The Hole in the Middle (11 page)

“So you control the foundation that is the single largest donor to the Baxter Hospital, my employer.”

“Correct.”

“And that's why you are on the search committee?”

“Correct.”

“OK,” I say. “I'm with you so far. But I still can't figure out the costume.”

Lil shifts in her seat as if slightly uncomfortable. “This is the part of the story that I am a bit embarrassed about, to be honest.” She plays with her napkin, and then continues. “It's actually quite boring, being a major donor. I have to attend zillions of events and meetings, and people like
your boss fawn all over me and agree with everything I say. It's impossible to have a real conversation with anyone. And so, a couple of years ago, I started to pretend that I was losing my marbles—just a little bit at first, just to see if anyone would notice. Your last boss, that fellow with the computer problem, kept on nodding and smiling and pouring me coffee and saying, ‘Yes, Mrs. Baxter,' ‘I've often thought that myself, Mrs. Baxter,' ‘Your insight into the issues is very impressive, Mrs. Baxter,' and in the end I couldn't help myself. I would spend entire meetings staring into space with curlers in my hair and my mouth open, or pretending to fall asleep in the middle of sentences to see if I could shake him out of it. But it didn't make a whit of difference.”

“Have you been enjoying yourself?” I ask.

Lil grins sheepishly, and suddenly looks years younger. “Well, yes,” she says. “Quite a bit. When you are old like me, you'll understand that you take your pleasures as you find them.”

She looks so pleased with herself that it seems churlish to be irritated with her. “And now?” I ask.

She pauses. “And now I find that I care about the outcome of this search. But it's awkward. Barry has handpicked this committee and told them all that I'm out of my mind. So I need a few allies. Marvin Shapiro is an old friend—he was married to my second cousin Eleanor before she ran off with her aerobics instructor in the early eighties. Such a sweet man. Although, come to think of it, he looked quite alarmed at my appearance this morning, so I'm going to have to give him a call. But to the rest of them, I'm a kooky old tycoon with a marginal grip on reality. So I read the board policies on hiring and realized that I could adjust the composition a bit. We were supposed to have a staff rep—I told them I wanted you.”

“What makes you think that I'll agree with you on the merits?” I ask.

“Don't be ridiculous,” says Lil. “Margaret Anderson is far and away the best person for the job, and you know it. I just need a few other obviously sane committee members to back me up when the time comes.”

“Has it occurred to you that you might have to lose the costume?” I ask.

Lil looks annoyed. “Yes, Sophie. It has occurred to me. It's just a matter of finding the right time.”

“How about the next meeting?” I suggest. “You are going to distract the candidates with that hairdo. And it's not fair to make me do all the work. Barry is my boss.”

“I'll consider it,” she says grumpily.

“Do that,” I say. “And what other news? Do you still have students living with you?”

“Of course!” Lil laughs. “You know my philosophy: surround yourself with young people and you can feel youthful without the discomfort of being young. It's the best of all worlds. You and your roommates were always my favorites, though.”

“Funny you should say that. Will is coming to see me this afternoon.”

“Yes, he mentioned that.” Her face gives nothing away. “Do you keep in touch?”

“Just occasionally,” I say. “Christmas cards and that sort of thing.” I keep my tone deliberately light. “You must see him more often than I do.”

“He's the chair of the foundation board now,” she says. “So we see each other at meetings a few times a year. And family weddings and funerals. But we talk on the telephone fairly frequently.”

“He seems to be doing well.”

“Yes,” she says. “And how is that adorable husband of yours?”

“He's fine.”

Lil raises an eyebrow. “Only fine?” Her head cocks to one side and she fixes her bright eyes on my face. She looks alarmingly like a bird about to go after a worm.

I stare down at my lap and am mortified to feel the prickling of tears. I clear my throat. “He's the same as always, Lil. But he's incredibly busy and distracted with his new business. You know how driven he is. He sees this as his big chance, and he may be right. But it is the most important thing in the world to him right now and it adds a lot of pressure.” I feel the knot in my stomach tightening.

“The children are well?” Lil has never been terribly interested in children generally, but she is unfailingly polite about asking after them.

“They are. They're great. But they're still little. Jamie is seven and Scotty is three. They need a lot, and I don't always feel like I can give them everything they need.”

Lil looks puzzled. “They're healthy, aren't they?”

I bite my lip so that I don't say something cutting. It's hardly shocking that Lil has no conception of the powerful currents of guilt and worry that define life with young children. Health is merely the preliminary hurdle that gets you into the main event; health buys you the luxury of being able to worry about the minutiae that define your success as a parent: Are they watching too much television? Are they eating enough vegetables? Do they get enough exercise? Are they old enough for music classes? Are they getting invited to birthday parties? When should they be toilet trained? What if one of them gets lost and doesn't know his telephone number?

“They're healthy,” I say.

Lil shakes her head. “I don't understand you young women.”

“I'm thirty-nine,” I say glumly. “I don't think that qualifies as young.”

She waves off my comment as if it is too ridiculous to merit a response. “Your generation has so much freedom, so many choices.”

