The Hole in the Middle (28 page)

I don't have an answer yet, but I have questions. I know that when you choose a path in life, you can't go back. You can undo the choices you've made, but the undoing won't take you back to the place where you started. I'm not reckless enough to consider throwing my life away—my kind husband, my beautiful children—but even if I were, there no longer exists a path to an uncomplicated requited love with Will. I want to know if it ever existed at all.

I log into my e-mail, which seems less immediately threatening today, still dangerous, but more in the nature of slow-rising floodwaters than a rampaging army thirsty for enemy blood; it's a good sign, so I seize my courage and start typing.

J. SOPHIE WHELAN

To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, December 9, 2013, 10:08 a.m.
Subject: Answer

I'll answer your question when you answer mine. What do you regret?

My trigger finger hovers as I contemplate hitting
Send
, but it doesn't feel quite right. Maybe he needs a little more guidance on what I'm looking for here. I add a couple of sentences and delete them. Then I copy the whole thing and paste it into an e-mail to Zoe.

J. SOPHIE WHELAN

To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, December 9, 2013, 10:20 a.m.
Subject: More advice

See draft e-mail below. Any edits?

While I wait for her reply, I review my ROAR list, which is sitting in the middle of my desk, reproaching me for my lack of focus. But now that I've knocked off the one easy thing on the list, my options are all relatively unattractive. Should I start with my mother or with Joy? With love, however complicated, or with hate, however pale a version of it? Put that way, the choice is clear, so I pick up the phone and call my mother, who may be demanding and intrusive and crazy-making, but who loves me with an elemental force that will expire only when one of us passes from the earth, and probably not even then.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, bracing myself for a tidal wave of admonishments.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “Are you all right? I've been so worried about you. Leo told me that you quit Family Yoga the other night.”

“I'm sorry, Mom. I should have called. Leo and I had a disagreement, and I lost my temper. I should have told you before that it's been too stressful for me to try to get to yoga during the week, but I didn't want to disappoint you.”

“Well,” she says. “I gave Leo a piece of my mind. I don't know who he thinks he is. Pretty affected if you ask me! Dana and I quit in solidarity.”

I'm both stunned and unexpectedly touched. Although I'm unlikely to disagree that Leo is precious, I have some sympathy for his position. My mother, on the other hand, is indifferent to my confession that I tainted Leo's sanctuary with hateful, karma-destroying technology. She instead blasts Leo with a stream of vitriol that reminds me she has always been much tougher than I give her credit for, and an amazing person to have in your corner. Why is my default memory of her that of a broken widow in the months following my dad's death? I imagine that my mother is incapable of astonishing me, but in truth, she has been doing just that for years: moving back to the city after burying my dad, growing her business, rebuilding her life. Why do I cast her as someone who wants far more from me than I can possibly give, when she wants so little?

I'm reminded again of her many e-mails about Christmas, and press on. “I'm so sorry, Mom,” I say. “I know I've been dismissive lately. It's not that I don't care about Christmas. I've been under a huge amount of pressure, and I've been struggling to stay above water.”

“I know, sweetie,” she says.

And I truly believe she does know. I continue. “I think Jamie would love to have a robot kit for Christmas. And you should forget the turducken. Let's go with tradition this year. I'm trying to simplify.”

“Done,” says my mother. She sounds a little choked up. “I'm so proud of you. Your dad would be, too. Now go back to work and stop worrying about me.”

“OK,” I say. “I'll talk to you later.”

I shed a few quiet tears at my desk, then blow my nose, pull out my compact, and get rid of the evidence. “Joy,” I call. She takes her time coming in.

“Could you get Geoff for me?” I ask.

Joy looks sullen. “Why don't you call him?” she says, pointing at my phone. “I'm in the middle of some work.”

I should be furious, but instead I feel strangely cool. Is this a side effect of my wholehearted embrace of the ROAR system? If you commit to organizing your day around the systemic eradication of dreaded tasks, can you trade roiling emotions for clinical detachment at will?
I've been reluctant to initiate a confrontation with Joy, but it seems that the moment has arrived without any impetus from me.

“No, you're not,” I say. “Because, as we both know, I don't give you any work.” Joy blinks. “That's going to change starting today. I need an assistant who views it as an occupational requirement to make my life easier. That can be you or it can be someone else.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, and then Joy nods stiffly. “I'll get Geoff,” she says and walks out.

And just like that, I see the world as I imagine men see it, a giant map of relationships about which strategic decisions must be made, like a game of Risk. The decisions you make might bring happiness or unhappiness, but the strategy should be selected in a state of essential coolness and rationality. I've always secretly wanted to be cool—really cool, as in not caring about what others think, as opposed to self-consciously cool and caring desperately about what others think—and maybe, for the first time in my life, I'm in striking distance.

A few minutes later, Geoff appears in the doorway.

“I'm supposed to give you a performance review today,” I say.

He lingers at the door, and then takes a couple of steps into the office, keeping his distance. “I'm still working through the feedback you gave me on Friday,” he says, and then catches himself. “I'm sorry. That was rude. Let's hold off until next week. It's going to be a busy day getting the holiday ad out the door.”

“You're missing out,” I say brightly. “I was planning to put a rave review together for HR and tell them that you are perfectly capable of doing my job and that we're lucky we've managed to keep you this long. With any luck, they'll decide to give you the raise that you should have had last year. But we don't have to meet about it today if it's too awkward for you.”

“I think it is,” he says.

