The Hole in the Middle (15 page)

I pat Zoe's arm sympathetically. “Maybe he's having a midlife crisis. After all, he did turn forty this year.”

“I suggested that in therapy last week. But our therapist says that my need to categorize everything is part of the problem, not part of the solution.”

“You're in therapy?”

“There's nothing wrong with therapy! You and Jesse should consider it. It's a healthy way to work out the normal differences and strains in a relationship in a safe environment. A little self-reflection can be good for you, you know. You should examine your own need to compartmentalize everything. You're the least integrated person I know.”

I am not going to rise to this bait. If I were a therapist, I would say that Zoe has a tendency to project her insecurities outward. And so I say, mildly, “And this makes me what? Un-integrated? Disintegrated?” But as I say it, I have an alarming vision of myself disintegrating into dust and blowing away. I take a deep breath and remind myself that it's
easy for Zoe to extol the virtues of self-improvement; she has no kids and, therefore, even with all of the demands of running HENNESSY, the hottest ad agency in town, she still has a reasonably unfettered ability to engage in pursuits from French cooking to jewelry-making to Italian lessons to kickboxing. Added to this is an enviable amount of time for what she refers to as “maintenance”—both inner and outer—which is why she has visible triceps and flat abs and spends a lot of her disposable income on various forms of therapy.

It occurs to me that Zoe and I have swapped philosophies since the early days of our friendship, the era before I moved into the house on Abernathy. I can picture myself back then, sucking back Thermoses of strong, terrible coffee, filled with restless energy and racked with perennial worry about the future. I fretted about my grades and my major and my career prospects and the various boys that I considered sleeping with—whether they liked me and how much they liked me and whether we had enough in common to justify sleeping together, as if there was any ethical or moral requirement to find such a justification. And after a while, I would stop worrying about whether the boy in question liked me enough and start worrying instead about whether I liked him enough, and then I would agonize over how to break up and when to break up and whether we would still be friends, and all of this rumination meant that I never felt that I was having a moment of pure experience since I was simultaneously ten steps ahead, dismantling and analyzing the moment as it was happening. That was before I met Will Shannon, of course, and figured out that being immersed in pure experience was both more and less than I'd bargained for. Zoe, though, was a master of the art of living in the moment, and of making every moment as pleasurable as possible. I would come home to the apartment after a long, contentious meeting at the newspaper, or a nighttime shift with the Safety Walk program, and Zoe would be sitting up waiting, with a cold martini already mixed.

And now Zoe has embraced the power of the examined life, whereas I now believe that too much contact with my innermost thoughts and feelings can only lead to trouble. And how would I find the time to live an examined life, anyway? These days, my life exists at the other extreme of
the doing-versus-thinking spectrum. My days are measured out in tasks that must be checked off; I know the day is over when I've run out of energy to check even one more box, and then I pass out and start again the next morning. No doubt there are many complicated feelings to mine from the depths if I had the time or the inclination, but what good could possibly come of that? If my psyche were a map, it would have huge swaths of unexplored territory like medieval illustrations of the world, with warnings at the edge: Here Be Dragons.

I take a deep breath. “Zoe. This isn't about me. How long have you been in therapy?”

Zoe sighs. “Sorry. Since September. I should have told you, but I was embarrassed. Richard started seeing someone, and he thought that the work he was doing would be more productive if the therapist could interact with me as well.”

“Why, so that he can blame everything on you?”

“It's starting to feel that way,” she sniffs. I feel hot with anger at pompous, mean-spirited Richard. Who does he think he is? I can't believe how much effort I've invested in trying to identify and appreciate his good qualities, time which now appears to have been utterly wasted.

I look at my watch. I've pushed it as late as I can, but my time's up. I give Zoe a hug. “I'm so sorry I can't stay longer,” I say. “We'll book some time on the weekend to do this properly, OK? But in the meantime, try to remember that you were something special long before you met Richard. Trust me. I was there.” She gives me a watery smile, and I silently curse the responsibilities that are pulling me away from something so much more important. I blow Zoe a kiss and race for the door.

thursday, december 5, 2013

I've spent way too long at lunch, and at two-fifteen I'm racing back into the hospital so that I can drop in on Christian Viggars's press conference at two-thirty. Too late I remember Nigel, who spots me before I can think of a plan to avoid him. I cast about the lobby wildly, and see Jenny Dixon from HR waiting for the elevator, just beyond Nigel's station.

“Jenny!” I call, and I see her puzzled expression as she notices me waving frantically. “Be right back,” I say to Nigel over my shoulder, and I dash off in Jenny's direction. “I need to ask that woman something really important.”

“Hey!” Nigel yells after me. “You can't . . .” but I already have, and I'm feeling very pleased with my quick thinking.

“Are you all right?” Jenny asks. She looks mildly concerned.

