The Hole in the Middle (27 page)

“She'll be upset.”

“Who cares? She's already upset. Next, you hate your boss. But he's on his way out the door and you like the look of the new one. There's a
problem solved without you doing anything at all. Next, you believe that Killjoy hates you. Whether or not this is true really doesn't matter. You have both lost sight of the fact that her job is to make your job easier. If she can't do that, she'll have to go.”

“She's unionized. I can't fire her.”

“Again, whether or not that is true, she doesn't have to work for you. Have a meeting with the director of HR and tell her that your assistant is giving you a nervous breakdown and that she has to deal with it. That should kill two birds with one stone. Next, why is Geoff going to quit?”

I bite my lip. “Aha,” says Jesse. “He finally told you, did he?”

“He likes me,” I say.

“Of course he does.”

“It doesn't bother you?” I ask.

“It bothers me that you're upset about it. But I know what a serious threat looks like, and that guy sure isn't it.”

Jamie and Scotty race up, pink and breathless from their duel. “Can we go to the bat cave, Daddy?” asks Jamie.

“Absolutely,” says Jesse. “Mommy was just saying how much she loves the bat cave.” He turns to me. “To be continued,” he says.

We head downstairs to the natural history exhibits. The boys never tire of the bat habitat, a dark corridor echoing with the whooshing sound of bats in flight, and occupied by Count Dracula, a.k.a. Jesse.

“Velcome to your dooooom,” Jesse intones, and Jamie shrieks with delight. Scotty turns on his heel, races over into my arms, and clings to my neck.

“It's just Daddy being silly,” I whisper. I cuddle him against my chest and ache with the pleasure of being able to dispense comfort and ease by simply wrapping my arms around him. I wish, profoundly, that I could figure out how to do the same for myself. “Do you want to go outside with me?” I ask, and Scotty nods, his head still buried in my neck.

We sit at the exit and wait. Jamie races out of the bat cave with Jesse chasing him, both of them giggling. Jesse scoops Scotty from my lap and tosses him in the air. “Did I scare you, buddy?” he asks, and
gives him a kiss. “Sorry about that. I was just having some fun with your brother. Are we ready to go home?”

I brace myself for a double meltdown, but none comes. Instead, the boys race over to Jesse, each grabbing one of his hands. “OK,” I say. “That is totally unfair.”

“What?”

“That they just agreed to leave with you. If I suggested such a terrible thing, there would be so much screaming that I'd have to persuade the security guards not to call the Children's Aid Society.”

“There is little justice in the world,” agrees Jesse.

“I am the one who vomited every day for nine months, got an episiotomy the size of the Grand Canyon, and walked around with sore breasts for two years of my life.”

“All true,” he says. “We can add that to your list of grievances if you want. What do you kids want for lunch?”

“Pizza!” they yell.

“Perfect,” says Jesse. He glances over at me. “Let's solve eating habits another day.”

After lunch, we take the kids upstairs to their rooms for some quiet time, then bolt into our own room and fling ourselves on the bed.

“Emmett's mother may be on to something,” says Jesse. “I don't know if it's the most important job in the world, but it's got to be one of the hardest. I'm paralyzed.” He holds up a hand. “I realize I just opened the door for a discussion about how it's not surprising that I find it tiring since I never do it, but let's hold that thought, OK?”

“I wasn't going to say anything of the kind,” I say, which is an outright lie and we both know it.

“Now,” says Jesse. “To recap our earlier discussion, I've solved all of your problems except for the daycare, the volunteer stalker, the theme for your Gala, your new job opportunity, and the fact that your doctor thinks you're depressed.”

“And the kids watch too much TV, and they aren't going to get into Harvard because they don't have family dinners with us.”

“Ah, well,” says Jesse. “We can't afford to send them to Harvard anyway. No biggie.”

“Be serious!” I elbow him.

“I'm sort of serious. Do you know how much tuition is at Harvard?” I elbow him again. “Sophie, we'll have family dinners with the kids when they are old enough to eat after we get home from work. We'll get there. Can we agree not to obsess about issues more than five years in the future, at least for the next few minutes?”

“If we must,” I say.

“On the TV issue, which I'm not sure even merits a discussion, the kids are fine. We have two busy, healthy, normal little boys, and that makes us very, very lucky. I'm not saying they're perfect. I'm saying that we need to keep things in perspective. Let's stop diagnosing the kids with imaginary problems and deal with some real ones. Scotty isn't biting because he watches too much TV—he just doesn't like his daycare. You can hardly blame him for that since you don't like it either. We need to figure out another solution for him, but we're not going to do that until we've sorted out our jobs.”

