Monday

I woke up precisely at 7:55 like I had every morning I could remember. I hadn’t needed it since I turned 13, but I always set an alarm just in case. Reaching for my phone to turn it off, I remembered the dream I was having. A green park in a small town square out of a picture book. Surrounded by an old crimson brick wall that somehow looked as new as if it had been built yesterday. And a polite white bench.

I knew I had never been to the park. I doubted anyone had been to a park like that since the 1950s. But I had recurring dreams of it—first when I started my senior year of high school and now again since Bree started my campaign. But it still felt deeply familiar. Like a park that I might have visited when I was a young boy.

This time, though, something was subtly different. More the impression of the dream than the experience. The trees in the park were still tall, but they were ominous—not lofty. The brick wall was still solid, but it was impenetrable—not sturdy. And remembering the dream after I woke up, I thought it ended differently that time. I couldn’t remember how, but there was something new. A presence that woke me up with a sense of overwhelm instead of peace.

When I picked up my phone, I had already missed several texts from Bree. One a perfunctory good morning, “Hey, little brother! Big day today! Proud of you!” Then a handful laying out my schedule for the day. Work at the office from 9 to 5. Then at the campaign headquarters from 5 to 9. I knew that my days would grow longer as the election approached. For now, working the schedule of a normal lawyer seemed easy.

I put my feet down on my apartment’s cold wooden floor and walked to the television hanging opposite my bed. I turned it on just as the theme song for the local morning news started.

Somehow, Dotty Doyle was still hosting. She didn’t look like a general-store brand Miss America anymore, but she was still holding on. Even if her permed blonde hair seemed to be permanently strangling her gray roots.

“Good morning, Dove Hill!,” she rasped in an effortful echo of her younger voice. “It’s another sunny day! Even if the clouds disagree.” I let some air out of my nose. Dotty’s jokes had not gotten better with age. “Today’s top story: the race for Dove Hill’s seat in the state legislature. Young hometown attorney Mikey Dobson is running to unseat 12-term incumbent Senator Edmund Pruce whose office was recently the subject of an ethics investigation that has since been closed at the governor’s order.”

Bree’s publicist did a good job. I barely recognized myself in the photograph. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a too-tired and too-skinny nerd whose hair was too black to be brown and too brown to be black. On the TV, the glasses I was always anxious about keeping clean actually made me look smart. Especially next to my wrinkly plum of an opponent. I didn’t hate Pruce, but he was certainly made for the world before Instagram.

“The latest polling shows Pruce with a substantial lead thanks largely to the district’s heavy partisan tilt. Dobson’s campaign, led admirably by his sister Bree, is under-resourced but earnest. And his themes of bipartisanship, town-and-gown partnership, and clean government along with the campaign’s mastery of social media seem to be appealing to younger voters.” I couldn’t disagree with the narrative there. With only a fraction of our parents’ promised funds having come through, Bree had done a lot with a little.

Still listening to Dotty’s monologue about the job losses threatened by federal cuts to Mason County Community College’s budget, I showered and shaved. I put on my Monday coat and tie while the frumpled weatherman tried to make a week of clouds sound pleasant.

When I grabbed the remote to turn off the TV, Dotty teased, “Remember to join us this Friday night for the first and only debate between Mr. Dobson and Senator Pruce. The world–or at least our studio–will be watching.” At exactly 8:50 am, I grabbed my coffee and opened the door.

Walking out to find my door being watched impatiently by Rosa the cleaner, I paused for just a moment. I reminded myself that I was happy. I graduated from an Ivy League school. I opened my own law office. I was running for office. And my parents, according to their Facebook posts, were proud of me.

Using the mindfulness techniques that my therapists had taught me, I brought myself back to the present. I turned to Rosa and gave her a pleasant smile. “Buenos días, Rosa!,” I recited in perfect Spanish. “Gracias por limpiar mi lugar y todos tu arduo trabajo.” Every person was a potential voter.

Looking into the mop water on Rosa’s cart, I found myself thrust back into memory of that morning’s dream. I remembered that I was stirred by the strange feeling of drowning in something other than water. Something thin and gauzy. Then I remembered the sight that I saw right before opening my eyes. The material I was drowning in was bright, almost neon pink—somewhere between Pepto-Bismol and that hard bubblegum I used to get at church. I knew the park dream happened when I was stressed, but this hot pink funeral shroud was something new.

I caught myself. It was time to work.

