Left Neglected (10 page)

But Bob keeps dodging me whenever I bring it up.
Oh, I can’t find it. Oh, I forgot it. Oh, I’ll get it tomorrow.
Oh, he’s so transparent. He doesn’t want me to spend any time focusing on work while I’m here. He thinks I should put work out of my mind and devote 100 percent of my mental energy to getting better. He also thinks that if I dabble in a little bit of work, it’ll only stress me out, and I don’t need any added stress right now.

While I agree with him to some extent, and I do work as hard as I can on whatever task the nurses and therapists ask me to perform, there’s quite a lot of downtime here at Baldwin. I have some kind of therapy for three hours each day. And meals can also count as opportunities for learning. For example, Martha always hides my dessert on the left side of my tray (and when I can’t find it, my mother, the good little enabler, retrieves it for me). So if I include meals, there’s maybe another two hours. But that’s it. Five hours a day. I could easily fit in some emails and phone calls without overdoing anything. A few calls a day might even reduce my stress levels.

“Bob won’t give me my phone,” I say, tattling on him.

Heidi walks over to my mother’s chair.

“This it?” she asks, holding my cell phone in her hand.

“Yes! Where did you get it?”

“It was on the table to your left.”

For the love of God. I wonder how long it’s been sitting in the black hole next to me. I imagine Bob placing it there, thinking,
She can use it if she can find it.

“Here,” she says, handing over my long lost friend. “You didn’t find the time, but you found your hand and saw your watch for a few seconds. I’m gonna go down and get you a coffee.”

“Really?”

“Yup. What kind?”

“Vanilla latte. Extra large. Thank you so much.”

“You got it. I could use another, too. We’ll start with coffee in rehab and work our way to wine in my living room. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Okay, back in a minute.”

I hear the open-and-close of the door, and I’m alone in my room. My mother’s at the mall, Heidi’s getting coffee, I’ve got my cell phone, and for a few brief moments, I was aware of my left hand. I smile. I may not be good yet, but I’d say I’m already a little better than not so good.

Now, where should I begin? I think I’ll call Jessica first and catch up on what’s happened since the accident. Then Richard. We’ll need to come up with a strategy for how I can best work from here. Then Carson. I can’t wait to hear their voices. I push the power button, but nothing happens. I push it again and again. Nothing. The battery’s dead.

And I have no idea where the charger is.

My mother has been gone forever. I can’t imagine what could be taking her so long. It’s a strange thing, to be wishing for my mother to come back to me. I stopped throwing pennies down that well a long time ago. But here I am, sitting up in my hospital bed, saying hello to Jessica and Richard, trying to act normal, wishing my mother would hurry up and get here. I need that damn hat.

Jessica hands me a huge and heavy box of chocolate peanut butter fudge, sits down in my mother’s chair, and asks how I’m doing.

In my very best everyday, no-big-deal but assured voice, I say, “Good. Much better,” and thank her for the fudge.

I offer them a piece, but they both say, “No, thanks.”

I dig into the box, pick out the thickest cube, and pop the whole thing into my mouth. Big mistake. Now I’m unable to start up a conversation through all that chocolate and peanut butter, and Jessica and Richard aren’t offering anything. They’re just watching me chew. The silence feels thicker and more awkward than the giant wad of fudge in my mouth. I try to chew faster.

The image of me reflected in Jessica’s facial expression isn’t pretty. The incision scars, the bruising, the overall baldness. I’m a horror movie, and she desperately wants to bury her face in someone’s shoulder. Her good manners keep her from looking away, but there’s no hiding that my appearance scares her. This is not the confident image of health and competency I was hoping to project. Where the heck is my mother with that hat? I finally swallow.

“Thanks so much for coming. I would’ve been in touch, but my cell phone was missing, and my laptop didn’t survive the accident. If you messenger one over, I can easily work from here.”

“Don’t worry about work, Sarah. We’ll take care of everything until you come back,” says Richard.

Jessica nods, disgust and terror bleeding through her queasy smile.

“But I really need to stay on top of recruiting. It’s crunch time. My inbox must be insane.”