I feel the tension unwinding in my neck and shoulders. This is Jesse at his best: solving concrete problems. I've always loved and half-envied his unselfconscious pragmatism. “The volunteer stalker is easy. Ignore her or, if ignoring her is too stressful, tell her politely that you can't help. You don't have any extra time. If other parents do, they can pick up the slack. The school won't crumble without you.”

“It's not that easy,” I say.

“It really is,” he says. “On the Gala issue, I have no idea what the theme should be, and I think you know that it doesn't actually matter. I have every confidence that you'll come up with the perfect solution if we can get your stress level down to sustainable levels. So let's talk about why you're having so much trouble doing that.”

“I don't know,” I say. “I'm incredibly fortunate by any objective measure.
I know I have first-world problems. But I feel like I should have some greater sense of purpose or something. Maybe I thought I'd have achieved more by now, or that I'd have made peace with not achieving more. But instead I'm restless and anxious and tired all the time. Last night at Lil's party I looked around the room at all of those students, and I felt really, really old.”

“Compared to them, you are,” says Jesse.

I muster a half-smile. “This is you trying to make me feel better?”

“This is me trying to give you a little perspective. We're not in university anymore. That's a good thing. Adult life has a lot to recommend it, even if it's tiring. We're building our careers and raising our kids and it's a lot of work. Being tired is just part of the package. Being miserable is a problem. Do you want to change your job?”

“Yes,” I say. “I think so. And this offer from Lil . . . it's a dream come true in a lot of ways. But it comes with some strings.”

“Will.”

“Not just him, but yes.”

“Sophie,” he says, “I trust you. It's your decision. If I'm honest, I wouldn't shed a tear if Will disappeared off the face of the earth. I don't like what he does to you. He unsettles you, and that has an effect on me. If you go to the foundation, you'll have more contact, and I'll have more angst. But I can live with that, if it's what you want.”

“You know,” I say, “for what it's worth, according to Zoe's new theory about relationships, I married the right person.”

“What a relief,” says Jesse drily.

I shift a bit closer and put my head on Jesse's shoulder. “What about you?” I ask. “What are you going to do about your business?”

“In the immediate term, I'm going to have to give notice to most of my employees. I can pay the bills for another six weeks, but if I haven't found a new investor by the end of the month, the lights go out. I called a headhunter on Friday who seemed optimistic about my options, so I guess I'll put on a suit and lick my wounds in a corporate job for a few years. The good news is that I have technical expertise in one of the few growth areas in the economy, and I can always do some consulting until I find something permanent.”

“But it was your dream,” I say.

“It was my dream
job
,” he corrects me. “My job, not my life. You and the kids are my life. There's difference.”

I find myself crying again for the umpteenth time this week.

“Now you see?” says Jesse. “If you want me to shower you with affection, you can't go bursting into tears. It's a major deterrent.”

I give him a watery smile.

“Better,” he says. “Here's the goal for this week. You are going to get rid of all the noise in your life—by which I mean the stupid problems that are distracting you from dealing with the real ones. And then you are going to try to figure out how to have more fun.”

“Operation Fun,” I say. “I'm on it. But I need a nap first.”

Jesse throws an arm over my waist and pulls me close. “I have a better idea,” he murmurs in my ear, as his hand eases up under my shirt. I bite my lip as his hand moves higher, and I hear him chuckle, and I remember that what married sex lacks in anticipation, it makes up for in certainty. I shiver as he plants a delicate row of kisses along my cheekbone. “You know what I was thinking last night at the party?” he asks.

“Mmmm.”

“I was thinking how lucky I was to be able to take you home at the end of the night.”

I run my hands up under his shirt, grounding myself in the familiar texture of muscle and bone. “I love you,” I murmur.

“I love you, too,” he says. “You were always the girl I wanted to go home with.”

monday, december 9, 2013

Monday morning finds me sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen with a pencil and paper, scribbling a set of calculations.

Jesse watches me for a few minutes over the rim of his coffee mug and then says, “I can't help noticing that you appear to be doing math.”

“I'm trying to get rid of the noise in my life, as per your instructions.”

“You're taking my advice? There's a positive improvement already.” I throw a strawberry at him, which he catches with the precision of a natural athlete. He takes a bite and grins at me. “You were talking in your sleep last night. I figured you were fretting.”

“What was I saying?”

“I couldn't really understand it. I heard the word ‘selfishness,' and something about behaving like a grown-up. Were you dreaming about me, by any chance?”

“Believe it or not, I was solving a complex algorithm that assigns numeric values to the necessity of performing specific tasks.”

“Do tell,” he says. “That kind of thing is a major turn-on for an engineer.”

