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Did I Expect Angels? is told by two protagonists, Jennifer and Henry. Jennifer is the "main" protagonist, who gets the bulk of the story.
She relives her own story through the course of the novel, from meeting and dating and marrying her husband, through his death and its aftermath.
This is a portion of her account after her husband's death.
JENNIFER
I fell asleep at my desk twice in November. My caffeine tolerance had built up. The first time it happened, I caught myself right before my
boss David reached my desk. I looked up at him, guilty, and he wordlessly walked away. The second time David woke me up. When he tapped my
shoulder, apparently I just sighed. He had to say my name loudly, twice. I opened my eyes, surprised that I was at work, and saw thirty-two
eyes quickly look away. David himself just murmured, "Do you need to go home?" I shook my head and got some more coffee.
I think he would have let that go if it hadn't been for Olive, one of our regular customers. She was a sweet grandmotherly type and very round:
round hair, round face, round glasses, round torso. Even her feet, swollen over the tops of her shoes, were round. She'd paid off her mortgage
six months ago, but she liked to sit down to talk with me. Usually I didn't mind, but the Monday after Thanksgiving, when she sat at my desk I
continued staring at my pile of papers. "Jennifer," she said, a little smile on her face.
I didn't look up. I knew she wanted to tell me about her handsome sons, who were both single, forty, and living with her. Neither had a job.
One was thinking about going back to college, and the other had just kicked his meth habit, but I wasn't sure which was the one with whom she
wanted to set me up.
"Olive, I'm sorry, but I'm swamped."
"I just wanted to invite you to dinner with us. This Friday. I'm making meatloaf. And Jeffrey will be there."
"I really can't," I said. "I have my daughter, and I have things to do."
"You can bring your daughter! We'd love to have her! Jeffrey likes children."
"I'm so sorry, Olive. I just can't," I said.
She smiled with a grandmotherly twinkle. "Give me one good reason why not."
"I don't eat anymore." I actually meant that.
Olive's twinkle vanished. "Jennifer, if you don't want to meet my son, just say so."
"I don't want to meet your son."
She looked at me as if I'd just spit fire at her very flammable hair. We stared at each other until she abruptly stood up. "That was rude," she said.
"I said exactly what you told me to say. Now I've got to get to my work. You don't have a mortgage, and I don't have time to chat."
I watched her stalk over to David's office, and he smiled and closed the door after her. They spent two minutes inside before she angrily opened
the door and huffed out, ignoring the half-dozen friendly bankers who did say good-bye. Well, let them meet her son.
I stood up as soon as David approached, and followed him wordlessly into his office. He gestured for me to sit and circled around behind his desk.
"Are you seeing someone?" he asked.
"Oh, for God's sake," I snapped, disgusted. I fingered my wedding ring automatically. "I didn't want to be set up with her son!"
"I mean a therapist, Jennifer."
I sighed and looked up at the ceiling, blinking away a little glimmer in my eyes. "This is because of Olive?"
He smiled a little. "Don't go out with her sons," he said. "Especially Jeffrey. But you can't snap at our customers. And you can't snap at us anymore."
"I'm not..."
"Jennifer, everyone knows what you've been through. We've been really good to you--you come in late, leave early, don't finish projects,
and people chip in. You yell at us for nothing, and we let it go. I keep telling everyone you're going to pull through. But we're not
going to be patient too much longer."
"I'm sorry," I managed. "I'm trying."
"Maybe you need some time. How about you take a leave of absence?"
"I can't afford that."
"I think you can afford a leave a lot better than you can afford to lose your job. And that's what'll happen if this keeps going.
I'm sorry, but it's one or the other. Your choice."
I didn't bother to clean off my desk. I grabbed my coat and purse from the corner closet and drove straight home. Kaitlin was still
at day care, and Susan would pick her up at five and watch her until seven, since I was still keeping up my "I'm writing a dissertation"
ruse--even with myself. I meant to call Susan and let her know she didn't need to bother tonight. I picked up the phone, held it, and
dropped it back into its cradle. I got into bed and set my alarm for six forty-five, when I picked her up from Susan's, got her dinner,
and pretended everything was all right.
As I put her to bed that night, I thought that the next day maybe I'd keep Kaitlin home. But in the morning I awoke twenty minutes
before the alarm, almost jumping with the need to send her off. She'd be happier there, not stuck with Dreary Mommy. She could play
games and get attention and run around without disturbing a heavy-hanging silence. I drove her there and turned right around and went
home and got back into bed.
This was just a little vacation. It would last a week, tops. The second week of December I had to go back. But after just one week,
I didn't want to. I liked my new routine: get Kaitlin up and off. Return home and sleep until eleven, then eat toast. Watch TV on the
couch and fall asleep again until about three. Eat a yogurt, or most of one, watch TV a while longer. Shower, make myself presentable,
get ready to pick up my daughter.
I left every afternoon to buy something for Kaitlin's dinner. But on the eighth day off, I felt an overwhelming dread when it came time to
leave. I stood at my door, coat on and keys clutched in my hand, looking out the window. My heart pounded, and underneath my coat and heavy
sweater I began to sweat. I briefly considered calling for delivery, taking off the coat, and retreating back to the safety of my couch. I
shook my head in amazement: Scared of going outside? Scared of what? I ripped open the door and rushed to my car, but after I bought the
food, I rushed right back home again.
The next day, I felt nervous even about taking Kaitlin out of the house. She had to go, though, so I swallowed over my pounding heart and
braved it. I drove slowly and carefully to the day care and then sped over the slick streets on my way home.
I paced after I got home, disturbed by this new turn of events. I went to the windows several times, looking outside, wondering what
scared me so much. That evening I ordered delivery and asked Susan if she wouldn't mind bringing Kaitlin over. I still had to dress as
if I'd been to work, but that didn't involve leaving the house. That didn't scare me.
The next morning I realized I had to turn this around. I knew, knew nothing was going to get me. But I had to prove it to myself. I again
swallowed hard and clutched the keys in sweaty palms, buckled Kaitlin in her car seat, and drove off to the day care.
After I dropped her in the care of trusty and sturdy Mrs. Barton, I decided not to drive home. It would be too easy to stay there and
too hard to leave again. I sat in my car for a few minutes, frozen, wondering exactly where I could go. Somewhere nonthreatening, somewhere
calm, somewhere safe.
I remembered the coffee shop I'd visited during my last month of pregnancy. I had quit my job early and spent many afternoons sitting on
their couches sipping steamed almond milk and reading parenting books, reveling in the freedom that was cut off so sharply when the baby
arrived. I liked it there. The coffee shop would be safe. It would get me out of the house. Maybe it would even be step one to getting me
back to work. If I sat there, out in public, I couldn't sleep, couldn't cry, couldn't throw things. I would have to interact with people.
I ordered and sat down in a corner booth, cautiously leaning into the cushioned upholstery. Not too bad. Suddenly a stick-thin figure
towered over me, and I jumped. "Jennifer!" he bellowed, setting the milk in front of me. It was Louis, the owner, with whom I'd had many
conversations back in the day. He was an effusive fifty-year-old hippie who loved his customers. "Good heavens, what's happened to you?"
Such a good question.
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