“We’ve rerouted all your email to Jessica and Carson. Let them handle crunch time,” says Richard.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” says Jessica, looking about as worried as a person can look.

Of course, they had to forward all my mail. That makes sense. They didn’t know how long I’d be out of commission, and the decisions pending can’t wait. Time may be a petrified forest here at Baldwin, but it’s a raging river rapid at Berkley.

“I know I’m not physically back in the office yet, but there’s no reason why I can’t work from here,” I say to Richard, looking at Jessica.

Wait. I’m talking to Richard, but I’m looking at Jessica. I’ve just realized that I’m not seeing Richard. He must be standing to her right. My left. Fantastic. In my mind’s eye, I picture Richard. He’s about six foot two, salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, slender, almost gaunt, blue suit, red tie, wingtips. The slender part is new. From a slightly more distant memory bank, I can also pull up Richard before his divorce—fifty pounds heavier, pink fleshy face, cantaloupe-sized, middle-aged paunch, bigger suit, same red tie. I imagine the contents of his refrigerator in his bachelor apartment at the Ritz—a six-pack of Corona, a few limes, an expired quart of milk. I try to picture his skinny face and wonder if he looks half as freaked out as Jessica does.

“It’s all being taken care of, Sarah,” says the voice of Richard.

“What about annual reviews?”

“Carson’s handling it.”

“Even Asia?”

“He’s got it.”

“And India?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, well, if he has any questions, or if he needs me for anything, tell him to call me.”

“I will.”

“I can at least phone in to internal meetings. Jessica, can you send me my calendar and plan to conference call me in?”

A cell phone rings. God, I miss my ring tone.

“Hello? Yup,” says Richard’s voice. “Good, tell him I’ll call him back in five minutes.”

Following some cue from Richard I didn’t see, Jessica picks up her bag from the floor and places it on her lap. The credits are rolling, the movie’s over, and she’s ready to get the hell out of here.

“Sorry to have to cut this visit short, but I’ve got to return that call,” says Richard.

“Sure, that’s okay, thanks for coming. And don’t worry. I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Good.”

“But while I’m here, Jessica, can you send me a laptop and keep me updated on meetings?”

“Sarah, we miss you,” says Richard. “But we want you to take your time and come back when you’re a hundred percent. The sooner you get better, the sooner we can throw you back into the fire. Focus on you, don’t worry about work. Everything’s under control.”

“I’ll send you more fudge,” says Jessica, like she’s a parent negotiating with a child, offering some lame alternative to what the child wants but can’t have.

“Is there anything else we can get for you?” asks Richard.

A computer, a cell phone charger, my calendar, some life-line to my job.

“No, thanks.”

“Get better. We miss you,” says Jessica as she backs away. Richard now steps into view.

“Good to see you, Sarah.”

He bends down over me and leans in to give me a polite kiss on the cheek. At least, this is what I assume. I’m already committed to returning his innocent peck on the cheek when his lips are surprisingly right in front of mine, and without time to think about what I’m doing, I plant a full-mouth smooch right on his lips.

I’m sure the wide-eyed astonishment on his face matches mine. My embarrassment races for an explanation. He must’ve been going for my left cheek, the cheek whose existence I’m only aware of in theory. This neurological logic satisfies me, but Richard is looking at me as if I’ve forgotten the nature of our relationship. Like I’ve gone insane.

“Okay, then, um,” he says, clearing his throat. “Get well soon.”

And they’re both out the door.

Great. I’ve just terrified my assistant and sexually assaulted my boss.

I flip open the box of fudge and pick out another big piece. They don’t want me back at all unless I’ve recovered 100 percent. I chew on this piece of information as I chew the piece of fudge.
What if I don’t recover 100 percent?

I stuff another piece of fudge into my mouth.
What if I don’t recover 100 percent?
I eat another cube. I keep eating until I feel sick, but I still can’t manage to answer the question, and I can’t stop asking it, so I finish the box. Only the box still feels heavy. I shake it and hear and feel fudge bump against the side of the box. The left side. The side I have no awareness of. I shake the box again, this time like I’m trying to murder it, and a few squares stumble into view. I eat them.

What if I don’t recover 100 percent?

Please tell me there are others,” I say.

