Confidential(34)

“It’s not just Jon Morrow?”

Her eyes on mine were moist. I hadn’t realized how much stress my “preoccupation,” as she put it, had been causing her. “No, it’s not just Jon.”

“I’m sorry. I hope you know how much I value you and that I would absolutely hate to lose you. Can I ask you candidly, am I in danger of losing you?”

“It’s been hard.”

“I’ll do better. I can promise you that. Also, we need to reevaluate your compensation, and any adjustments will be retroactive. I’ve made your job harder, and your salary should reflect that.” She didn’t appear fully reassured, so I added quickly, “Not that it’s going to stay this hard. Like you said, I’ll be refocusing.”

Finally, I was rewarded with a tentative smile.

I could understand her reticence. She wasn’t sure what was wrong with me, so she couldn’t lay odds on when or how I’d be able to turn it around. Seeing as I’d never been one to share my personal trials before, I certainly couldn’t start now, when they were as embarrassingly banal as wanting to be a mommy without the benefit of Chenille’s young, fresh, gorgeous eggs. And I didn’t have a man, not like Chenille with the small tasteful desktop photo of her and that Adonis who would soon propose. He should hurry up. Maybe a diamond on her finger would help ward off the Jon Morrows of the world. Probably not, though. They hadn’t gotten to where they were without rising to a challenge.

I got more specifics about which clients needed tending and the types of mistakes Chenille had been catching, and I issued a final apology. It was the last one she’d need, because I intended to pull myself together. Then Chenille saw herself out, and I walked over to the wall of windows overlooking the financial district of San Francisco. I’d earned this view. I’d done nothing else with my life to get it.

If I couldn’t manage the thoughts of a baby and my workload with any degree of competence, I didn’t see how I’d be able to balance an actual baby and my career.

The problem was, I didn’t care like I once had. I hadn’t picked up any new clients over the past month because I couldn’t muster any true zeal. My pitches were rote, and their targets must have felt that. My follow-ups were half-hearted. Now my existing clients were feeling it, too, and while some might be relishing the chance to turn to Chenille, others were thinking of defecting altogether. I had the list of those who’d voiced their concerns to Chenille, but the reality was, I was going to need to do damage control with everyone. And I dreaded it. Not just because of the occasional hand on my thigh but because I’d have to playact what used to be authentic. Channel the old me, with conviction. Could I do it, or was I going to lose more clients in trying? Would I be exposing myself?

I had no choice but to try. My business depended on it, and Chenille was counting on me. All my employees were.

Ever since I’d developed baby brain, I’d been uninspired. I’d lost all sense of purpose and meaning. I no longer got why me and not the other guy. I placed expensive talent in top jobs, which was hardly a service to humanity. I kept demanding people happy, for a little while, until they got restless, and then they came back to me for another search. Their inability to find true contentment, to feel any one place was enough to contain their gifts, was my bread and butter. I used to thrive on that. But it was different now. It felt as empty as my womb.

I’d gone from being a pragmatist—which I came by honestly, straight from my parents—to an existentialist. Dr. Michael would have a lot to say about that. He harped on the parent connection like it was the root of everything, and sometimes, I thought he was right.

My work alone wasn’t enough anymore; a child would be too much. What was I supposed to do?

Then there was that dream I’d had last night. I was going off to work with this heavy 1950s briefcase, the kind Dagwood would carry in those old Blondie comic strips, and I was in a pinstripe suit. Michael was seeing me off, holding our baby’s little hand, making it wave, and he was wearing an apron. He was laughing, and I was laughing, and the baby was adorable and perplexed, and the thing was, in the dream, I was absurdly happy. Delighted. When was the last time I’d felt delight? Had I ever?

It probably didn’t mean anything that it was Michael. He was the only man I had any sort of significant relationship with these days, so of course he’d feature prominently.

No, it didn’t mean anything at all.





CHAPTER 27





LUCINDA


“A leave of absence,” I said. “To take care of him.”

It was hard to even form complete sentences; the pain was still so acute. I hadn’t thought it would be after how I’d pulled away from my mother all those years ago. Just so I could have him. And now she must have been doing the same thing with me, so she could have him just a little longer. We had come full circle.

The strange thing was, I couldn’t even remember what I’d seen in him or fathom what she continued to see in him. That wasn’t only because he’d been so whittled down the last time I was in his presence. It’s that he was just a guy, and she was my mother, and I was her daughter. I didn’t understand how it could have meant so little to either of us, to me then or her now.

“You feel like she chose him,” Dr. Baylor said.