“Of course! I just wanted to say that I got your message and I'll send you the reports as soon as I write them up.” I shoot a look over my shoulder and can see Nigel pushing his chair back. I am about to make a break for the stairwell, but Jenny anticipates my move and puts a hand on my arm.

“I'm glad you caught me, actually.” She pauses. “One of the medical researchers says that one of your staff members threatened him with termination. Any idea what happened there?”

I groan.
Erica.
“Tensions were running a little high yesterday,” I say. “I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding.”

Jenny furrows her brow. “It sounds to me like your staffer got in over her head,” she says. “And that raises questions for me about how the staff in your office are being managed. I'd feel better if I could see your performance reviews.” She pauses and gives me a frank look. “You seem to be under a lot of pressure these days. I think it might be a good idea for us to get together and chat sometime soon. I'm going to have my assistant set up an appointment.”

Nigel is halfway across the lobby. “Sounds great, perfect, looking forward to it, OK,” I babble, giving Jenny an ill-conceived thumbs-up as I back away. There's no time to wait for the elevator. I sprint over to the stairwell, duck inside and dash up two flights of stairs. Just as I'm rounding the last corner, I catch my toe on a step and crash down onto my wrist.

“Ow!” I scream at the top of my lungs, and I hear my voice echoing all the way to the top of the building:
owowowowow.
“Fuck,” I whisper. My wrist is throbbing and I think I might be sick. I sit down heavily on the staircase and cradle my wrist in my good arm. It's already starting to swell. But I have to keep moving. Christian Viggars's press conference is about to start, and after my encounter with Jenny, I need to show that I'm in control.

I stagger out of the stairwell and make my way over to the auditorium. Christian Viggars, Marvin, and Erica are in a huddle beside the podium and the seats are filling up. I sidle up to the refreshments table, grab a napkin, and then, as subtly as possible, stick my hand into a plastic pitcher of water and extract a handful of ice to make an improvised icepack. The caterer comes up beside me with a scowl of disgust and removes the contaminated pitcher.

Erica spots me and waves me over. “All set?” I ask.

“Everything's great,” she says. “Marvin is going to do most of the talking. Christian will explain the technical data, but we're going to limit him to that. Short and sweet.” Her gaze lands on the wet napkin around my wrist and the pooling water at my feet.

“Erica,” I say. “Did you, by any chance, tell Dr. Viggars that you could have him fired?”

“Of course not!” she says. “I don't have the authority to do that. I told him that
you
could have him fired. It seemed to really get his attention.”

“Right,” I say. I should absolutely stay in this room and prevent, physically if necessary, anything else from going wrong. But I'm becoming more light-headed by the second. The best I can do is to attempt to neutralize Erica. So I give her a stern look, and say in my most imperious voice: “Let Marvin handle things here. Stay in the background. Understand?” Erica nods. I check the room to make sure Jenny isn't here. “I'm going to watch the webcast from my office. If anything goes wrong, call me immediately and I'll come down.”

I am overwhelmed with the need to get as far away from other people as possible, and I try not to break into a run as I leave the auditorium. I have a distinctly linear set of priorities at this moment:

1.
maintain a veneer of professionalism all the way up in the elevator;

2.
greet Joy with civility;

3.
turn on my computer and link to the webcast;

4.
take as many Advil as the directions on the packaging permit; and then

5.
lie on the floor of my office.

I barely manage priority one and decide to skip priorities two through four temporarily. I hear a knock, my door opens, and I open my eyes to see Geoff standing over me, seriously alarmed.

“What are you doing on the floor? Are you hurt?”

“No need for concern,” I say, pulling myself up into my chair and popping several Advil.

“Aren't you going to the press conference?” he asks.

“I'm going to watch the webcast,” I say. “Do you mind pulling it up for me while I make a call?”

Geoff fiddles with the computer while I call my doctor, who has an
office in the medical building down the street. At last, a piece of good luck. Dr. Chen is in the office today, and she can fit me in at three-thirty.

“I fell on my wrist,” I tell Geoff, who still has a wrinkle of concern above the bridge of his nose. “I was feeling dizzy. But I'm fine now.”

Geoff comes around the desk and reaches for my arm. “Oh, Sophie, look how swollen it is! Let me take you to emergency.”

I wave him off. “It's probably a sprain,” I say. “I just made an appointment with my doctor. Really, I'm fine. Do you want to watch the press conference with me?”

On my screen, I can see Marvin Shapiro striding up to the podium. He introduces himself and talks for a few minutes about the research program at Baxter. He is perfectly scripted. Then he turns the microphone over to Christian, who begins describing his research methods in great detail, with reference to several slides of charts, which are projected on a screen behind him.

Geoff nods his approval. “Erica did a nice job on this,” he says.

“Her diplomatic skills need some honing,” I say. “But that's another story. You've been trying to grab me all day. What's up?”

“We need to go over the plan for the holiday appeal. But now probably isn't a good time.”

“I'm a captive audience,” I say. “I'd go for it, if I were you.”

