Page 29 of Counting Backwards

As the elevator doors opened into the lobby, I could see rain falling outside the building’s floor-to-ceiling windows. I emerged reluctantly into the dampness of the afternoon and headed toward the subway. As I walked, I dialed Tate.

“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked. The rain was only a light mist around me, but it was still wet enough to warrant digging through my tote for the umbrella buried deep inside. I passed by a crowded restaurant where a cluster of outdoor tables was jammed full of boisterous weekend customers. The patrons were mostly fresh-faced hipster types who looked to be in their early twenties. Large patio umbrellas with stripes of burgundy and ochre shielded the tables from the mist, leaving the diners to continue their revelry dry and unbothered. How nice it must be for them, I thought, as I wondered about their careers, these young people who could find time to drag Sunday brunches well into the middle of the afternoon.

There had been a time when Vance and I were part of that brunch scene, urban professionals spending our Sundays waiting in line at Barney Greengrass or lounging on hotel rooftops with mimosas in hand. But neither of us had really managed to lean into those experiences. We were both too focused on our careers, antsy to get back to the assignments waiting on our laptops. Our friend Lou had given Vance so much grief for constantly checking his phone that Vance eventually decided we should just stop going to those big group gatherings. I remember thinking back then it was a relief—like we had found time for getting more work done.

Putting in those extra weekend hours was supposed to propel us both toward unparalleled success. At least it had paid off for Vance, who’d managed to remain the permanent darling of his investment bank even while building a labor-intensive podcast on the side.

“Not really,” Tate answered, bringing me back to the moment. “I took it in high school and one year of college. I could order you a great drink at a bar in Cancún, but that’s about it.”

“I’m going to forward you a text. See what you can make out.”

“You do know you can just Google Translate it, right?” Tate asked.

“Can you just look at it for me? My hands are full, and it’s starting to rain.”

“I’ll do my best,” she offered.

I took the phone from my ear and sent off the text.

“Got it,” Tate said. Then she went quiet as she took a moment to read the message. “This is for your immigration case?” she asked.

“Yeah. It’s a witness I want to interview.”

“It’s pretty basic stuff,” Tate said. “She says she can meet with you but she doesn’t speak English. She works until six thirty, but you can come after. And then she said she could see you onmiércoles.”

“What’smiércoles?”

“Uh...” She sounded sheepish. “It’s either Tuesday or Wednesday. Or it might be Thursday. I’m Googling now.”

“Do you think I should call her back?” I asked as I neared the stairwell to the subway. “Or maybe text her and hope she has someone who can translate what I’ve written?” I moved under the awning of L’Étoile, a French patisserie Gram loved, and leaned against the cool bricks beside the window. I didn’t want to go underground and lose reception before I was finished with the call.

“Yeah, but what about when you actually meet with her? The firm can pay for an interpreter.”

“Maybe.” I wasn’t ready to tell the powers that be about this other potential aspect of my new pro bono assignment. “This isn’t really part of the actual case I was assigned. I’m still just collecting information.”

“Oh!” Tate suddenly blurted into the phone, her voice rising with excitement. “You know who speaks Spanish? Dustin Ortiz. You should ask him.”

“Ugh, no,” I groaned. “I am not asking him for anything.”

“I still don’t get your aversion to him, Jess. He’s a pretty good guy.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” I said. “I’m at the subway. See you at Bloomie’s.”

“If you’d rather go find a weekend happy hour, I’d be game for that too,” she offered. “Nachos and margaritas make rainy days so much sunnier.”

“Nah, I’m trying to cut down on alcohol.”

“You are?” She knew how much I loved a glass of good Chardonnay. “Wait, you’re not off alcohol because...” She let the suggestion hang in the air.

“No, I am most definitely not pregnant.” I failed to conceal the dejection in my voice, even though I hadn’t told Tate everythingI was doing to get pregnant or how I was doubling down on my attempts to make it happen.

I’d read that alcohol could disrupt ovulation. So in addition to tracking my nutrient intake, avoiding antihistamines, swearing off raw fish, and limiting caffeine to tragically low levels, alcohol was out.

It had been months already since I’d whispered excitedly to Tate that Vance and I were trying for a baby. My continued silence about it ever since probably spoke all the volume it needed to.

“This will work out,” Tate said gently. “You’ll see. Now hurry up and meet me.”

“Yeah. See you soon.”