My mother has just modeled the three hats she purchased for me at the mall. She’s still wearing the third one—an absurdly large Victorian tea hat covered with a heaping pile of red roses—along with a slightly deflated smile.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with this one?”

“You look like Minnie Pearl.”

“I do not.”

The price tag is even dangling over the side of the brim.

“Fine. You look crazy.”

“I have one just like this I wear to my Red Hat events.”

She takes the hat off her head and twists it around in her lap, admiring it from every angle. She then smells the fake flowers, returns it to her head, cocks it to the side, and smiles at me as if to say,
What about now?
Yup, it’s a hat made for a crazy lady.

“You really didn’t get anything else?”

She gives me an apologetic shrug instead of an answer and holds up the other two options—a brown leather cowboy hat and a neon-pink ski hat.

“I felt rushed. It’s always chilly in here, so I thought the fleece hat would be good, and Bob has some country music CDs in the car, so I thought you might like that style.”

I wonder what could possibly have been her reasoning behind the Minnie Pearl. Because she thought I might be just like her? I’m too afraid of that answer to ask.

“I’ll take the pink one.”

Minus the fluorescent highlighter color, I’ll at least feel like me in a fleece ski hat. Bob and I both love to ski. Bob’s family owned a condo in North conway, New Hampshire, and they used to spend every weekend from December to April on the slopes of Attitash and Cranmore. His happiest childhood memories are of racing his older brothers down a mountain. I, on the other hand, grew up on Cape Cod where the biggest hills are sand dunes, and we never vacationed over the bridge. I didn’t discover skiing until I went to Middlebury College in Vermont, where it’s practically part of the core curriculum.

My first day on skis was a painful, frozen, and exhausting lesson in humiliation, and the only reason I mustered up the courage to endure another day of pure torture was because I’d purchased a weekend ticket and wanted to get my money’s worth. I had no real expectation of improving, never mind enjoying it. But on that second day, a miracle happened. Somehow my clumsy limbs knew where to go and when to go there, and down I went—on my skis and not on my bottom. And I’ve loved skiing ever since.

Bob and I bought our house in Cortland, Vermont, the year after we bought our house in Welmont. The additional mortgage payment has kept us from being able to afford a bigger house with an additional bedroom in Welmont, which we need if we ever hope to hire a live-in nanny, but it’s been well worth the sacrifice. During the winter months, when we go from house to car to office and back again, and the air inside all of those places is overheated, recycled, and contaminated with flu virus, skiing on the weekends means two full days of breathing fresh, healthy mountain air. And during those winter months, when we go from house to car to work and back again, we sit. We sit in traffic, sit at our desks, sit through meetings, and sit on the couches with our laptops on our laps. We sit every waking hour of the day until we’re too mentally exhausted to sit for one more second.

When we go to Vermont, we slide our feet into boots, pop our boots into bindings, and ski. We slalom through moguls, carve through late-afternoon icy patches, and swoosh at exhilarating speeds down black diamond trails. We bend and flex and stretch until we’re physically exhausted. But unlike the exhaustion we normally experience from sitting all day, this exhaustion is strangely energizing.

And there’s something magical about the combination of mountain air and physical exercise that interrupts that endlessly looping and insistent voice inside my head that normally chatters on and on about all the things I need to do. Even though it’s completely irrelevant now, I can still hear the nagging list that was playing in my head just before the accident.

You need to call Harvard before noon, you need to start year-end performance reviews, you need to finalize the B-school training program for science associates, you need to call the landscaper, you need to email the London office, you need to return the overdue library books, you need to return the pants that don’t fit Charlie to the Gap, you need to pick up formula for Linus, you need to pick up the dry cleaning, you need to pick up dinner, you need to make a dentist appointment for Lucy about her tooth, you need to make a dermatologist appointment for you about that mole, you need to go to the bank, you need to pay the bills, don’t forget to call Harvard before noon, email the London office
…

By my second or third run down the mountain, that constantly jabbering voice in my head would be rendered speechless, and a peaceful gratitude would fill the space where all that one-sided, bossy conversation had been. Even when the slopes are crowded with other skiers, and even if Bob and I talk while we ride the chairlift, skiing down to the base is a glorious experience in focused silence. No laundry list in my head, no TV, no radio, no phone, no email. Just the hush of the mountain. Hush. I wish I could bottle it, take it back with me to Welmont, and sip from it many, many times a day.