I laugh. “Don't mock me.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“I've created an equation that I call the Requirement of Action Rating, or ROAR for short,” I say. Jesse raises his eyebrows. “You take your desire to perform an activity, expressed as a number between zero and ten, add a number representing the amount of guilt that would result from your failure to perform the activity, then add a number representing the extent of your need to behave like a grown-up, and then subtract any points that you think you deserve, which I call ‘allowable selfishness.' In the end, you get a number that tells you how urgent the priority is. I'm trying to plan my day.”

To his credit, Jesse nods seriously. “And what have you concluded?” he asks.

“That the things I want to do least are also the things that I need to do most in order to preserve my self-identity as a mature and responsible adult.”

“I appreciate that this is new math for me, but shouldn't extreme lack of desire to perform an action lower the overall score?”

“Not when you start with the proposition that your desire to do any of it is zero. You can't use negative numbers. That's cheating.”

Now he laughs. “Would you like me to continue humoring you?”

“Yes, please.”

“What's on the list for today?”

“Five things. Performance reviews for Erica and Geoff; a phone call to my mother to explain why I'm dropping out of Family Yoga; a discussion with Janelle Moss, in which I present a fresh and compelling theme for the Gala, which, to be clear, I have not yet invented; and, if I can find the inner strength, a conversation with Joy in which I assert my authority and reclaim the balance of power in our relationship.”

“And how are the priorities shaking out?”

“Well, my mother is obviously at the top of the list with sixteen, in recognition of the exceptional level of guilt that she inspires as well as my pathological need to show her, however futilely, that I'm an adult. Geoff's next with thirteen, because I feel incredibly guilty that I was so oblivious to his feelings for me and that I hurt him so badly. And I need to be a
grown-up about the situation because if he gets any angrier, he'll either quit or complain to HR that he can't work with me anymore, and I'll end up having to explain the whole situation to Jenny Dixon, which I am absolutely not prepared to do.” I take a breath and continue. “Joy is an eight because I can't even take myself seriously as a grown-up if I can't get my own assistant to do what I want. Janelle's a seven, which is low considering how behind I am on the Gala, and how correspondingly high my guilt factor should be, but I'm allowing myself extra selfishness as a result of the family dinner episode. And Erica gets a score of five, mostly because I gave her a big opportunity this week, so for once I don't feel that guilty about her.” Jesse looks skeptical. “What do you think?”

“I think that your system oddly reminds me of the theories of birth control that I learned at Catholic school, but if it works for you, carry on.” He kisses the top of my head. “I've got to run. I've got a horrible day ahead myself. I'm meeting with our lawyer to talk about layoff notices for the staff.”

I squirm inwardly, and remind myself that I am a lucky woman to be married to a man without a flair for the dramatic. “Are you sure you don't want me to do some ROAR calculations for you?”

He laughs. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll stick with what I know: sports metaphors.”

“Go for the flag,” I say. “I'll drop the kids.” Jesse waves and heads out the door.

Two packed lunches, two parking-lot traffic jams, and two reluctant good-byes later, I'm back at the germ checkpoint, struggling to dredge up a modicum of optimism for the day ahead. It could just be the depression talking; on the other hand, studies show that depressed people predict outcomes more accurately than their mentally healthy counterparts. So if I can't come up with a scenario for the day that doesn't make me want to run screaming from the building, I probably have good reasons. Not that I'm completely incapable of finding a bright side: thanks to antibiotics and the ministrations of Beverley Chen, for the first time in what feels like weeks, I'm not sick.

I step up to the front of the line and brace myself for my daily dose of
Nigel. But what I find instead is a miracle, nothing less than concrete evidence of the power of prayer: Nigel is gone, and Max is back in his place.

“Sophie!” says Max. “Great to see you!”

“Max! Where's Nigel?” I ask.

“Oh, he was just filling in for me while I was on vacation. He's probably back in the Records Department.”

“You were on vacation?”

“You bet. Went to see the grandchildren.”

“Vacation,” I repeat. I'm having trouble processing.

Max is puzzled. “Didn't I tell you before I left? Hey, I brought some pictures. Want to see them?”

“I'd love to, Max,” I say, “but I'm late for a meeting upstairs.”

“Too bad,” he says, looking disappointed. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“I'm counting on it,” I say, fingering the medical note in my pocket like a talisman. With such a radical shift in fortune at the germ desk, the day ahead seems less daunting. Still, I'm going to ease in, starting with the least dreadful task on my list and working up to the truly horrific. I'm silently rehearsing my constructive criticism for Erica as I pass Joy's desk; she glowers and waves a pink message slip at me.
Will
, I think immediately, which begins a mental conversation that swings between guilt (
You owe your excellent husband better than this
) and self-justification (
I'm just anxious because I haven't made a decision about the foundation job
) until Joy puts a stop to it.

“Urgent message,” she says. “Janelle Moss wanted to speak to you as soon as you came in.”