Once I got to the office, I worked on pleasantly mundane tasks: drafting a complaint, reviewing a deposition transcript, checking the mail. I even found something to like about billing hours. I was fortunate. Unlike most of my law school classmates, I actually liked being a lawyer.

Or I had. When Bree started to plan the campaign, she started to advise me on which clients and cases I should take. Of course, none of her suggestions were optional.

With 4:00 pm approaching, I prepared for a meeting with a potential client. Since I was one of the very few attorneys in town—perhaps the only one without a drinking problem—I never knew what kind of client or case these meetings were going to bring. At precisely 4:00 pm, I opened the door to see a round man with a look like he was meeting an old friend.

I welcomed him in and listened to his story. The man explained that he had just been released from the Mason County Correctional Facility. Apparently, this was supposed to be a civil rights case. The man described the conditions in the prison. I wished I could be surprised at the routine violations of basic laws and human rights. I couldn’t be. I grew up hearing the same stories from some of my extended family—third cousins and the like. This was the kind of case I had become a lawyer to take. But I knew I couldn’t take this one. I couldn’t look anti-cop with the election just two weeks away.

“So that’s my story,” the man concluded.

“I understand,” I lied kindly. “Thank you for sharing with me.” I meant that part.

“Do you think you can help me, Mr. Mikey?”

“I’m not sure. Let me step out and call my associate.”

I left the cramped conference room that used to be a kitchen. Pulling up my recents to call Bree, I realized I had been using a creative definition of “associate” over the past few months.

Bree answered efficiently. “Hey! Are you on the way?”

“Not quite. I’m wrapping up a meeting with a potential client.”

“Is this another soft-on-crime case?”

“It’s not soft on crime. It’s…,” I began to protest.

“No. Absolutely not.” The law had spoken. “You know we can’t take those cases this close to the election. You’re running to make the change that will keep those cases from happening in the first place. You can’t let your feelings make you sacrifice your future.” I wondered why Bree said that “we” couldn’t take the case.

“Yeah. You’re right. I’ll see you soon.”

As I opened the door to tell the man the news, the man’s phone rang. I knew I remembered that song. Slow. Sweet. Syrupy. But I couldn’t place it.

If you’re not feeling happy today,

Just put on a smiling face.

It will make the pain go away

Before you forget to say…

Remembering those lyrics, I felt seen. And watched.

“So, what’s the verdict?,” the man hoped out loud.

“I’m sorry, sir. The firm just can’t take on a case like yours at the moment. If you’d like, I can refer you to some other attorneys.”

“No thanks. I’ll take this as my answer.”

I flinched at that then continued the script.

“Well, thank you for coming in. It’s always a pleasure to meet someone from our town.”

Waiting for me to open the door, the man mumbled genuinely, “Sure. Thanks for your time. I’m still going to vote for you.” I went to close the door behind the man but couldn’t stop myself from asking.

“Excuse me. Sir?” The man turned around halfway down the brick walkway. “I love your ringtone. What song is that? I know I heard it when I was a kid, but I can’t remember the name.”

The man looked at me like I had just asked if his prison cell had been on Jupiter. “I think it’s called Marimba or something. It’s just the default.”

I gave the man a kind nod. Closing the door behind him, I tried to shake off the feeling that came over me when I heard that song. It made me feel uncomfortably aware of the man’s eyes on me when I braced to deliver the bad news. It was like the man was suddenly joined by an invisible audience that waited for me to say the lines I had rehearsed so many times. The song reminded me of something always waiting just out of sight—waiting to swallow me whole if I ever failed to act my part.

I walked back to my desk, shut my laptop, and grabbed my blazer on the way out the door. In the past, I might have stayed late to work on cases. Not that month.

* * *

Driving through town, I passed the old bookstore where I spent hours on afternoons when my parents were working and Bree was building her resume with one extracurricular or another. The owner, Mrs. Brown, always made me feel at home. I’m not sure if it was because of her failing memory or because she saw just what I needed, but Mrs. Brown always left me alone. I cherished that time alone with Mrs. Brown where I could breathe without someone’s eyes waiting for me to do something wrong. Something that the kids at school would make fun of and my family would try to fix. In Mrs. Brown’s store, I could just be.

By the time memory took me to junior year when Mrs. Brown’s store was run out of the market by internet sales, I had arrived at my campaign office. That is probably not the right word. It was more the building that my campaign office was in. The building that was the town civic center some decades ago. Now it had been converted into a rarely-used venue for weddings and receptions and overflow offices for some of the mayor’s staff. One of these town employees was the daughter of one of Bree’s favorite professors, and he convinced her to let Bree borrow it after city work hours.

