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"mothers and daughters existing as wretched mirrors of each other: i am all you could have been and you are all i might be."
"all women become like their mothers. that is their tragedy."
----
Kim’s got a good head on her shoulders. That’s what everyone says, anyway: God, that Kimmy Wexler’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s going to be somebody someday.
And it’s true. She does. She will. In middle school, she realizes that for a fact, knows it deep in her stomach. It’s carved into her bones: I’m going to be somebody someday.
She runs track at school, and she makes sure she’s one of the fastest. She plays the cello in orchestra, and she makes sure she’s first chair. She joins Mathletes, and she makes sure she’s the smartest in the room.
Kim’s got a good head on her shoulders, sure. Everyone thinks she’ll be somebody, fine.
But she knows the truth behind it all: she has to make sure it happens. Nothing’s ever fair, things are hardly just, so she has to bite and scratch and claw to get a shot. She trusts herself to hit the target, but she knows what it’ll take to get there. What she’ll have to do. She knows it when she looks at her mom passed out on the recliner. She knows it when she’s herded into a car in the middle of the night, the wind biting at her ankles. She knows it when she’s stuck waiting at school for someone, anyone, to pick her up, night after night. She knows it when she looks at herself in the mirror, takes a deep breath, fixes her immaculate ponytail, and says, “You’re going to be somebody someday.”
----
Kim looks like her mother. She gets it all the time. Same blond hair, same blue eyes, same sharp glare, same sweet smile. When Kim was eleven, before her aunt and mom got into a big blow-out and stopped talking, her aunt had a habit of sizing her up, nodding her head, and saying, “Yup. Just like your mom.”
“We don’t look alike,” Kim protested once. Just once. She was tired of hearing how much she looked like her mom – her mom, a woman who spent half her time drinking, a quarter complaining, and a quarter blowing whatever money they had on dumb purchases.
“Yes, you do,” Aunt Linda said. “You’re a carbon copy, Kimmy.”
Simple as that. A carbon copy. Kim looked like her mother, and there it was: a brand.
Kim could have been petulant about it all, but she was eleven, and too old for that kind of thing. She just doesn’t want to look like her mom. She can’t figure out why, she can’t begin to understand why, but she knows she doesn’t want to. Even though her mom’s pretty. Even though plenty of people look like their mothers.
Carbon copies. Kim used to spend hours in the mirror, staring at her reflection, scrutinizing every inch. Pulling at her cheeks, pinching at her nose, practicing a new smile. Trying to mold herself like putty into someone who looked different, someone who looked much less like her mom.
And then she would finish, and her face would be red and raw and achy, and she was filled with this awful feeling in her stomach. Eventually, she came to recognize it as guilt.
----
Kim does not get into trouble at school. She makes two rules for herself at the start of seventh grade: don’t get a demerit and don’t get sent to the principal’s office. She’s good at covering up the things she shouldn’t do. She’s excellent at it, really.
The first time Kim stole something for her mom, she was nine. She knew the difference between right and wrong by then, but she also knew the phrase “dog eat dog”. She knew that she was hungry. She knew that you do what you do when you have to, and that’s just how it is.
They were in the grocery store after school. Kim was holding her mom’s hand, shuffling her feet a little, more than a tiny bit bored. Her mom pulled a big box of Ritz crackers off the shelf, looked down at them, looked at Kim, and nodded.
“Put these in your backpack,” Mom said. Kim hesitated. She knew stealing was wrong. Three weeks ago, her teacher had done a whole unit on what it means to uphold the rules. Stealing breaks the rules. It hurts everyone.
But Mrs. Sincox didn’t talk about when you have to do it. When you have to run out of your apartment and start sleeping in the car again. When you get really hungry at night because you skipped dinner and have to pray that the lunch ladies give you something for free the next day at school.
The world sucks, Kimmy, her mom said once when Kim cried about having to sleep in the car again. Bad things happen to good people, too. Or average people. It’s just how it goes.
The Ritz crackers danced in front of her face as her mother shook the box.