“If you're sure,” he says, and walks me through the script that he's worked out with Claudio. It's shaping up beautifully. Claudio has already filmed some sweeping introductory shots of the atrium, the playroom, and the oncology ward. Geoff has secured permission from a local pop star to play her hit song “The Power of Dreams” in the background; it is a truly god-awful piece of music, which has exactly the right blend of manipulative sentiment and fake inspiration that never fails to make people want to open their wallets. And best of all, we have confirmed our “cast”; Carolyn Waldron has agreed to participate and has recruited one of her teenage cancer patients.

“Carolyn says the patient's name is Taylor and she's fifteen,” I say. “Can you swing by the ward this afternoon and do a preliminary interview with her? I want to get her responses to some general questions:
‘What was it like when you first came to Baxter? What will you remember about your time here? What are your plans now that you are going home?' This will help build a narrative around her own words, as much as possible. We're really close. I think we'll be able to finalize the script tomorrow morning. Can you let Claudio know that we'll go ahead with the shoot on Saturday?” Despite the pain in my wrist, I feel pretty jazzed. I can't believe we're going to pull this off.

“You are a superhero,” I tell Geoff. “I have no idea what I would do without you.”

Geoff looks down at the desk, and I see a faint blush rising in his face. “Take credit where credit is due,” I tell him. “You totally saved the day on this one. I'm not throwing away a compliment, believe me.”

In the background, Marvin has started to take questions from the media. I note with approval that Marvin is answering most of the questions personally, and that Christian's answers are very short and to the point. Relieved, I turn away from my computer screen, only to be struck by how tired and anxious Geoff looks, completely at odds with his usual collected demeanor. The pressure of Barry's totally unreasonable deadline must be getting to him. “The holiday ad will be fantastic,” I tell him. “Don't worry.”

Geoff opens his mouth as if he is going to say something, but thinks better of it. “What is it?” I ask. “Tell me.” Chagrined, I realize that I've been putting far too much pressure on him. He never complains, and I always assume that he welcomes the additional responsibility. But now I see that he is burning out, and I know that it's my fault. “Geoff,” I say, “I'm sorry it's been so crazy lately. I'm sorry
I've
been so crazy. I need to try not to lean on you so heavily. It's not fair to you.”

Geoff's head jerks up. “No, Sophie,” he says. “Never say that!” He pauses and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “This is awkward,” he says. “I'm not sure how to tell you this.”

Oh my God,
I think.
He's quitting. I am so screwed.
I manage to keep an expression of polite interest on my face, but I feel my stomach churning.

“The thing is, Sophie,” he says, “I think you're an amazing person.” He pauses and looks at me expectantly.

“Thanks,” I say. I'm still waiting for him to tell me that he is quitting, but I'm not going to make it easier for him. He's going to have to come out and say it.

He seems to steel himself to continue. “You know how much I enjoy the time we spend working together,” he says.

“As do I,” I agree cautiously. I'm losing the thread of this conversation, and it's making me strangely nervous.

He takes a deep breath. “Sophie,” he says finally. “I have feelings for you, unprofessional feelings.” He pauses, and then presses on, speaking quickly and not making eye contact. “I'm sorry to do this. I know that you aren't free. But I can see that you're not happy. And I would give just about anything to be able to make you happy. I swear this is the stupidest thing I've ever done in my entire life, but I needed to say it.” He stops.

I feel an almost clinical sense of detachment, as several thoughts erupt in my mind at once.
My gaydar really sucks,
for one.
Could this day get any worse?
for another. And, in addition:
How am I going to get out of here?
And lastly:
This isn't my fault, is it?
I recognize these thoughts as being significantly less than admirable, and remind myself that until a brief, highly unfortunate moment ago, Geoff was a trusted colleague and work friend, if not a friend-friend. He deserves to be treated with respect and care, and I should appreciate the great compliment that he has paid me. But I don't. The feelings I have are every bit as inappropriate as the thoughts; the most pronounced are uncomfortably like revulsion.

I will myself not to meet his eyes. “I had no idea that you felt this way,” I say, gingerly. “I think the world of you, but I—”

Geoff interrupts. “Don't say anything yet. I know this is a shock for you. You've persuaded yourself that I'm unavailable. But I want you to give this some time to sink in before you rationalize your way out of feeling anything for me.”

“
I
'
m
the one who's not available,” I say. “I have a
family.
I have a
husband.
”

“I know how important your family is to you,” he says. His nervousness has vanished, and now he's sitting forward in his chair with unsettling intensity. “But is it enough? I see a smart, funny, beautiful woman
who can't see herself for who she is. And I think that if you were with the right person, you would have a better idea of just how special you are. I'm not going to put any pressure on you. I've been living with this for a long time, and I can be patient. I'll be here when you're ready.” Speechless, I watch him stand and walk to the door. He turns and delivers one last line, perfectly rehearsed: “Attraction doesn't happen in a vacuum, Sophie.”

And I think,
I used to believe that too.