“Yes,” I say, feeling heat flaring in my cheeks, “having it all is just super.” I'm shocked at my own tone of voice. When did I get so bitter?

Lil looks a bit sad, and my shame deepens. “Sophie,” she says, “you misunderstand me. I'm not minimizing how wearing it is to raise young children, hold down a busy job, and be a good wife and daughter and friend and all the other millions of things that you do. But you're a smart girl. No one is going to hand you a medal at the end of all of this because you ran faster and harder than everyone else. The point is to enjoy it. That's the end game. I look at you and all the other young women that I know and I see you weighing yourselves down with worry. You can buy fifty kinds of organic baby food in the store, but it's not good enough. You girls have to make your own. You let your kids sleep in your bed, so you never have adult conversations with your spouses, let alone sex.”

I try not to appear mortified as Lil continues. “You breastfeed your kids until they're practically adults. I wasn't exactly on the front lines,
but I thought the feminist movement was about trying to create new possibilities for women, to free them from the narrow confines of domestic life. And now I see a whole generation of women snapping the chains right back on.”

I feel a large tear roll down my face and splash onto my napkin before I can stop it.

“Oh, Sophie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry.” She reaches over and pats my hand. “But that reminds me. My Christmas party is this Saturday and I haven't heard from you and Jesse. You need to have some fun. Get a babysitter and have a night out. You haven't come in at least a couple of years. It will do you good. Trust me.”

“I have fun,” I say, sounding petulant even to my own ears.

“That may be, dear,” says Lil. “I can't say. But I'm not the one crying in my Veuve Clicquot.”

wednesday, december 4, 2013

Anil pulls up in front of the hospital and comes around to open my door for me. For once, I don't try to stop him. I rummage around in my purse, pull the surgical mask out, and strap it on, and Anil smiles gently at me and says, “Be well, Ms. Sophie.”

“I'll try,” I say, and I turn and head off to deal with the rest of my day.

Erica is waiting outside my office again, but she looks slightly less frenzied now, which I take as a positive sign. “They're waiting for us,” she says, and leads the way to the boardroom at the end of the hall.

Marvin is seated at the table, along with a man in a lab coat. “This is Dr. Christian Viggars,” he says, gesturing to a tall, wiry man with short brown hair, a sulky expression, and an unfortunate goatee.

“Dr. Viggars,” I say, taking a seat across from him. “I was surprised to learn about all of the media interest in your study, mostly because I'd never heard of it before this morning. Normally, when Baxter researchers have a discovery that they want to share with the world, they work with my office on a press release.” I have an expression that I have perfected for just such situations as this: a slight widening of the eyes to
invite confessions of misdeeds, a gentle tilt of the head to indicate calm attention to detail, and a modest but non-toothy smile to communicate warm capability and reassurance. I deploy it now.

“Are you a scientist?” he asks.

“A scientist? No. I'm the communications director for the hospital.” My smile droops on one side, and I hoist it back up, exposing some teeth in the process.

“Exactly,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

Marvin clears his throat. “Dr. Viggars is of the view that researchers are in the best position to explain their work.”

I feel a migraine taking shape at the bridge of my nose. “So you leaked your results to the media?”

“I
released
my results,” he says. “The term ‘leaked' suggests that they weren't mine to disseminate.”

“I see,” I say, looking at Marvin for inspiration. He tilts his palms upward, as if to say,
Search me
. “And what are your results?”

“That children under the age of five who watch five hours or more of television per day have a greater chance of developing ADHD than children who don't.” Unbidden, an image of Scotty, rapt in front of the television, pops into my head, and I feel a wave of loathing for the entire group of pompous, childless lab-dwellers at the Baxter, secure in their belief that everything that matters can be quantified. I look at my watch: two minutes to two o'clock. Judging from Viggars's bullish posture, I'm even less likely to resolve this issue in the next two minutes than I am to find inner peace at Family Yoga.

“Erica,” I say, “could you step out into the hall with me for a moment?” We rise and I close the door behind us. “I'm due at another meeting,” I say. “I'd like you to finish up here for me.”

Erica looks stunned. “Are you sure?” she asks. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get him to agree to a proper press conference,” I say.

“I'm not sure I can,” she says.

I check my watch again. I'm late for Will. “He's unrepentant and unlikely to change his tune. But he wants attention and we can make sure
he gets it. Do what you have to do to get him to see that.” I pat her shoulder. “You're ready,” I say. “You can handle it.” Actually, I have serious doubts about whether Erica can handle it, but I know I can't. My throat is tight and I'm afraid that if I stay, I'm going to burst into tears. “I'll be in my office,” I say. “Come by when you're done and let me know how it went.”

I rush back to my office, pausing at Joy's desk to catch my breath. She barely looks up. “There's someone waiting for you in there,” she says, pointing to my office with her chin.