“Come on, Kimmy,” Mom said. “For Mommy, okay?”
No, Kim thought, unzipping her backpack, for me.
Carissa paces up and down the aisle, chewing at her bottom lip like she’s making the ultimate choice. Kim watches her, glancing down at her watch periodically. They are not going to miss this showing of The Shining just because her indecisive friend is being indecisive.
Carissa goes back to the Raisinettes, then the Sno-caps, and Kim almost throws her hands up in the air and screams.
“Can you hurry, please?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “We only have ten minutes.”
“We’re sneaking onto the balcony, Kim. Who’s going to notice if we’re late?”
“I will. I don’t want to miss the first five minutes because you can’t pick.”
“Can’t you pick something for both of us? That way I don’t have to do anything.”
“I don’t want any.” Kim lies. The truth is, she can’t afford them. They’re sneaking into the movie because they’re both only thirteen, which means she doesn’t have to worry about that cost, because she really can’t afford to buy anything today. Or for the foreseeable future.
Finally, Carissa settles on the Sno-caps. The second her back is turned, Kim bends and swipes a box of Raisinettes off the shelf, tucking them into her pocketbook without a second thought.
They make it to the movie in the nick of time, sliding into the seats in the balcony just as the previews end. Kim waits for the movie to pick up before she reaches into her pocketbook, opens the box, and starts in on her stolen candy. She barely thinks about the time spent staring at her reflection and seeing her Mom looking back at her.
Dog eat dog. The world sucks. Bad things happen to good people, to average people. Kim pops another Raisinette into her mouth and thinks, what’s wrong with doing it for me?
Kim thinks that maybe she should feel worse about the great jewelry heist. She thinks that maybe it should twist at her conscience a little more than it does. She thinks that maybe she shouldn’t wear the triangle gold earrings every single day.
But she doesn’t, and it doesn’t, and she does.
The thing is, it’s not like that’s the first time she’s done it. Kim is smart. Kim is careful, and Kim rarely gets caught. It doesn’t mean she avoids trouble.
Besides, the earrings become special. She can’t quite figure out why, but she never takes them off. They become to her ears what fingernails are to fingers: necessary. Without them, she feels raw and exposed in a way she doesn't yet know how to articulate.
“Yellow gold looks pretty on you, Kimmy,” Mom tells her a week later when Kim’s still wearing the earrings. Kim twists her lips to the side and ducks her head under the compliment, caught between ripping the earrings out and chucking them at her mom or falling at her feet and asking for her to say it again.
It’s a weird feeling. She tries not to dwell on it.
“Thanks.” Kim reaches up to touch the earrings. “They’re really pretty, aren’t they?”
Her mom smiles. It’s the right answer.
----
At the end of eighth grade, the school hosts an awards ceremony. Kim’s not sure if her mom’s even going to come. She’s been drinking a lot this week, and was late picking Kim up three days out of five. There were a few repeat nights of hiking home with her cello in her hands. Plus, this apartment is going to go out from under them pretty soon. Kim’s moved – rather, been yanked out of wherever they were living – eight separate times in her life. She’s figured out when to feel the ground shifting.
Anyway, Kim’s not sure she’ll come. She still gets ready, carefully does her hair in the mirror, gently zips up the dress that Carissa’s older sister loaned her. She thinks of staring in the mirror for hours, poking and prodding at her skin, of being told how much she looks like her mom. She hasn’t seen Aunt Linda in over a year now, but that doesn’t mean the comments have stopped. They’ve just started coming from different people.
Kim smiles at herself in the mirror. Her mother’s face smiles back at her.
Kim is top of the class. Everyone knows she will be, but they still clap politely for her when the principal, Mrs. Stevens, announces it. Beside her, Carissa shakes her arm like Kim’s just won the lottery, like she's surprised to hear that Kim's valedictorian for their middle school class.
Kim smiles, mouths a thank you to Mrs. Stevens, and slumps further in her seat. She resists the urge to turn around and find out if her Mom’s at the back of the auditorium. She’d rather not know. Spare herself the disappointment, right?
