The Goal
Page 83
By the time I get to the library, I’m a fucking mess. The reference clerk who holds the keys to the lactation room gingerly hands it over, careful not to make any contact with my flesh.
A woman is just leaving as I arrive. “All yours,” she says cheerfully.
“Thanks,” is my dour response.
She catches the door as I start inside. “Bad day, huh?”
Her voice is so kind and understanding, I nearly break down. “You have no idea,” I answer, but then realize she, of all people, probably does have an idea. “Or maybe you do. But yeah, it’s been a shit day.”
“Hold on a sec.” She digs around in her bag. “Here.” She hands me a small plastic package. “I actually have a second set and I’ve never used them.”
“What’s this?” I turn the package over, examining the petal-shaped silicon pads.
“You stick them on your nipples and they stop the leaking.”
“Seriously?” I gape at her.
“Yep. They’re not perfect, and if you wait too long, the milk will eventually wear the adhesion off, but they do work.”
I clench the package tight in my fist, filled with overwhelming relief. I have to fight off the tears again. “I would hug you right now if I wasn’t all gross. But thank you so much.” I spot a distinctive red textbook with black and gold lettering on the spine sticking out of her bag. “1L?” I ask.
“Third year, actually. I was hoping to wait until I was done with school before this all happened.” She waves her hand at the insulated lunch bag she’s carrying. Her milk must be in there. “How about you?”
“1L.”
She grimaces. “Good luck, honey. Just remember, every year gets easier after the first one. And the first one is really just a war of attrition.” She pats me on the back. “You’ll be fine.”
I slip inside and attach myself to the medical grade pump. It’s a trek to get to Widener Library from the law school, but the pump engine is here, which means I only need to carry my bottles, horns and tubes, and I didn’t have to spring for the cost of an expensive portable pumping machine. My checking account is already weeping from the ravaging that my textbooks did to it.
I undo my silk button-down and pull off my bra. I should be grossed out, but I’m too damn tired. I’m mostly vaguely irritated given that it takes twenty minutes for the stupid machine to pull out two ounces of food from my boobs that Jamie doesn’t even want to eat.
Rocking in the chair, I pull out my phone to read my texts. Hope and Carin messaged me, but I skip those and tap on Tucker’s name.
Tucker: Went over to see J over lunch.
Underneath the message is a picture of Jamie sleeping in the crook of his arm. My heart squeezes, and the place between my legs—which I figured was dead from labor—pulses wildly. There’s nothing sexier than a loving dad.
Tucker makes all my hormones do a giddy dance.
Me: She’s such an angel.
Tucker: I hate leaving her.
Me: I leaked breast milk all over my shirt. It was horribly embarrassing.
Tucker: Awww. Poor baby. I’ll come over later and rub ur back.
Me: I have 1000 pages to read and that’s not even an exaggeration.
Tucker: I’ll take care of J. U study.
Me: I’ll take u up on that.
Tucker: Good. U never let me do enough.
Because I don’t want to drive you away.
Of course, I don’t type that.
Me: You’re the best dad J could ever ask for.
Tucker: U have low standards, babe, but I like it.
Me: :)
Me: I’m going to take a nap now while all my life blood is sucked out of me. I look like I’m part of the Matrix, plugged into a machine.
Tucker: Did u take the red pill or the blue one?
Me: Which one makes Jamie go to sleep? That’s the one I’ll take.
Tucker: I’ll go buy an rx of Ambien.
Me: Too bad I’m not allowed to take that.
Tucker: My mom said her mom used to rub brandy on her gums to get her to go to sleep.
Me: Hopefully DHS isn’t spying on these messages. Did it work?
Tucker: I dunno. I’ll leave a bottle of brandy next to the Ambien.
Me: See. Best dad ever.
Tucker: LOL. Go to sleep, darlin.
*
Hope and Carin bought me a book called “Go the Fuck to Sleep.” I’ve read it to Jamie a hundred times. It doesn’t work. That thing is trash. Over the weekend Jamie decides she’s allergic to sleep. The only time she even closes her eyes is when I’m moving.
While I can read and walk at the same time, simultaneous sleeping and walking is beyond my abilities, which is why I start my third week of law school eight hundred pages behind. I drag myself into class, having not read even one word for my contracts class. I made it through criminal law, but that was it.
Hopefully Professor Clive will call on anyone but me today.
“Last week, we went over the first two elements forming a contract. Mr. Bagliano, please share with the class those two elements and the holding of the 1898 Carlill case.”
Mr. Bagliano, who looks as Italian as his last name sounds, obediently recites the two principles we learned earlier. “Offer and acceptance. The 1898 Carlill case discussed whether an advertisement could be construed as an offer. The case was decided by the English Court of Appeals, who held that yes, it was a binding unilateral offer that could be accepted by anyone responding to the advert.”
“Excellent, Mr. Bagliano.” Professor Clive consults his sheet of paper that I presume has all of our names.
I close my eyes and pray that my name magically disappears.
“Ms. James, tell us the third element of a contract and the holding of the Borden case.”
As my heart plummets to my stomach, I desperately scan the room as if somehow I can read the answer in the eyes of one of my classmates. No light bulb appears over anyone’s head, least of all mine.
Beside me, a guy whose name I haven’t made the effort to learn mutters something out of the side of his mouth. It sounds like confederation. That doesn’t seem right. He coughs “confederation” again into his hand. Nervous laughter spreads across the room while my cheeks light up like twin flames.
Down in the front of the lecture bowl, Professor Clive’s lips thin. “Mr. Gavriel is saying consideration, Ms. James.” He shifts his gaze to the poor guy next to me. “Mr. Gavriel, since you know the answer, perhaps you can share the holding of the case?”