My mother hands me the hat. I try to put it on, but the opening keeps flopping shut, and I can’t get it around my head.

“It doesn’t fit.”

“Here, let me help,” says my mother.

She stretches the opening and slides the hat onto my head. It’s soft and snug against my skin, and I have to admit, it feels good.

“There. You look great,” she says, beaming, like she’s just solved my biggest problem. “And Lucy will love that it’s pink.”

It’s strange to hear my mother knowing my kids. She knows that Lucy is crazy for pink. Of course, discovering that Lucy loves the color pink takes about as much time and sensitivity as it does to notice that I’m bald. But still. My mother knows Lucy. My daughter. Her granddaughter.

“Yeah, she will. Thanks, it’s perfect.”

I touch the hat on my head and close my eyes. I imagine the end of a full day of skiing, sitting on the living room floor in front of a roaring fire with Bob, thawing under thick fleece blankets, eating hot chili and drinking frosty mugs of Harpoon. Sometimes we play backgammon or cribbage, and sometimes we go to bed early. Sometimes we make love right there on the fleece blankets in front of the fire. I smile as I remember the last time. But I stay in the glow of that warm and fuzzy memory for only a second because now I’m busy flipping back the pages, trying to remember how long ago that frolic took place.

God, I don’t think we’ve seen that fireplace in three years. Can it really be that long ago? It seems like every time we consider making the trip, a million little excuses collude to keep us from packing up the car and heading north—work, travel, pregnancy, Charlie’s karate lessons on Saturdays in the winter, T-ball games in the spring, various projects around the house, Lucy’s ear infections, we’re too busy, we’re too tired. And now this.

I clench my teeth and resolve to eat, drink, and be merry with Bob in front of that fireplace after a long day of skiing this winter. No excuses. The chatter in my head begins reciting a new kind of laundry list.
You need to get better, you need to get out of here, you need to go home, you need to go back to work, you need to go to Vermont, you need to get better, you need to get out of here, you need to go home, you need to go back to work
…

As I become almost hypnotized by this inner mandate, I become increasingly aware of another voice in my head. The voice is a whisper, honest and scared. I recognize it. It is my voice repeating over and over the nagging question that I’ve been refusing to answer ever since I watched
Ellen,
ever since I saw Richard and Jessica.

What happens if I don’t get better?

I ask my mother to tell me about her trip to the mall, hoping her prattle will drown out the voice. She happily launches into the story of her outing.

What happens if I don’t get better?

For a whisper, it is remarkably difficult to ignore.

“M
OMMY
!”
YELLS
L
UCY
, BOUNDING IN ahead of everyone else.

“Come over to this side,” says my mother.

“Come on up,” I say, patting the space of bed next to me.

Lucy climbs up over the rail and onto my lap. She’s wearing her winter coat over her Little Mermaid nightgown, her sneakers with the heels that light up with the impact of each step, and her pink fleece hat. I give her a huge hug, and she squeezes me tight, her small hands wrapped around the back of my neck, her face pressed against my chest. I exhale a blissful “Mmm,” the same sound I make when I smell bread baking or I’ve just eaten a sinful piece of chocolate. Her hug is that scrumptious. Then she sits back, just a few inches from my face, and studies me. Her eyes light up.

“We match, Mommy!” she says, delighted by my pink ski hat, just as my mother predicted.

“We’re so fashionable,” I say.

“Hey, babe,” says Bob.

The rest of them file in. They’re all wearing hats—a Red Sox cap on Bob, a navy blue bomber on Charlie, an ivory knitted skullcap on Linus, who is asleep in his bucket car seat, and of course, my mother, the Mad Hatter. Such a brilliant idea. Now the kids won’t pay any special attention to my head. I toss Bob a grateful smile.

“Where’s all your hair?” Lucy asks, concerned and puzzled.

So much for that theory.

“I had to get a really short haircut,” I say.

“Why come?”

“Because it was too long.”

“Oh. I liked it too long.”