It’s late when Kim slips into the apartment. Carissa’s mom took them for ice cream after the ceremony and graciously pretended like Kim’s excuse that her mom was just working late was true. She even offers to help Kim carry all of her awards to her apartment, but that’s too far for Kim. Lines have to be drawn somewhere; Kim happens to draw hers at the thought of Ms. Lutz coming to their apartment and seeing that not only is her mom not working, but she's likely drunk or passed out or both.
She shuts the door behind her with her foot, her arms full of plaques and certificates. She’s still flushing with pride – she can’t help it.
The T.V.’s on, playing a M.A.S.H. rerun at a low volume. On the lumpy couch, Kim’s mom lies asleep, her head tilted back. She’s snoring a little. Kim's relieved she didn't take Ms. Lutz up on her offer, and angry that she even has to be.
“Hey.” Kim kicks the arm of the couch hard. “Wake up.”
Her mom jolts out of her sleep, eyes flitting frantically around the room before they land on Kim and she visibly relaxes.
“Hey, Kimmy,” she says. “You’re home late.”
“Did you come to my awards ceremony?”
“Shit.” Mom’s eyes open wide. “Sorry, honey. I totally forgot. Shoot.”
Kim just stares at her, jaw clenched. She wishes she didn’t feel like crying.
“Did you win anything?”
“I won fifteen awards.” Kim’s voice is shaky. Any second, it’s going to give and break. She doesn’t want to cry.
“Wow. Congratulations, honey.”
“More than anybody else there.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“You didn’t even bother to show up.” And, there it is. Her voice cracks. “It was only an hour and a half. You could’ve come.”
“Kim, I fell asleep. I didn’t miss it on purpose.”
“You didn’t even care enough to stay awake. Carissa’s mom drove me there and back.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Mom snaps. “I didn’t miss it on purpose. Don't be dramatic.”
“Everyone else’s mom was there.” She can feel the tears about to spill over. “I wish you were like the other moms.”
Kim turns and walks down the short hallway before Mom can get a word in, closing her shoebox of a bedroom’s door firmly behind her. She dumps all of her awards onto her bed and suddenly feels stupid and small.
Her mom doesn’t even follow her down the hallway to shout at her. Kim wishes she would.
----
When she’s seventeen, Kim figures it out. It’s the phrase adrenaline junkie that does it. Immediately, her mom flashes in her mind. Stupid cons like the bit where she makes Kim pretend to shoplift. Stuffing things like wine bottles into her purse, making Kim shove eight packs of Hershey bars into the waistband of her pants.
And then Kim thinks of herself. Of the way she likes the adrenaline rush of getting “caught”; the feeling of walking out of the grocery store, pockets and backpack loaded up with all the useless, unnecessary shit.
She’s starting to look more like her mother every day.
Kim waits until the bell rings at the end of the day, and then she pushes through the throngs of people to get to the guidance counselor’s office.
“Kim,” Mr. Jennings says when she walks in, standing up from his desk. “Please, come in.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Take as much time as you need. Anything for our valedictorian.”
Kim flushes beneath the label, even though she knew she would be valedictorian. Everyone did.
She settles into the chair in front of his desk, slinging her backpack to her feet. Mr. Jennings leans back in his own chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
“So, what brings you by?”
“I want to go to college,” Kim blurts. “I mean, I want to go to college out of state.”
Mr. Jennings’ eyebrows draw together in understanding, and Kim hates it.
Not because of my mom, she wants to say, even though it’s absolutely because of her mom. Because Kim can’t end up like her mother, an unstable borderline alcoholic who acts more like a child than an adult. She can’t take it.
“Okay. Sure, we can explore those options. Do you have a major in mind?” Mr. Jennings, to his credit, recovers quickly. Still, it’s not quickly enough.
“I don’t know.” The uncertainty embarrasses her. “English, maybe.”
“You’d make an excellent professor, Kim.”
“Thanks, but that’s not what I want.” Deep breath. “I want to be a lawyer.”
