Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(6)

“Libby, that’s like saying Long John Silver’s has the best fish in the world when you’ve never even tried a Maine lobster.”

“Lobster is a crustacean, and you’re jealous,” I said, even though we both knew the latter comment wasn’t even the tiniest bit true. Paul asked me again if I was sure—really and truly sure—the night before our ceremony, though he did stand beside me as my de facto maid of honor.

I was sure then. Now, not so much. I’d always been so proud that Tom never gave himself whiplash when a woman in skintight yoga pants walked by, but clearly I’d been searching for the wrong warning signs. What else had I overlooked while I was mentally high-fiving myself for scoring such a perfect husband?

“Well, I didn’t want to do better,” I sniffed to Paul. “And I thought I was good in bed.”

“Although I must vomit in my mouth a little in order to admit this, I’m sure you are very good in bed, Libs. You do know this has nothing to do with you, right? Tell me you know that.”

I’d brought it up, yes, but now that we were having this conversation, I wasn’t quite ready for it. “I know. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

“No, I love you more,” he said, and hung up before I could respond.



“Liiiibbbyy!” Jackie had this peculiar way of yodeling my name, which, despite seven years of working for her, still managed to make my hair corkscrew even tighter. She kept hollering, although I hadn’t stepped into her office yet. “Do you know I’ve been here since six thirty this morning? I expected you to be here early to make up for that disappearing act you pulled yesterday, not to mention the day off last week. The city is full of doctors who work nights and weekends, you know. You don’t see me taking off for personal appointments in the middle of the day, do you?”

In fact, two days before, she left at four to get a manicure, and yesterday I was fairly certain her noon meeting was actually a quickie with her Argentine boy toy; but I was not about to point out either instance.

Instead, I opened her door and said, “Good morning, Jackie!” Yes, it was odd to be pleasant if not vaguely chipper to this hurricane of a human being, but after facing so much upheaval in such a short window of time, it was easy—comforting, even—to fall right back into my role of well-paid sycophant.

Now, Libby, one might ask, why would you willingly work as an assistant to someone so awful? Don’t you have any self-respect? I do, but as someone who watched her father nearly go bankrupt as a result of her dead mother’s medical bills, I also have respect for the almighty dollar. Under Paul’s careful tutelage, I had quit on four separate occasions, and each time, human resources rewarded me with more money and a fancier title. This is because while Jackie is a miserable person, she happens to be so good at luring advertisers, and so bad at keeping the staff needed to fulfill the contracts made with those advertisers, that it is worth it for the company to pay her assistant (whose résumé, for the record, reads “vice president of media management”) a solid hundred and twenty grand a year. Jackie acted as if my compensation were her personal gift to me: “You know that’s a man’s salary, don’t you, Libby? I’m breaking glass ceilings for you,” she would say in her smoker’s brogue, shortly before throwing her cell phone at the wall, not far from my head. Then I would spend the afternoon replacing the phone and reprogramming her data. I often reminded myself that working for Jackie was a necessary evil, not unlike a colonoscopy or a friendly fondling from airport security personnel.

“Do you know I could hire an assistant in Pakistan for eight dollars an hour?” Jackie said from behind her Tribune.

“But would she bring you this?” I asked, producing a vegan bran muffin from behind my back. I was still operating on autopilot, so I’d stopped at the deli as I always did, purchasing Jackie’s usual and a large frosted cinnamon bun for myself. I’d heard that sugar fed cancer, but it was too late to worry about it.

“Hmph,” Jackie said, and put down her paper to hold out her hand for the muffin; breakfast meeting or not, she had a weakness for freebies and carbohydrates. She shoveled cardboard crumbs into her mouth while dictating the list of daily to-dos that were to be done in addition to my already scheduled duties: call this guy, call that guy, order flowers for her mother, smooth things over with this woman, send these contracts to that company, and so on. “Jackie,” I interrupted at one point. “Could you please give me a minute to jot down the last few?” I was feeling unfocused and a bit dizzy, and it was hard to keep up with her.

“No,” she snapped. Ignoring my glare, she continued rattling off her demands until I had a legal pad filled with tasks that would take an e-assistant a month to complete.

When she was done, she handed me her crumb-covered wrapper to toss out like a good little underling, even though there was a wastebasket under her desk. I narrowed my eyes and looked at it for a moment, then sighed, plucked the wrapper from her fingers, and marched it out to the trash basket near my cube. When I returned, I perched on the edge of the clear Plexiglas chair in front of her desk.

She furrowed her brow in a way that made it clear she was not pleased by my presence. Normally I let her nastiness slide off me like water off an otter’s back, but as the minutes ticked by, it seemed less and less likely that I was going to be able to ignore the disease and impending divorce debacle hanging over my head. In fact, I was feeling surprisingly pissy. “Jackie,” I said, glowering back at her, “I’m kind of going through some stuff, and I’d like to take a week or two off. I can work today and tomorrow as planned.”