Free Things You Should Know by A. M. Homes Page A

leaving a message.
    She checks her schedule. There is a three o’clock meeting—the subject: pain relief.
    She has not spoken to Steve today. That part of their relationship, calls during the day, is over. There used to be phone calls as soon as he walked out of the apartment, sometimes from the elevator going down, “I’m in the elevator, the neighbors are surrounding me, pick up the phone.” A call when he got to the office, “Just checking in,” after lunch, “I shouldn’t have had the wine,” in the late afternoon, “I’ll be finished early,” and then again before leaving, “What do you want to do about dinner?”
    Now, they can’t talk. Every conversation, every attempt turns into a fight. She can’t say the right thing, he can’t do the right thing, they hate each other—all the more for the disappointment. There is no negotiation, no interest in repair, only anger and inertia.
    â€œIt’s not my fault,” he says.
    â€œIf there’s such a thing as fault—it’s half your fault.”
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    She hurries to prepare for the meeting, the launch of a combination acetaminophen/homeopathic preparation (Tylenol and Rescue Remedy)—Products for Modern Living, a pill for all your problems.
    Wendy, the shared assistant, stops her as she’s going down the hall. “I couldn’t get you a conference room for a whole hour, so I got you two halves.”
    â€œTwo halves of a conference room?”
    â€œFrom three to three-thirty you’re in two, and from three-thirty until four you’re in six.”
    â€œHalfway through, we have to change rooms? That’s crazy.”
    Wendy shrugs.
    â€œIt’s not just about any headache,” she says, sitting down with the client. “It’s your headache. It’s the sense that you’re about to explode. Your head is pounding, the boss is droning on in the background, kids are screaming, you need relief and you need it fast.”
    The client nods.
    â€œIt’s the classic headache ad—pumped up, there’s throbbing and there’s volume and pressure.”
    â€œModern life is very stressful,” the client says, happily counting the bucks.
    â€œThere’s the emergency room doctor/trauma surgeon, the voice of authority. ‘As a doctor at a leading trauma hospital, I know about pain, I know about stress, and I know how quickly I need to feel better.’ The doctor moves through the emergency room—all kinds of horrible things are happening in the background. ‘A combination of acetaminophen and a homeopathic supplement, Products for Modern Living offerssafe, effective relief.’ She picks up a patient’s chart and makes a note. ‘Sometimes what’s old is what’s new.’”
    â€œI like it. It’s fresh and familiar,” the client says.
    â€œLet’s move from here into conference room six and we’ll review the rest of our campaign,” she says, seamlessly moving her team down the hall.
    Later, she passes Wendy’s desk; Wendy is obsessively dipping cookies into a container of orange juice.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    Wendy puts out her hands, they’re shaking. “Low blood sugar. I spent from eight-thirty until three trying to get the damned computer to print. I called Information Services, they said they could come tomorrow, but the proposal had to go out today. Never mind. I did it. I got it done.” She plunges a cookie into the juice.
    She hands Wendy a sample of the remedy. “Try it,” she says. “Call it market research and bill them for an extra twenty-five hundred bucks.”
    Again she dials. The phone rings and rings, maybe her mother is there, maybe she is on the other line. Maybe it is her father—her father always ignores the call-waiting, he doesn’t know what call-waiting is.
    â€œDidn’t you hear me beeping? That was me trying to