Ever since she was a kid, people have told her she’d make a good lawyer. She never gave much thought to it, because that’s usually a thing people say to strong-willed kids to get them to shut up. And then she started to think about it seriously about a few months ago after she read an article written by a defense lawyer about poverty and crime rates going hand-in-hand. She likes the thought of helping people. Moreover, she thinks she might be good at it. She thinks she might be really good at it.
“A lawyer, huh.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve got to say, Kim,” Mr. Jennings says, “I think you’d excel in law. Truly, I do.”
Kim’s struck suddenly with this weird feeling, like she wants to get up and hug him. She’s not sure why.
“Thanks.” Kim nods a little. She’s never been great with praise. “I want to, uh, help people. Like, defense.”
“I think that’s a perfect decision,” Mr. Jennings says, and Kim hopes he isn’t just being a yes-man. She needs to hear if she’ll actually be good at it. She has no idea.
“You do?”
“Of course. You’re very bright, Kim, which I’m sure you know, but you’re also empathetic and quick on your feet. Those are necessary traits.”
“Right. Thank you, Mr. Jennings.”
He smiles at her like he actually means it, then reaches under his desk and returns with a stack of pamphlets. He spreads them across the desktop like he’s the dealer at a blackjack table.
Kim’s eyes land on the one smack-dab in the middle, the cover boasting beautiful mountains above a bustling campus.
University of Colorado-Boulder. She picks it up.
Kim graduates as valedictorian. Everyone knew she would. At graduation, she makes a speech about the world being bigger than everyone thinks, big enough to spread your wings and get what you want. Big enough to go away, to go far away, and become your own person.
From the stands, her mom watches. Kim glances at her throughout the speech and hopes she catches her meaning. She hopes she catches the underlying I’m sorry, but I have to do this to survive. I can’t end up like you. I won’t.
----
“Won’t you miss me?” Mom asks from the shitty recliner she’s sitting in, some lumpy thing she picked up off the street. Kim looks at her, at the apartment around them, and honestly cannot say she will. She won’t miss caring after a grown adult. She won’t miss this adrenaline junkie co-dependent shitshow of a relationship. She won’t miss worrying about how long her feet will stay on the same ground.
Kim lifts her chin sharply and glares at her mother, flat and icy, just the way she’s practiced.
I’m better than you. I’m going to be somebody. She nearly says it.
But in the end, it isn’t even worth it. Colorado is waiting, and there’s no use risking being late. She bends down, picks up her last bag, and carefully shuts the door on her way out.
Her mother doesn’t even bother following her.
Kim takes a taxi to Hastings and gets on the Amtrak, her bags piled around her. Something twists and aches in her stomach, but she tries to ignore it. Across from her, a nice looking old man sits down with a newspaper and a coffee. His face is kind of comforting, so Kim smiles at him.
“Hello,” he says, nodding at her.
“Hi.” Kim gestures toward his coffee. “Is that any good?”
“Oh, it’s horrible. Don’t waste your money.”
I don’t have any to waste. “Noted.”
“Where are you going with all those bags?”
“Oh.” Kim laughs a little self-consciously. “Uh, I start at CU Boulder in a few days.”
“Wow.” He nods approvingly. “Good for you. What are you majoring in?”
“English. Pre-law track.”
“You’re going to be a lawyer?”
“Hopefully.” It feels weird to say. She’s never admitted it out loud before, the uncertainty. Kim’s used to working for what she wants and getting it, but she knows how difficult law is. She knows how hard it’s going to be, and it terrifies her.
“Good luck, then – what’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” She holds out her hand, and then for some reason says, “it’s Giselle.”
She’s not sure why she lies. But it feels a little more secure. Giselle’s unsure of herself. Kim isn’t. It’s easier to assign the worry to a different identity.
“Well. It’s nice to meet you, Giselle.” He shakes her hand. “I’m Billy. Good luck.”
Kim doesn’t mind the way the name settles on her shoulders. Not at all.
