Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(7)

“Your personal issues are not my problem, Libby. You know we’re gearing up for the big sales conference in January. And I need at least a month’s notice if you’re going to go sun yourself in the tropics. I mean, this week alone we have a half dozen advertorial contracts to wrap up. You can’t honestly think that Mark can handle them,” she said, referring to the senior accounts manager, who was, as far as I could tell, alarmingly competent.

“Jackie, I’m not going to the tropics. I have to handle something personal. I would be happy to take a leave of absence if necessary.” I gazed out her window, which overlooked Lake Michigan. It was late autumn, and the waves were high and white tipped; it wouldn’t be long before they were crystalline confections lining the shore. It was entirely possible I would not live long enough to see them in frozen form.

“No can do, Libby,” Jackie snipped. “Now get back to work.”

I stood, and this was about the time that I started wondering if the cancer had moseyed on up to my brain, because I wasn’t thinking quite right. Instead, my emotions were beginning to bear a striking resemblance to those of Paul’s toddlers in the midst of a tantrum: Libby angry! Libby pissed! Libby no like this!

Was I really going to spend the last few months of my life making phone calls for other people and coordinating charity events I wasn’t even invited to? It was like playing Cinderella right up until her fairy godmother showed up.

“Go on,” Jackie said, waving her hand like I was a stray dog she was shooing from her yard.

“Oh, I’m going.”

She’d already turned her attention to her computer screen, and she didn’t stop typing as she responded. “Every word you speak is a second you could be doing your job.”

“And every word you speak is a second of my life that you are completely wasting,” I volleyed back.

The frenzied clacking of her keyboard abruptly stopped. She swiveled in her Aeron chair and stared at me with bloodshot eyes. “What has gotten into you, you overfed milkmaid?”

If she was insulting my appearance, she was actually concerned. Fine. Let her be worried. She and Tom could sit together at my funeral and pretend that they’d shared something special with me.

“Cheap shot. Perhaps menopause is making you lose your touch?” I smiled at her. “By the way, I quit.”

“Nice try,” she scoffed. “It’s a recession. Human resources isn’t going to fork over more cash this time.”

“I don’t want money. I want you to treat me the way you expect other people to treat you. But I can’t wait around to see if that will ever happen.”

She glared at me as I started for the door.

“Liiibbby!” she yelled. “Libby?”

Outside Jackie’s office, I stopped briefly at my desk. A framed photo of Tom and me sat next to my computer monitor, and a small placard noting that I was employee of the month last June hung on the cubicle partition. In the drawer there were some tampons, spare change, and business cards I never used. There was not a single thing worth grabbing.

“It’s been fun!” I called over my shoulder. I felt slightly elated as I tore toward the exit sign at the end of the hall, but only slightly. Because however gratifying it was to unleash all that anger bottled inside me, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—I was killing off a little bit of what was good in me in the process.





FOUR


Paul texted me while I was on the L.

   PAUL: Libby, are you okay STOP Getting distinct impression that there is more to story I must hear immediately STOP Coming to get you and drag you to NYC STOP

   ME: Paul, STOP! I am fine. As fine as someone newly unemployed with no references can be.

   PAUL: Sassy Sissy! You finally told that old bag to jump in the lake, didn’t you?

   ME: Affirmative.

   PAUL: Good. I was beginning to wonder if you’d die in that G-D office. More soon. x’s!

I turned off my phone and sighed. If only he knew.



When I got home, Tom was at the stove; the smell of freshly baked brownies hung in the air.

For the briefest moment I was thrilled to see him, and not just because he’d made my favorite dessert—I could tell him all about how I had overthrown Jackie, the evil asinine dictator! Then I spotted his bandaged hand and it all came crashing back. “I don’t want you to be here, Tom. And that,” I said, pointing to his hand, “is overkill, don’t you think?”

“Libby, I love you,” he said.

I tilted my head and examined him for a moment, considering the best way to lob some of my emotional pain at him, as though it were a quantifiable entity that could be distributed between us. Then I smiled at him rather insanely. “Tom, that’s very sweet, and I’m sure you think it’s true. But, in fact, you love the dong. The wang. The cock-a-doodle-do. Because if you truly loved me, why didn’t you tell me the truth years ago? I mean, ten, seven, even five years ago, I would have been ripe for the picking. Now? I’m almost thirty-five, Tom. I’m set in my ways. I have gray hair and cellulite.” And cancer, I thought, although I chose to omit this morsel of information. Maybe it was selfish, but I didn’t want Tom to be allowed to grieve with me. I was too hurt to share any part of myself—even the diseased bits—with him.