“That may be,” I say, giving myself a mental kick. I cannot get thrown off my plan within fifteen minutes of entering the building. “But I need to see Erica first thing this morning. Could you call her for me?”

While I'm waiting, I jot down a few notes to limber up for the big event. I'm aiming for a tone of restrained praise: firm but fair, kind but constructive, and friendly without suggesting for a moment that we are friends. I know my own proclivities only too well, and I'm determined not to leave Erica with the mistaken impression that she is the most
talented person in this or any department in the history of professional communications. There's a knock at the door.

“Are you ready for me?” Erica says expectantly.

“Come in,” I say. “Have a seat.” She does. “I'm sorry for taking so long to do your annual performance review,” I say, inwardly cursing myself for opening with an apology. “First, I want to take a few minutes to hear from you before I give you my comments. What do you think have been the highlights of your work here this year?”

Erica launches into a lengthy recitation of her greatest hits, culminating in the ADHD press conference last week. It's fascinating to have a window into Erica's psyche; in her overweening confidence, I see a photo negative of myself. Where my satisfaction in a project is always diminished by the recollection of missteps and false starts along the way, Erica's pleasure in a good result appears to obliterate the memory of any and all past errors. It is striking to hear her describe an assignment from last summer as a success, when I recall the anxiety attack that ensued when I realized, almost too late, that her draft was completely off the mark and I had to pull Geoff in to do emergency triage. In her shoes, the mere thought of that assignment would still make me blush with shame, but Erica is not similarly burdened. In her mind, the end result was positive, and therefore should be celebrated as yet another example of her indispensable value to our team.

Erica is prepared to continue enumerating her triumphs for longer than I would have thought possible, so I wait for her to draw a breath and offer some comments of my own. “You have lots of energy and ambition,” I tell her, “and those are important. But at your level, you need to be working more independently. You still require a lot of direction from me at the beginning of a project, and Geoff usually does a heavy edit at the end. There's no doubt that you are a talented writer, and I'd like to see you moving in a direction where your work needs very little oversight. I thought your work last week on the press conference was excellent, and it demonstrated to me that you can be self-sufficient when you're motivated. I'd like to see that kind of focus on all of your projects. That's how you're going to get to the next level.”

Erica nods enthusiastically, and I'm relieved. I was prepared for an argument, but Erica seems to agree with everything I've said. Perhaps I've been uncharitable. “It's important to me that you continue to develop your skills and that you feel challenged and supported here. Is there anything that I can do to help you achieve your goals?” I ask.

I'm not really expecting anything other than a pitch for money to attend a conference, but Erica says, “Absolutely. I agree that my performance this year has been outstanding, and I'd like to work with you on a timeline for moving up in the organization.”

“OK,” I say, although I'm a little confused. I thought I'd been clear that my feelings were in the range of somewhat satisfied to occasionally pleased, but it appears that something has been lost in translation. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

“I feel that I've been playing an increasingly important role on the team, and it's great to see that you recognize my talent,” says Erica. “I'm glad you see that it's time for me to move to the next level. I'd like you to consider promoting me now, but I'd be prepared to settle for a pay increase as long as I had your assurance that I could expect a title jump within the year.”

I look at Erica with a mixture of envy and incredulity. What would my life be, I wonder, if I had even a modicum of Erica's confidence in her own talent, and in the inexorability of her success in the world? I can't even imagine. Is everyone in Erica's generation as sure of herself as she is? Is everyone in mine as afflicted with crippling Imposter Syndrome?

I clear my throat. “It may be that I wasn't as clear as I could have been just now,” I say. “You are doing some very good work. But I'm not going to reward you with a promotion and a raise just because you are starting to perform at the level that I expect for someone in your position. You're still learning. Keep up the good work and we'll talk in a year about whether it's time for you to move.”

Erica looks surprised but not particularly offended. “Oh, well,” she says, nonchalantly. “You'll never get what you want if you don't ask for it.”

“So I hear,” I say. “But just because you ask for it doesn't mean that you'll get it.”

“Touché,” she says, and we sit in silence for a moment while I fantasize about a workplace where no one says things like “touché.”

“So, have you decided on a theme for the Gala yet?” she asks.

“We have, and it's very exciting,” I lie. “But it's under wraps for now while we run the details to ground.” I put my hand over the telephone and affect my best expression of managerial authority. “I'm going to have to get back to it now, but I'll share the details with you as soon as I can.”

“Can't wait,” says Erica, rising to go.

“Me neither,” I say.

“You have a message,” Joy says, walking in and handing me a pink slip. “He didn't want to be put through to voice mail.” She rolls her eyes, marveling at the sheer laziness of a caller who would put her to the trouble of penning a message, and stalks out. I glance at it and catch my breath. “WHAT IS YOUR ANSWER?” reads the message from caller Will Shannon.