----
College goes by in a blur, even faster than high school. Kim becomes a workaholic. It’s hard not to. First, she wants a 4.0. And then, she wants to make the Speech and Debate team. Once she does that, it’s time to prepare for the LSAT. There’s always something. The ball never stops rolling, so she never stops working.
She does well on the LSAT – forty-six out of forty-eight – but she doesn’t relax. She holds her breath until she hears back from the one law school she applied to.
She hears back on a Wednesday. Her roommate, Lacey, drops a stack of mail on the coffee table when she comes upstairs.
“I think there’s something from UNM in there,” Lacey says, and Kim’s hands start shaking.
“Are you messing with me?”
“What?” Lacey frowns at her. “Kim, just open the envelope. Maybe then you’ll start acting like a normal person.”
“I’ve been acting normal.”
“I don’t think you’ve eaten a meal that isn’t saltines in a week. You’re going to get scurvy.”
“Shut up.” Kim snatches the envelope off the pile. “God, I can’t do it. Can you?”
Lacey stares at her, then at the envelope.
“You’re the smartest person I know. We both know you got in.”
“I didn’t get a forty-eight.”
“You got a forty-six. Open it.”
“Can you at least sit with me?” Kim asks, and Lacey smiles, sitting down on the couch beside her. Kim looks down the letter, her vision tunneling. She feels like she’s going to stop breathing for real. Maybe she should go to the hospital.
“Open it,” Lacey snaps. Kim closes her eyes, rips open the envelope, counts to four, and then looks down at the letter.
She reads the word Congratulations! and – she’ll deny this for the rest of her life – squeals. Honest to God squeals. She can’t stop herself.
“Kim!” Lacey screams, grabbing her and shaking her. Kim laughs hysterically, letting Lacey jerk her back and forth like a ragdoll.
“Holy shit,” Kim says. She can’t stop laughing. “Holy shit.”
“I knew you’d get in. Didn’t I tell you you’d get in?”
“Fuck. Oh my God.”
“Don’t act so surprised!”
“God,” Kim rises on unsteady feet. “Holy crap. Give me a minute.”
Lacey laughs from the couch while Kim staggers to her bedroom. She collapses against the door onto the floor, biting her lip to hold back another shriek of laughter while she reads through the letter. She got in. She’s in. She’s going to law school. She’s going to be a lawyer.
Her first instinct is to reach for the phone and call her mom. She has no idea why. She hasn’t spoken to her since Christmas, which was a royal mess. Mom's new boyfriend was supposed to show up but flaked, so she got drunk to feel better, except she drank way too much, like she always does. So Kim had to abandon dinner and spend the night caring for her mother - bringing her water, patting her back, reassuring her that her boyfriend didn't skip it on purpose. Typical stuff. Stuff Kim's been used to since late middle school or early high school.
Something lonely explodes her chest suddenly, knocking her excitement down flat. She’s not even sure her Mom would pick up the phone. She’s not even sure she wants her to.
Her gold earrings – she’s never taken them off, she’ll never take them off – feel heavy in her ears suddenly.
And then she thinks of the mirror, of her eighth-grade awards ceremony, of walking home night after night with her cello in her hands and heavy disappointment sticking in her throat.
Kim’s better than her mother. She told herself she would be. She won’t let it sting any more than it already does.
She stands up and crosses the room to her mirror. She smooths down her shirt. She touches her earrings. She swallows roughly.
“Let’s go out to dinner,” Kim calls, walking out of her room and blinking away any tears that may or may not be gathering in her eyes. “We’ve got to celebrate.”
----
Law school is outrageously, unbelievably expensive. Kim can’t go on living if she doesn’t get a job, but she wants a job at a law firm, and a place called Hamlin Hamlin and McGill happens to be hiring somewhere in the middle of her first semester. She’s seen billboards on the side of the road, the words HHM written in bold, accompanied a smiling man in a blue suit with impossibly white teeth.
Kim sends in her resume that afternoon to work in the mailroom, and doesn’t even have time to worry about getting the job.
Of course, though, she gets it. She expected to. Her interview went well – the panel seemed to be really into Kim’s whole “pulled-up-by-the-bootstraps” deal. So, she figured she was a dead ringer.
