Read Online Emily & Einstein by Linda Francis Lee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Francis Lee
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wall border, the drop cloths removed, furniture put back into place, my collection of children’s books returned to the tall shelves. I managed to stay in the numb, unfeeling place during the days by making a plan. Wake up, shower, find clothes, eat. I did everything in order, the same order every day.
But at night … I hated the nights, hated the dream that woke me up screaming, as if my subconscious played a continuous loop of what my conscious mind refused to accept. When I gasped awake, I couldn’t breathe, my eyes burned, and I was unsure how to move forward. Then I would remember the plan. Get up, shower, find clothes, eat, and the day would lurch forward.
I woke the next morning and saw that it was six A.M. , not two or three-thirty. With that little dog’s presence, I hadn’t dreamed at all.
Einstein was still asleep in the kitchen when I walked in. As quietly as I could, I put coffee on to brew but the noise woke the dog and he sat up groggily. For a second he looked confused, craning his neck to look at his paws, twitching in surprise. Then he groaned, falling back against the towels as if something about those paws upset him. Which was as odd as it was crazy.
Come on, Em, get a grip, I told myself.
From the pantry I retrieved the dog food the clinic had sent home with us. I shook the small box, but Einstein wouldn’t look at me.
“You’ve got to be starved.”
I shook it again, this time louder. After the third shake, he sighed and got up.
“You’re okay, right?” I bent down to hug him. “Tell me you’re all right.”
Einstein stiffened. He was funny about hugs. Like my husband in the strange months before the accident—and unlike any dog I had ever known—Einstein seemed to be allowing me to hug him rather than enjoying it.
The concierge had given me the name of a dog walker who walked other dogs in the building, and she had agreed to take Einstein out when I was at work. After I managed to settle Einstein with food and water, then forced myself to close the door on his unhappy face, I squeezed myself onto the last car of the C train, grabbing a tiny handhold to keep myself upright among the swaying work-bound bodies of hardcore New Yorkers.
When word had gotten out about Sandy, Charles Tisdale, the president of Caldecote, encouraged me to take some time off. But the last thing I wanted was to be alone. At Fifty-ninth Street–Columbus Circle, I spilled out of the train and walked the two crowded blocks to my office on Broadway. I ran my Caldecote Press badge through the card reader and pushed through the turnstile. Once at my desk I listened to voice mail.
“Hey, Em!” my sister said. “Just wanted to call and see how it’s going. Everything’s great with me … well, everything’s great except my dad’s wife is bad-mouthing me to their kids again. Hello, all I did was bring my little brother and sister presents. Whatever. Anyway, we’ll talk later.”
As usual, Jordan failed to acknowledge the fact that the presents she took her grade-school-aged half siblings were anything but appropriate for anyone under the age of twenty-one.
I threw myself into work. I finished editing a manuscript, wrote jacket copy, attempted to return phone calls I had let pile up. But after no more than a handful of conversations, I stopped. Authors’ and agents’ well-meaning condolences reminded me of soft-boiled eggs, nine-grain bread, and the box of Sandy’s perfectly folded dress shirts from the dry cleaners that I had started wearing to bed.
The morning passed in a blur of keeping busy. As soon as the clock struck noon, I heard Nate Clarkson coming down the hall. While publishing was a collaborative effort, Nate was our company’s publisher and made the final decisions about book scheduling and book positioning for our list. Charles, as president, could overrule Nate’s decisions, but he rarely did, concentrating instead on the overall vision for the company.
It was no surprise when
But at night … I hated the nights, hated the dream that woke me up screaming, as if my subconscious played a continuous loop of what my conscious mind refused to accept. When I gasped awake, I couldn’t breathe, my eyes burned, and I was unsure how to move forward. Then I would remember the plan. Get up, shower, find clothes, eat, and the day would lurch forward.
I woke the next morning and saw that it was six A.M. , not two or three-thirty. With that little dog’s presence, I hadn’t dreamed at all.
Einstein was still asleep in the kitchen when I walked in. As quietly as I could, I put coffee on to brew but the noise woke the dog and he sat up groggily. For a second he looked confused, craning his neck to look at his paws, twitching in surprise. Then he groaned, falling back against the towels as if something about those paws upset him. Which was as odd as it was crazy.
Come on, Em, get a grip, I told myself.
From the pantry I retrieved the dog food the clinic had sent home with us. I shook the small box, but Einstein wouldn’t look at me.
“You’ve got to be starved.”
I shook it again, this time louder. After the third shake, he sighed and got up.
“You’re okay, right?” I bent down to hug him. “Tell me you’re all right.”
Einstein stiffened. He was funny about hugs. Like my husband in the strange months before the accident—and unlike any dog I had ever known—Einstein seemed to be allowing me to hug him rather than enjoying it.
The concierge had given me the name of a dog walker who walked other dogs in the building, and she had agreed to take Einstein out when I was at work. After I managed to settle Einstein with food and water, then forced myself to close the door on his unhappy face, I squeezed myself onto the last car of the C train, grabbing a tiny handhold to keep myself upright among the swaying work-bound bodies of hardcore New Yorkers.
When word had gotten out about Sandy, Charles Tisdale, the president of Caldecote, encouraged me to take some time off. But the last thing I wanted was to be alone. At Fifty-ninth Street–Columbus Circle, I spilled out of the train and walked the two crowded blocks to my office on Broadway. I ran my Caldecote Press badge through the card reader and pushed through the turnstile. Once at my desk I listened to voice mail.
“Hey, Em!” my sister said. “Just wanted to call and see how it’s going. Everything’s great with me … well, everything’s great except my dad’s wife is bad-mouthing me to their kids again. Hello, all I did was bring my little brother and sister presents. Whatever. Anyway, we’ll talk later.”
As usual, Jordan failed to acknowledge the fact that the presents she took her grade-school-aged half siblings were anything but appropriate for anyone under the age of twenty-one.
I threw myself into work. I finished editing a manuscript, wrote jacket copy, attempted to return phone calls I had let pile up. But after no more than a handful of conversations, I stopped. Authors’ and agents’ well-meaning condolences reminded me of soft-boiled eggs, nine-grain bread, and the box of Sandy’s perfectly folded dress shirts from the dry cleaners that I had started wearing to bed.
The morning passed in a blur of keeping busy. As soon as the clock struck noon, I heard Nate Clarkson coming down the hall. While publishing was a collaborative effort, Nate was our company’s publisher and made the final decisions about book scheduling and book positioning for our list. Charles, as president, could overrule Nate’s decisions, but he rarely did, concentrating instead on the overall vision for the company.
It was no surprise when
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