Chapter 7: Planting the Seed

I roll over in bed to feel a cold, empty space next to me.

“Again?” I thought. Jimmy has already left for the day.

I get up and throw on a t-shirt and shorts and go down the hall to rouse the kids. It has been just over a week since Jimmy fucked me while on my period, and in my mind, gave away his indiscretions. I asked one of the investigators we sometimes used at work to do a very quiet, personal, inquiry on the number I had memorized off of Jimmy’s phone. It took less than an hour before he called back. He informed me that the number was for a cell phone in the name of Sheila Howard. She lived in Sault Ste. Marie and was employed by Reliable Corporate Staffing. The investigator asked if he could do anything else and I assured him that what he had done was more than enough.

The kids are grumpy. Jimmy let them stay up late last night to finish watching the last two episodes of the series that had started to binge watch on Netflix. Then he goes and leaves the house early so I have to deal with the fallout.

“But mom, I don’t want to take a shower this morning,” Frederick was whining as I rummaged through his dresser for a clean shirt, underwear, and matching socks.

“Last night you promised me, and your father, that you would shower without complaint this morning if we let you watch the rest of show. We did, now go, without another word.”

Freddy did as he was instructed, but the entire morning was a battle with both kids. Somehow I got them up, dressed, fed, and to school on time, but at the cost of running late for my first meeting of the day. I was sitting at a red light fuming at life when it finally turned green. I didn’t even make it into the intersection when my head snapped back into the headrest and the airbag deployed.

“Fuck,” I screamed.

I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a woman in the driver’s seat of a late model Acura holding a phone to her ear.

“I’ll fucking bet she was talking on that fucking phone when she fucking hit me and now I am going to be fucking late for my fucking meeting.” My mood was reflected in my choice of vocabulary.

I opened my door, stepped out, and then slammed it back into place. The biting wind that had started the night before bit through my silk blouse and light pants, but as was my custom, I rarely wore a coat to the office.

I marched back to the car behind me and angrily stood outside of the driver’s door waiting for the other driver to disembark. If one thing could go right this particular morning it was that a policeman going the alternate direction witnessed the accident and was able to do a u-turn and pull in behind the damaged vehicles within seconds, the lights on his patrol car flashing to give us protection from the morning traffic.

“Ma’am, are you hurt?” The officer asked me as he got out of his car.

“No, I’m not hurt. Just fucking pissed.” I snapped at the officer. Realizing that it wasn’t his fault I continued, “Sorry for snapping, but it’s been a hell of a morning already and this just adds to it.”

The officer nodded and said, “I understand, but if you are OK, can I ask you to please move to the sidewalk for a moment and let me talk with the other driver?”

“Yeah, sure,” I assented, but also added, “I think this bitch was on her cell phone the whole time. Right after the accident I looked in my mirror and she was on the phone. No way she hit me and had time to find the phone and call anyone.”

The officer nodded again and motioned for me to stand on the sidewalk.

The policeman was incredibly professional and efficient. Because he witnessed the accident the other driver’s protestations that it was my fault were met with deaf ears, especially when told even if he hadn’t witnessed the contact she would be at fault as the following car.

Somehow, the other driver out-cussed me and at one point raised a hand as if to hit the officer. He arched an eyebrow questioningly, silently asking if she really wanted to take that action. The other driver thought better of it and stomped off back to her car.

The whole incident took about an hour to resolve. While waiting for a tow truck I called the office and Happy agreed to come pick me up. I gave her the names of the cross streets. Happy’s timing was perfect, pulling to the curb just as the tow truck hauling my car was pulling away. I opened the rear door of Happy’s car and thew in my briefcase and laptop before clamoring into the front seat.

“Fucking bitch,” I started.

Happy had heard the occasional swear word from me, but I was usually more reserved, and almost never dropped an f-bomb in her company.

“Are you OK? Do you need to go the hospital or a doctor?” Asked Happy hoping to change the tone of the conversation that seemed to be starting.

“I’m fine. Let’s just get to the office.”

My tension ebbed slightly as I slid down into the seat and closed my eyes. I didn’t say a word in the 15 minutes it took to get to the office. After parking Happy and I walked silently to the heated tunnel and then into the reception area.

“Thanks,” I offered before Happy could turn toward her office. I then turned and made a beeline for my own office.