A woman is just leaving as I arrive. “All yours,” she says cheerfully.
“Thanks,” is my dour response.
She catches the door as I start inside. “Bad day, huh?”
Her voice is so kind and understanding, I nearly break down. “You have no idea,” I answer, but then realize she, of all people, probably does have an idea. “Or maybe you do. But yeah, it’s been a shit day.”
“Hold on a sec.” She digs around in her bag. “Here.” She hands me a small plastic package. “I actually have a second set and I’ve never used them.”
“What’s this?” I turn the package over, examining the petal-shaped silicon pads.
“You stick them on your nipples and they stop the leaking.”
“Seriously?” I gape at her.
“Yep. They’re not perfect, and if you wait too long, the milk will eventually wear the adhesion off, but they do work.”
I clench the package tight in my fist, filled with overwhelming relief. I have to fight off the tears again. “I would hug you right now if I wasn’t all gross. But thank you so much.” I spot a distinctive red textbook with black and gold lettering on the spine sticking out of her bag. “1L?” I ask.
“Third year, actually. I was hoping to wait until I was done with school before this all happened.” She waves her hand at the insulated lunch bag she’s carrying. Her milk must be in there. “How about you?”
“1L.”
She grimaces. “Good luck, honey. Just remember, every year gets easier after the first one. And the first one is really just a war of attrition.” She pats me on the back. “You’ll be fine.”
I slip inside and attach myself to the medical grade pump. It’s a trek to get to Widener Library from the law school, but the pump engine is here, which means I only need to carry my bottles, horns and tubes, and I didn’t have to spring for the cost of an expensive portable pumping machine. My checking account is already weeping from the ravaging that my textbooks did to it.
I undo my silk button-down and pull off my bra. I should be grossed out, but I’m too damn tired. I’m mostly vaguely irritated given that it takes twenty minutes for the stupid machine to pull out two ounces of food from my boobs that Jamie doesn’t even want to eat.
Rocking in the chair, I pull out my phone to read my texts. Hope and Carin messaged me, but I skip those and tap on Tucker’s name.
Tucker: Went over to see J over lunch.
Underneath the message is a picture of Jamie sleeping in the crook of his arm. My heart squeezes, and the place between my legs—which I figured was dead from labor—pulses wildly. There’s nothing sexier than a loving dad.
Tucker makes all my hormones do a giddy dance.
Me: She’s such an angel.
Tucker: I hate leaving her.
Me: I leaked breast milk all over my shirt. It was horribly embarrassing.
Tucker: Awww. Poor baby. I’ll come over later and rub ur back.
Me: I have 1000 pages to read and that’s not even an exaggeration.
Tucker: I’ll take care of J. U study.
Me: I’ll take u up on that.
Tucker: Good. U never let me do enough.
Because I don’t want to drive you away.
Of course, I don’t type that.
Me: You’re the best dad J could ever ask for.
Tucker: U have low standards, babe, but I like it.
Me: :)
Me: I’m going to take a nap now while all my life blood is sucked out of me. I look like I’m part of the Matrix, plugged into a machine.
Tucker: Did u take the red pill or the blue one?
Me: Which one makes Jamie go to sleep? That’s the one I’ll take.
Tucker: I’ll go buy an rx of Ambien.
Me: Too bad I’m not allowed to take that.
Tucker: My mom said her mom used to rub brandy on her gums to get her to go to sleep.
Me: Hopefully DHS isn’t spying on these messages. Did it work?
Tucker: I dunno. I’ll leave a bottle of brandy next to the Ambien.
Me: See. Best dad ever.
Tucker: LOL. Go to sleep, darlin.
*
Hope and Carin bought me a book called “Go the Fuck to Sleep.” I’ve read it to Jamie a hundred times. It doesn’t work. That thing is trash. Over the weekend Jamie decides she’s allergic to sleep. The only time she even closes her eyes is when I’m moving.
While I can read and walk at the same time, simultaneous sleeping and walking is beyond my abilities, which is why I start my third week of law school eight hundred pages behind. I drag myself into class, having not read even one word for my contracts class. I made it through criminal law, but that was it.
Hopefully Professor Clive will call on anyone but me today.
“Last week, we went over the first two elements forming a contract. Mr. Bagliano, please share with the class those two elements and the holding of the 1898 Carlill case.”
Mr. Bagliano, who looks as Italian as his last name sounds, obediently recites the two principles we learned earlier. “Offer and acceptance. The 1898 Carlill case discussed whether an advertisement could be construed as an offer. The case was decided by the English Court of Appeals, who held that yes, it was a binding unilateral offer that could be accepted by anyone responding to the advert.”
“Excellent, Mr. Bagliano.” Professor Clive consults his sheet of paper that I presume has all of our names.
I close my eyes and pray that my name magically disappears.
“Ms. James, tell us the third element of a contract and the holding of the Borden case.”
As my heart plummets to my stomach, I desperately scan the room as if somehow I can read the answer in the eyes of one of my classmates. No light bulb appears over anyone’s head, least of all mine.
Beside me, a guy whose name I haven’t made the effort to learn mutters something out of the side of his mouth. It sounds like confederation. That doesn’t seem right. He coughs “confederation” again into his hand. Nervous laughter spreads across the room while my cheeks light up like twin flames.
Down in the front of the lecture bowl, Professor Clive’s lips thin. “Mr. Gavriel is saying consideration, Ms. James.” He shifts his gaze to the poor guy next to me. “Mr. Gavriel, since you know the answer, perhaps you can share the holding of the case?”
