Free Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis Page A

Breaking in some new shoes. The list could go on and on.
    â€œI’m Will. That’s Esther,” he says, pointing to the coot behind the glass. “Don’t get on her bad side,” Will says.
    Will looks young. Too young to be a lawyer. He should be at a frat house, doing rip cords.
    â€œI’m Emily,” I say, shaking his hand.
    Will points me in the direction of Jim’s office. I walk down the hallway. I knock.
    â€œCome in,” Jim says.
    It is well lit. Clean, but messy. His desk is old. His bookcases are full. He has a crystal paperweight on his desk. A lion.
    â€œDid you remember lunch?” I ask. “You said to meet you here.”
    â€œYes,” Jim says. “Yes, of course I remembered. How’s your mother?”
    â€œGood. Most of the time. She vacillates between ‘Should I redecorate the co-op’ to ‘If I die, I want you to be in charge of who gets my eyes; give my other organs to anyone you want, but my eyes are special!’” I say. “An exchange student who lived with us in the early nineties is at the house helping her organize personal papers. It’s good for her to feel like she’s controlling someone.”
    â€œYes, she always excelled at that. Glad to hear she has a project. She’s always liked a project,” Jim says. He reminds me of my mother when he says this.
    â€œThat’s a unique take on cancer,” I say. “A project…”
    â€œWell, I was really talking about getting her personal papers in order, but I can see how you might have heard it that way,” Jim says.
    We walk out to the reception area.
    â€œWho’s the girl, Jim?” Esther asks.
    â€œWe met on the way in,” I say. “I’m Emily.”
    She extends her hand to shake and surprises me by squeezing my hand as hard as she can, harnessing all of ninety-five pounds into that iron goddess grip.
    â€œOuch,” I say. I pull my hand away from the Claw.
    â€œWeren’t expecting me to be so strong, were you?” Esther says.
    No, I just wasn’t expecting you to be so damn mean!
    â€œNot really,” I say.
    We wait for the elevator, and then wave good-bye to Esther and the Plexiglas that protects her from the sneezes of strangers.
    â€œWhat’s her problem?” I ask.
    â€œOh, you know how some people have to prove themselves every single day of the week,” Jim says. “I feel for her, I really do. But it’s no excuse for stealing. We can’t tolerate a thief here. The group is too small. It feels personal.”
    â€œWhat does she steal?” I ask.
    â€œIt started small. Pens. Paper. A few weeks ago she came in on a Sunday. Wheeled a bookcase right out of here. Security caught the whole thing on tape,” Jim says.
    â€œWow, what did she say when you showed her the tape?” I asked.
    â€œOh, we haven’t confronted her. We don’t want to humiliate anyone; we just want her to move along and think it was her idea to leave,” Jim says.
    Jim takes a quick look at what I’m wearing.
    â€œYou’re underdressed,” Jim says.
    â€œYou never said where we were going,” I say. “It’s nothing new, though. I never have a clue where I’m going.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” Jim says.
    â€œIt’s going to have to be,” I say.
    I decide I need some talking points. Jim and I do not accomplish much when we talk. I’m half shocked that the mirage has a voice.
    I make a mental list. Favorite color? Who cares? MAC or PC? Lefty or righty? Flat or sparkling? Now we’re getting somewhere! In no particular order I start to list some of my favorite things. Getting a new CD, playing it over and over again for an entire weekend. Craving song 8, but not fast-forwarding to 8. Just waiting and enjoying the internal countdown. Driving go-karts. Kayaking. Baking cupcakes. Finding something I’ve lost. Reading a book I can’t put