattered. “I’ll see you in six months, unless you hear from us earlier.”
Once I’d dressed and set my next appointment, I sat in the car a few minutes, massaging my lower abdomen and feeling badly about how I’d treated Dan. He’d just come home last night, and we’d already bickered twice. Dr. Halo’s office is right around the corner from where Dan works. I decided to swing by and drop off a mocha Frappuccino, his favorite. Dr. Lori said it’s the little things that can bring the spark back into a marriage. I had to try harder. Maybe then Dan would try, too.
Dan’s large accounting firm had one main receptionist, Stacey, in a building of sixteen offices. We’d bonded over everything from our children having chicken pox, to their first dates and proms. She was very sweet. This morning she was applying mascara when I rushed past her desk, a mocha Frapp in my hand. I’d already inhaled mine, with extra whipped cream and a couple Advil, and was feeling much better.
“Oh sweetie, he has someone in there…” Stacey stood up.
“It’s okay, I’ll just give him this and be on my way.”
I opened his door. There was already a mocha Frapp on his desk…
… Along with a woman in a short skirt that was hiked up to her hips. She sat motionless, her backside to me. His hands were on her hips; his groin had been pushing against hers. When his eyes met mine, he pulled away from the woman.
“Allie. Allie, it’s not what you think.” He was as white as the boxers peeking out of his open fly.
The woman jumped off the desk, then slowly turned toward me. I gasped and dropped Dan’s Frappuccino all over the carpet.
Lori.
“Your mouth was on our marriage counselor’s mouth. Are you giving her CPR with your fly undone?”
“Allie. It’s been over a while. You know that.” He wiped bright pink lipstick from his mouth and looked at me, shame and tears in his eyes.
“It wasn’t over! I brought you a fucking Frappuccino! It wasn’t over!”
I raced out of the room, determined not to let them see me cry.
CHAPTER TWO
One Year Later
“Ouch! Mother fu…”
I’m about to scream a string of profanities, but my boss, Jed Rubicon, is standing beside my desk, glaring at me, so I bite my tongue as I hop on one foot, massaging the other.
“I mean, Mother Theresa!” I wince and force a smile.
Jed gives me a funny look.
My foot is throbbing. I was in such a hurry to get to my office, I didn’t notice someone had placed a pile of folders and papers to recycle on the floor just outside the door. I managed to gracefully step over them, but then tripped at the last minute, hitting my foot on the corner of the filing cabinet. Smooth. So embarrassing. Jed witnessed the entire fiasco.
“You’re late again, Allie.” Jed frowns at me, his silver-haired brows furrowing. He’s a name partner at Rubicon, March & Morgan.
“I know, and I’m sorry. The subway was delayed,” I say, knowing full well that’s not a good enough excuse when you’re female and working for the most senior partner in one of the top law firms of the city. My commute from our home in Briarwood has been the same for five years: take the F from Briarwood-Van Wyck one stop, then transfer to the E train at Union Turnpike. The subway ride is 30 minutes when there is no train traffic or other delays, but this morning I hit ‘snooze’ twice, and there was no Dan to shake me awake. I haven’t been able to get my shit together since the divorce.
I place my laptop case on my chair and pull out a folder. Please let this help the situation. Ple
“I was poring over these last night, and I think it might help us with the Dalton v. Steiner renewable energy appeal?”
Jed opens the file and silently reads the section I’ve highlighted on the top two pages. “This is excellent work. Excellent, Allie. I’ll show these to Don. We’d like you to work on this case with Joan. Try not to be late again, okay?” he says as he leaves, not bothering to close my office door behind him.
I was holding my breath the whole time Jed was speaking. I release a sigh of relief, then sit back in my brown leather chair, letting it swirl around so I can look out at the cityscape.
Downtown New York, on a grey Monday morning, dirty December snow piled up on the sidewalks. December snow is so much prettier that first time it falls: fluffy and full of Christmas promise. Now it’s just gross brown slush that reminds me of my failed attempts to make Gram’s homemade Christmas gravy look and taste like hers. Somehow, it also reminds me I haven’t done any shopping yet, and Christmas is this Friday.
I don’t want to think about Christmas. I’ll be a single parent this time, and still not partner. I thought after seven hard-working years here they’d finally consider me, but Joan told me she didn’t feel I was ready yet.
Ready? I’ve billed 2400 hours a year for the last decade, missed half a dozen funerals, and haven’t taken a week’s vacation in three years. I’m well-respected by all the other associates. Even my jerk of an ex said I was a shoe-in for partner this year. When I make gaffes like being late this morning, though, it’s like I go ten steps backward—for the record, I walked in at 8:05 a.m., and I worked until 8:15 last night. I feel like Don, and especially Jed, are poised and ready to mark one more strike against me on their secret tabulated system: operation oust Allie.
I’ve never worked on a case with either of them. They’re always making me work with the one female partner in this firm, Joan Morgan. Do they think only women can work together? I don’t get it. I also don’t like Joan. She’s always trying to trip me up. It’s like she doesn’t want any other woman at this firm attaining what she’s achieved. We have enough obstacles in our way in the workplace. Why can’t women build each other up instead of tearing each other down?