Walking from the car to the double dark-paneled wooden doors, I appreciated that the mayor who had ordered the renovation had at least thought to preserve the building’s frame. It had been there longer than anyone still alive in the aging county.

Bree was waiting just inside the dust-odored lobby when I opened the doors. Before either of us said anything, she gave me a flash of a smile. We always had this moment. Before we started talking about the campaign or our careers or what we could do better, Bree looked at me like a proud big sister happy to see her little brother. I remembered this smile from our childhood, but it became fainter and rarer as Bree aged and took on more responsibilities. Ever since our father informed us that Bree would be running my campaign, the smile only came in those flashes.

“Hey. Good day at work?” Bree asked perfunctorily. I loved her for trying.

“Normal,” I said, following Bree down the side hallway to the cramped office. “So I can’t complain.”

“I’m glad,” Bree answered. I wasn’t sure if she was glad I had a good day or glad I was not complaining. Probably both.

We sat down in the professor’s daughter’s town-issued pleather chairs, and Bree commenced.

“Thank you for coming this evening.” She ran those meetings like she was reading a profit and loss statement in a Fortune 500 conference room. Sometimes I wondered if she rather would be. “The polling is still not optimal. We’re trailing 45 to 50 with 8 percent undecided. The latest social campaign went well. The A-B testing found that the voters prefer you in a red tie so we’ll stick with that going forward.”

Tired of fighting it, Bree pushed her a runaway wisp of black hair out of her face with a red headband. I smiled to myself thinking about Bree doing that as a girl. She was always too serious to bother with her hair.

“Anti-corruption is still your strongest issue. People seem to like that coming from someone young and idealistic. The question is whether it will be enough to get people to the polls when Pruce has the culture war on his side.”

I nodded at the right time. I wanted to pay attention. Bree worked hard to prepare this report, but it was hard to focus when I knew my opinions didn’t matter. Bree made the decisions for the campaign, and the polls made the decisions for Bree. I hated myself for being so cynical, but I was a politician now—just the smiling face on the well-oiled machine.

When Bree started to explain the campaign schedule up through Friday’s debate, I heard something familiar. It sounded like a woman humming in the room next door. Except, in the office at the end of the narrow hallway, there was no room next door. I decided I wasn’t hearing anything.

Bree dictated, “Tomorrow, we have a meeting with Scarnes and Blumph, your publicists.”

If you’re not feeling happy today…

The wordless music continued, now coming from both the room that wasn’t next door and behind the professor’s daughter’s desk.

My decision failed me. I was definitely hearing something. I told myself maybe it was an old toy in one of the cardboard boxes that towered in the corner opposite me. I looked up at Bree to see if she heard anything. She reported on without a moment’s hesitation.

“Then on Wednesday we have the meet and greet at the nature center.”

Moving my head as little as possible, I began to dart my eyes around the room. The music was coming from above me now. I thought there might have been an attic there before the renovation.

Just put on a smiling face…

I tried my best to look focused. I was always trying my best.

“On Thursday, we have your appearance for seniors at the YMCA.”

I fought to keep breathing, but the air was leaving me. The music, now all around me and getting louder, was almost suffocating. I was drowning in it.

It’ll make the pain go away…

My nerves began to demand my body move. First my fingers began to tap the chair’s worn arm. The music grew louder. Then my feet joined in. The music was nearly deafening.

At that, Bree looked up from her papers. For another fleeting moment, she looked at me like a sibling instead of a campaign manager. But this time it was a look of concern instead of affection.

“You good?” Bree’s question was almost drowned out by the song.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Probably just too much coffee.” I felt like I was shouting, but I knew I was using my inside voice.

Almost as scared of Bree’s disappointment as the music from the void, I asked, “Do you hear something?”

The music stopped except for the faint hum from the woman in the room that wasn’t next door.

Before you forget to say…

“No.” Bree’s face looked just as I feared: worried but not willing to show it.

Silence kindly returned.

With an earnest attempt at earnestness, I pivoted like a professional. “And the debate’s Friday?”

“Right…” Bree said as if she were asking herself for permission to continue. “ I’ll do the walkthrough of the venue on Thursday afternoon. But don’t forget. Dotty’s show is that morning. It’s one of your only friendly audiences.”

She haltingly continued to the financial section of her report, and I remembered. The song was called “Put on a Smiling Face,” and it was from Sunnyside Square. I thought it was my favorite show as a kid. But, after I heard the song in my office and then in Bree’s, I texted a few friends.

No one remembered it.