“Me, too. It’ll grow back,” I assure her.

I wonder when the left will “grow back” and wish that I had a similar level of confidence in its return.

“Is this where you live now?” she asks, still puzzled and concerned.

“No, sweetie, I live at home with you guys. I’m just staying here for a little while for a special program, to learn some new things. It’s like school.”

“Cuz you banged your head in the car?”

I look up at Bob. I don’t know how much detail he’s shared with them. He nods.

“Yes. Hey, who painted your pretty nails?”

“Abby,” she says, now admiring her pink fingers. “She did my toes, too. Wanna see?”

“Sure.”

I look to Charlie as Lucy starts undoing her laces, bracing myself for the more sophisticated cross-examination I assume is coming. He’d normally see straight through the gaping holes in my political candidate answers to Lucy’s flimsy interview and sink his teeth into the interrogation. He’d tear apart my lame haircut story like a hungry pit bull with a juicy steak. But instead, he’s standing in front of Bob and staring at the floor. He won’t look at me.

“Hey, Charlie,” I say.

“Hi, Mom,” he says, arms folded, still looking down.

“How’s school?”

“Good.”

“What’s new?”

“Nothin’.”

“Come here,” I say, extending my arm, inviting him in.

He shuffles forward a couple of measured steps and stops at a distance from me that can just barely be considered “here.” I pull him into me and, because he’s still looking down, I kiss the top of his blue hat.

“Charlie, look at me.”

He does what he’s told. His eyes are round and innocent, worried and defiant, framed by those thick, black lashes. It’s so unfair that Lucy didn’t get his eyelashes.

“Sweetie, Mommy’s fine. Don’t worry, okay?”

He blinks, but the worried defiance hanging in his gaze doesn’t budge an inch. I’m selling a lie, and he’s not buying it. Some child expert once said or I read somewhere that parents should never lie to their kids. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. This so-called expert clearly doesn’t have an inquisitive child like Charlie. Come to think of it, this “expert” probably doesn’t have any children at all. There are days when I’ve had to dodge, fib, and outright lie a dozen times before breakfast.
What are weapons of mass destruction? What are you and Dad fighting about? Where do babies come from? What is this
[
holding a tampon
]
?
The truth is often too scary, too complicated, too … adult for kids.

And lies are often the best parenting tool I’ve got. I have eyes on the back of my head. Your face will freeze like that. This won’t hurt. Spider-Man loves broccoli. Here, this [spray bottle full of water] will kill the monsters in your closet. In a minute.

Then there are those white lies that encourage and protect what is wondrous and magical for kids. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, Disney princesses, Harry Potter. I don’t want to know the parent who tells a seven-year-old there are no such things.

The truth is, there is no Santa Claus, there are no wizards, parents pay cash for baby teeth, and pixie dust is store-bought glitter. There are people in this world who hate Americans and are this minute plotting ways to kill us all, and I insert that tampon into my vagina to absorb blood when I have my period. The cold, hard truth for kids needs to be wrapped in a warm and silky soft blanket of lies. Or in this case, in a hot-pink fleece ski hat.

“Honestly, Charlie, I’m fine.”

“See?” says Lucy, pointing her toes in the air like a ballerina. Her toenails are painted a rebellious metallic blue.

“They’re lovely,” I say, lying. “Where’s Linus?”

“He’s on the floor next to me,” says Bob.

“Can you lift him so I can see him?”

I wait and nothing happens.

“Bob, can you lift him up?”

“I did,” he says quietly.

His face registers my Neglect.

“Lucy Goose, will you hop down for a sec?” I ask.

She crawls down to the foot of the bed, which is good enough, and Bob places the bucket car seat on the bed next to me. Linus is sound asleep, breathing long, deep breaths, the nipple of his nukie propped against the roof of his open mouth such that it is kept dangling in position, ready for sucking. Thank God he’s figured out how to do this.

I love how his cheeks, which are like plump, ripe, delicious peaches begging to be pinched during the day, sag well below his jawline when he sleeps. I love his clenched hands, the dimples he has instead of knuckles, the creases of his chubby wrists. I love the sound of his breathing. God, I could watch this show all night.