She meets Howard Hamlin during her first week there. His teeth are nearly as pearly white in real life as they are on his billboards.
“Howard Hamlin,” he says, sticking out his hand for her to shake. “I heard that you're our new hire.”
“Kim Wexler.” She shakes it firmly; just like how she taught herself. “You heard correctly.”
“How are you liking it?”
“It’s great,” Kim says, and it’s not a total lie. It’s not bad at all. It’s sort of interesting, and it’s good for networking. Plus, it pays five dollars more than minimum wage, so, she’ll take it. It’s not like she has a lot of options.
“You’re in law school?”
“Yes, sir. UNM.”
“UNM. Great school.” Howard nods thoughtfully. “You know, we’ve hired a lot of talented lawyers from UNM. Paid off their law school loans.”
“Really?”
Howard raps his knuckles genially against Kim’s mailroom cart. “Just something to think about, Kim.”
Kim watches him go, strolling out of the mailroom, whistling and enthusiastically greeting every worker he passes by name. There’s something about him, in the posture of his shoulders, the confidence in his gait. Kim wants to be him. He’s a tremendous lawyer, and honestly, probably the best role model she’ll ever get.
Right there, frozen behind her mailroom cart, Kim makes a promise to herself: no more shenanigans. No more of the dumb shit that she used to do. She’s on the straight and narrow now.
After all, just one slip can lead to a full-fledged fall.
At the start of her second semester, she meets Jimmy. He’s new to the mailroom, which makes her technically a veteran to it. Jimmy's kind of ridiculous, but he makes her laugh. She tries not to take it personally.
She thinks that maybe he got into some trouble before, just based on the way he refuses to talk about his past. But honestly, that’s none of her business. Besides, he’s a nice guy – animated, funny, but also incredibly sweet. On his first day, he brings donuts in for the mailroom staff, and he's not even a kiss-ass about it.
At one point, near the end of Jimmy’s first week, Howard makes his way to the mailroom again. It’s like clockwork – every time a new employee starts out, Howard will pop up at the end of their first week to shake hands and make niceties. So far, though, Kim hasn’t heard him mention anything about hiring UNM students the way he did to her. She figures that means something.
“Jimmy,” Howard says, coming up to where she and Jimmy stand. Kim notices the tensing of Jimmy’s shoulders, the straightening of his back, like a puppet master is pulling on his strings.
“Howard.” Jimmy reaches out his hand. “How are you?”
“I’m very well, as always.” Howard winks at Kim. “How’s the mailroom treating you?”
“It’s outstanding. Thank you for, you know, everything.”
“No need to thank me.” Howard smiles, pearly and white. “You earned it on your own, Jimmy.”
Jimmy shrugs, suddenly bashful, and Kim’s shocked. It’s like he’s a totally different person. She wonders how they know each other.
“Kim, it’s good to see that you’ve met Jimmy McGill,” Howard says, turning to her. Kim mirrors Jimmy a little, straightening her back, tensing her shoulders. After all, it’s her turn in Howard’s spotlight.
“Yes, sir, I have. He’s been great.”
“Well, I trust your judgement,” Howard says, sounding genuine. “Watch out, Kim – our Jimmy can be trouble.”
Jimmy’s the first to laugh, but it sounds awkward and stilted. Kim joins in when Howard does, feeling eerily like she’s waiting for her cue. Once Howard’s gone, continuing his runway walk of the mailroom, Kim turns to Jimmy.
“McGill?” She cocks her head. “So, what? Chuck’s your…?”
“My brother,” he says, something dark in his voice. Kim has a million questions but decides it’s best not to push on it. Still, she files it neatly away in a box in the back of her head.
Jimmy, as it turns out, is incredibly smart. He’s sharp and smooth, and really, really convincing. More than once, he convinces Kim to go out and blow off studying. They end up at the bar together – usually with other mailroom workers, but not always – more times than she’d care to admit.
“You know,” he tells her, sometime later in her second year of law school, “Chuck was terrified that he wouldn’t pass the bar.”