“Fair enough,” I say, but then I find that there is something that can't wait after all. “You've been an amazing colleague and a friend, and I've absolutely loved working with you,” I say. Geoff stiffens and I take a deep breath and forge ahead. “I feel sick that I've made you miserable.
It was completely unintentional and I'm sorry.” I stop myself from saying that I wish things could be different for us; it's the easy way out, and it's not true.

“I know you are,” he says. “I'm sure you understand that I can't keep working for you. I'm going to be looking for a fresh start.”

“If you need to leave, I'll give you the best reference in the world,” I say. “But can you hold off, just for a couple of weeks? Take some vacation if you need to? There may be an opportunity here and I wouldn't want you to miss out.”

“I'll consider it,” he says. And then his face lifts in a wan smile, a pale shadow of his old one, but progress all the same. “What did you say to Joy?”

“We had a meeting of the minds,” I say.

“Lucky Joy,” says Geoff, and walks out.

I turn to my computer screen and see that I have an e-mail from Claudio. It's the final cut of the holiday ad. I'm just about to play it when I notice that Joy is back in the doorway, looking oddly sheepish. “I should probably have mentioned this before,” she says. “Your senior management meeting started half an hour ago.”

Everyone turns to stare as I slink into the boardroom, and I realize with a sinking heart that Margaret Anderson is at the head of the table.

“I'm so sorry,” I say, mortified. “I got caught up in a performance review. We usually meet on Tuesdays, and I didn't know that the schedule had changed.”

“Not to worry, Sophie,” says Margaret. “It's not a formal meeting. I was in the office today and thought I'd take the opportunity to learn about the organization from the people running it. We were just wrapping up, although now that you're here, maybe you could give us an update on the annual appeal? I understand that you did some emergency filming this weekend.”

“Actually, I have the final cut right here,” I say. “I haven't seen it yet. Give me a minute to boot up my laptop and we can all watch it together.”

“While we're waiting, Margaret,” says Marni, “I just want to say how excited we all are to be working under your leadership. The selection committee made an inspired choice. We stand ready to help you execute your vision.”

“Thanks,” says Margaret, not looking at Marni.

“Here we go,” I say, as I pull up the file and run it. From the opening frame, I can tell that it's absolutely perfect. The music is stirring, Carolyn is the epitome of caring and professionalism, and Taylor is so heartbreakingly brave that I want to leap out of my chair and write a check.

“You did this on how many days' notice?” asks Margaret.

“Not many,” I say.

“Five,” says Bill, the director of the Annual Fund. “Honestly, I don't know how you did it. You're my hero.”

“When is it going to air?” asks Margaret.

“That's the really, really good news,” I say. “We got two stations to donate time in exchange for interviews with Dr. Viggars, our star ADHD researcher, so it's airing all week, starting tonight.”

“Remarkable,” says Margaret. “Sounds like you pulled off a miracle.”

“It was my staff, really,” I say. “And our filmmaker, Claudio. They deserve the credit.”

“All the same,” says Margaret. “This is a job very well done.” She turns to the rest of the group. “That's all for today, everyone. I'm looking forward to working with you.” Everyone stands up to leave, except for Marni, who lingers expectantly for the post-meeting debrief, ready to mark her territory in the inner circle of the new regime. Alas, poor Barry, I think. The King is dead; long live the Queen.

“Sophie, would you mind staying for a few minutes?” asks Margaret. She turns to Marni. “Was there something else you wanted to ask me?”

“Uh, no,” says Marni. “I just thought we could talk for a few minutes about my business plan.”

“I look forward to that discussion,” says Margaret, “but I won't be able to have it today. I'll have my assistant book one-on-one meetings
with all of the managers over the next few weeks. Would you excuse us?” Margaret closes the door behind Marni's unwilling back and takes a seat across from me.

“Truly, Sophie, congratulations,” she says. “I couldn't believe my ears when Barry told me about the ridiculous deadline he imposed on you.”

“We've got a great team,” I say.

“You're too modest,” says Margaret. “But that's not what I want to talk to you about. I understand that Lillian Parker has made you a job offer.”

I feel myself flushing. “I'm sorry that you had to hear about it from someone other than me,” I say stiffly, conscious of the poor impression I must be making on my new boss. “I haven't made any decisions.”

“Relax, Sophie,” says Margaret. “There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I wanted you to know my position, and to know that you can discuss it with me if you want to. It's entirely your decision. Everyone I've spoken to here—with one exception—says that you are a huge asset to the hospital. But Lillian's foundation is our biggest donor, and it would be good for us to have you there. If you want to go, we can talk about how to manage without you. I understand that your second-in-command—Geoff, is it?—is excellent, so that might be a solution. The only advice I'll give you—and this is advice not as your future boss but as a professional woman who got into the game a few years ahead of you—is this: do what you want to do, not what Lillian wants you to do, or what you think I want you to do. It's easy to make decisions to please other people, especially when they are as persuasive as our friend Lillian. It's often easier than figuring out how to please ourselves.”

“I really appreciate that, Margaret,” I say. “Thanks. I don't know what I'm going to do yet. There are a lot of things to consider.”

“Of course there are,” she says. “I remember your stage of life so vividly.” I wait for the usual refrain:
These are the best years of your life. Enjoy every minute. You won't believe how quickly it goes
. But Margaret surprises me. “I'll never forget the sheer relentlessness of it! Everyone tells you to enjoy it, but most of the time it's too much of a grind—not to mention the constant noise. I was exhausted for years.”