I’ve noticed Joan only wants to work on the corporate cases with the big players. I know I need those kinds of cases for exposure, but the reason I went into law was to help the little guy. I want to help those wrongfully accused and people screwed by companies.
Remember that woman whose thighs were burned by McDonald’s coffee in 1994? She became a joke around the world, an overused example of a frivolous lawsuit, but if you read up on the case, Liebeck v. McDonald’s Restaurants, you learn the poor woman was 79 years old and that, in fact, her entire pelvic area was severely burned. She required skin grafting for her third-degree burns, but she couldn’t afford to pay her hospital bills and felt she should also be awarded for her pain and suffering, so she sought legal help.
Some joke. The jury applied the principal of comparative negligence and found that McDonald’s was 80 percent responsible for the incident. Liebeck was only 20 percent at fault. Although there was a warning on the coffee cup, the jury decided that it was neither large enough nor sufficient. They awarded Liebeck $200,000 in compensatory damages, which was then reduced by 20 percent to $160,000.
I wish I could tackle that kind of case. I want to help clients who can’t afford to pay a lawyer, but Joan and Jed snap up the few pro bono cases they’re required to take on. “Billables, little girl. Focus on the billables.” That’s Jed’s daily mantra. I should sue him for calling me a little girl all the time. For fuck sake. I’m 42! The three of them are only ten years older, but they act like that puts them in an exclusive club. Once, I told Jed I didn’t like him calling me that. He just laughed.
A laugh. A good, long, belly laugh. That’s what I need this morning. Everything went downhill when Dan called me at 7:35 while I was running to catch the subway. I haven’t smiled since.
I swear he does it on purpose. He calls when he knows I’m rushing off somewhere, in public, or with the girls so I can’t call him a delusional douchebag again.
I realize name calling is highly immature, but I think I’m entitled. In fact, that’s mild, considering he left me for our marriage counselor. I wish I hadn’t picked up the call this morning, but it didn’t have his distinctive “ASSHOLE!” ringtone my best friend Trixie bought me a few weeks after our divorce was finalized. It’s hilarious, but it gathers a lot of stares from passersby if it’s on its loudest setting.
“ASSHOLE CALLING! AN ASSHOLE is calling! You don’t have to pick up!” a woman’s voice calls from out of my coat pocket whenever it’s Dan.
I know the ringtone is crude. I know not all men are assholes. Some women are assholes. But my ex is indeed an asshole, and the ringtone makes me giggle when not much else has this year, so I’ve kept it.
This morning, though, the ringtone didn’t make me laugh. It was a bleeep, bleeep sound, like I’d been floating in the pool and just dropped my phone in, which I wouldn’t mind doing some days. Some days, I am far too connected.
I picked up.
“Allie James,” I answered, short of breath from running in two-inch heels. I wish I’d just worn my sneakers. A woman in a matching red hat and scarf glared at me; I suppose for managing to say my name while sprinting in cute shoes. I grinned in spite of her and kept on running toward my stop.
“Al, it’s me. We need to talk about Christmas.”
“Dan! What number are you using?”
“It’s Lori’s. I’m with Lori. Can’t find my cell, so I used hers. Anyway—”
“Why do you have to rub it in my face at fucking early in the morning? Why?”
“Al, I’m not rubbing it in your face. Life just happens. I didn’t plan this. You know that.”
“I know one thing: she planned it. I just read about this similar case in London, where the marriage therapist was actually sued for manipulation. I could sue, you know. I should sue.”
“But you won’t. You’re not that woman. You’re too kind-hearted. Besides, she lost her license, you got the house, what more do you want?”
“Dan, if kind-hearted translates into letting you walk all over me, you’re wrong. We’re not going to let our girls suffer because of our mistakes. Got that?”
“Yea, well that’s why I called. I wanted to see if the girls can join me and Lori and Mandy at her parent’s cabin upstate over Christmas. Maybe for a week, so you can still celebrate New Year’s with them after? You can tell the girls Stacey and Stephanie are joining us, and it has a hot tub.”
An entire week, alone. When the girls were little, I’d have put down the phone and done multiple cartwheels over it. Just getting a chance to poop on the toilet without being interrupted was rare back then. But now? Now they’re 17 and 19, and when they aren’t arguing over who gets the car or the shower, we have a lot of good times together. This plan would leave me all by myself over the holidays.
A few weeks ago, when we were discussing how we’d manage Christmas, they both admitted that they wanted try to forgive their father and get back to how things were a year ago. They’d avoided him and Lori for half the year and were only now starting to socialize with him on weekends. Lori’s daughter, Mandy, is a year older than Emma, and the three girls have been getting along rather well, considering the circumstances.
“Lori is okay once you get to know her,” our youngest, Emma, said after they returned from dinner that night at Lori and Dan’s new apartment. “We did Wii dance with Stacey, and Lori had homemade pizzas for us!”
“She really does love him, Mum,” Kayleigh added with a slight frown. “They just went about the whole thing wrong.”
None of that was easy for me to hear. That they were enjoying Lori’s cooking, but were never big fans of mine sent my emotions over the top. I excused myself and went to bawl my eyes out in our half bathroom. I’m by no means ready to forgive Dan, but if they can find forgiveness in their hearts, I’m not going to stand in their way. He’s their father.