“Chuck McGill?” She looks up from her keyboard. “Your brother?”
They’re in the office late, but they’re allowed to be here. Kim asked Howard permission to use her work desktop to try and finish a midterm paper, and he was more than happy to agree. Jimmy volunteered to stay back for reasons that sounded like helping, but really, he’s distracting. Kim’s trying to be more annoyed about it than she is.
“The very one. He was terrified.”
“But he’s incredible. Like, ridiculously impressive.”
“I know.” Jimmy, to his credit, only sounds a little envious. “But he was nervous, trust me.”
“And look at him now.”
“Look at him now.” Jimmy echoes. “Might be you someday, Kim, huh?”
Kim looks at him, narrows her eyes just a little, but Jimmy’s being dead serious. She blushes fiercely and hopes he can’t tell.
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Or maybe, it’ll be you.”
The funny thing is, she isn’t kidding. And based on Jimmy’s face, he takes it pretty seriously, too.
----
The first person she tells is Jimmy. She’s not sure why, but she also knows exactly why.
“Hey,” she says, yanking him into an empty conference room. “I got my results back this morning.”
“And?”
“I just opened it.” She feels tears stick in her voice; Jimmy’s face falls. “I passed.”
He lets out some ridiculous cheer, a literal woo-hoo! like he’s a cartoon character. Kim laughs, tears building in her eyes, and Jimmy grins and throws his arms around her in a tight hug.
“I knew you could do it,” he says, and she believes him. He’s always more certain than she is; she needed his certainty during the long, horrible waiting period. And in the period before, when she studied for ten straight hours every day and relied on Jimmy to quiz her on the law forward and backward.
“Thank you.” Kim squeezes him tightly. “For everything.”
At the end of the day, after she’s told Howard and officially been offered the job, after she calls Paige, after the mailroom presents her with a cake – courtesy of Jimmy, surely, based on the crooked smile he gives her – Kim goes home to her apartment alone. She takes off her coat, she tosses her purse onto the couch, and then she stares at the phone.
She knows her mom’s cellphone number. It’s never changed. Kim knows that, because she knows the calls she’s declined, she knows the calls she’s ducked, she knows the few calls she’s answered just to listen to her mom say Hey, Kimmy, before Kim panics and hangs up.
She’s twenty-seven years old. Nearly twenty-eight. It’s time to bite the bullet and call her goddamn mother.
It rings once, twice, three times. Four. Five. Eventually, Kim gets her voicemail.
“You’ve reached Lisa Wexler. Obviously, I can’t talk right now. Leave a message and I’ll give you a call back when I can.” Mom’s voice sounds tinny and warbled through the phone. Kim taps her fingers against the back of her Motorola, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth.
The voicemail box beeps. Kim takes a deep breath.
“Hey, Mom,” she says. It feels foreign in her mouth. “Look, it’s been a while. You don’t need to call me back, and I don’t expect you to, but I just wanted to tell you that I passed my bar exam. I’m a lawyer.”
She nearly starts crying at that, at the fact that she can say it out loud now. I’m a lawyer. Jesus Christ, she is.
“Uh, I just got the result back today, and… I don’t know. I just really wanted to tell you. So, yeah. Um, maybe I’ll talk to you later. I don’t know. Goodbye.”
And then she snaps the phone shut and tosses it onto the couch like it’s a live bomb. She buries her head into her hands and starts to laugh. It’s borderline hysterical, bubbling in her chest and threatening to turn into something dire, like a sob.
Kim’s become somebody. She’s not her mother. For some reason, it hurts.
She picks up the phone before she can think anymore, her fingers dialing a familiar number almost on their own accord.
“Hello?”
“Jimmy,” she says, trying to keep a sob-laugh in, “let’s go out to dinner. I need to celebrate.”
Later, her phone might ring and it might even be her mom. Or maybe it won’t. She may never hear from her mother again.
Kim reaches up, traces her fingers over her yellow gold triangles, and decides to grin and bear it through either outcome.