I poke my head around the corner and freeze. His back is to me, his long body folded awkwardly into the visitor's chair facing my desk, but I'd know him anywhere. “Will,” I say, and watch him rise and turn with the unconscious grace of a natural athlete. For years, I've been waiting for Will to lose his hair or get squishy around the middle, but life isn't that kind. Will gets more attractive with age, at least partly because sex appeal is a relative measure, and the rest of his cohort is losing ground. Not to mention the fact that his six-foot frame looks even better in a charcoal Armani suit than it ever did in jeans and a T-shirt.

“Sophie,” he says, coming over to greet me. I go up on tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, feeling a hint of stubble rub against my face as he does the same to me; but when he moves to give me a second kiss, European-style, I turn in at exactly the wrong moment and bang his nose, and then promptly lose my balance. Will grabs my shoulder and steadies me with one hand, rubbing his nose with the other.

“First day on the new feet,” I say, weakly, and he laughs.

“It's good to see you,” he says.

You broke my heart, you broke my heart, you broke my heart, you broke my heart
, I think, but I say, “Can I get you a coffee?”

“I'm fine,” he says. “And I'm not going to keep you long. It's not purely a social call, although I'd like to find a time to do that while I'm in town.”

I sit down at my desk. “How are you?” I say. “How's Paula?” Paula is the most recent of Will's live-in girlfriends. All of them have been impossibly gorgeous, chilly, high-strung, and artistic. I take way too much comfort in the fact that he has never married, or stayed with any of them for more than a few years.

From the way he deflects the question, it appears that the pattern has repeated itself. “She's spending most of her time in Santa Fe these days,” he says.

“I'm sorry,” I say, not trying especially hard to sound sincere.

Will grins. “Don't say things you don't mean,” he says. “It doesn't suit you.”

He holds my gaze and I feel a blush rising. It's always like this with him, as if no time has passed since our last conversation. “What brings you to town, Will?” I ask.

“I've got a proposal for you,” he says.

“I'm all ears,” I say, knowing that any proposal Will is prepared to make is one I'm likely to accept.

“I hear you've been spending some time with my aunt Lillian.”

“Some,” I say, thinking of the fox. “She's been misbehaving.”

“She told me. She also told me that she gave you the history of the Baxter Foundation.”

I nod. “I still don't understand how I never made the connection between your family and the hospital,” I say. “You might have mentioned it when I came to work here, you know. I feel like a complete idiot.”

Will shrugs. “I can't speak for Lillian, but I assumed you knew. I've never had any direct involvement in the hospital, so there wasn't anything to talk about when you took the job. As for the foundation, it's been a family affair over the years, but Lillian and I agree that it's time for a more modern structure. Lillian made me the chair of the board a few years ago, and we've done some excellent recruiting. But it's time to professionalize the day-to-day operations.”

“How is it staffed now?”

He laughs. “Lillian wanders through the office a few days a week, but basically it's a self-governing island of misfit toys. And we have bags of money, so we should be thinking more strategically about what we do with it. Our mission is pretty broad—we fund initiatives that advance the health and well-being of children—but ninety-nine percent of our grants go to the Baxter Hospital and we aren't spending anything close to the
income we have available every year. It's an amazing opportunity for someone to come in and build up the organization.”

“You're looking for an executive director?”

“For now,” he says. “But really, I'm looking for a new president. Lillian isn't going to be around forever, and we need to think about succession.”

My mental list of possible candidates shrinks as I begin to appreciate the full scope of the job description. “That's going to be a tall order,” I say. “Most people would balk at the idea of having Lil looking over their shoulder.”

“Agreed,” says Will. “That's why I think you would be ideal.”

“Me?” He nods. “I'm flattered,” I say, “but I don't think I'm the right person.”

“Why not?” says Will. “You're smart, organized, experienced, and you know how to manage Lillian.”

“No one knows how to manage Lil.”

“You're more qualified than anyone else would be.”

“It doesn't feel right,” I say. “I love Lil. I don't like the idea of trying to set up something in order to manage around her.”

“Sophie,” says Will. “Do you think the board is doing this behind her back? It's her foundation. You are her choice. I'm here because she sent me.” My face must show a little of the unexpected disappointment I feel at his words, because he says, hastily, “Of course, I wanted to see you, which is why I volunteered to come and offer you the job on behalf of the board.” He raises a hand to stop me from speaking. “Spend a couple of days mulling it over. Also, Lillian said to tell you that she'll pay you more than they pay you here.”

“I'll talk to Jesse about it,” I say. “It's a really nice offer, just . . . unexpected.” It's unsettling to see Will's hands, bare of visible signs of commitment, resting on my desktop, and I feel another blush coming on. Will was always good with his hands. I cover my discomfort by swiveling around to my computer and opening my calendar. “How long are you in town?”

“I'm leaving Sunday morning. I promised Lillian that I'd come to her party this year.”

“Do you have plans on Friday night?”

“If I do, I can move them,” he says, and a familiar glow spreads through me. There has never been any elixir as powerful for me as being the object of Will's undivided attention. It is his gift: he turns his spotlight on you, and you are transformed into the star of your own fascinating story, and not merely background to other, more gripping narratives. It's incredibly addictive, and dangerous. “Dinner?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation. “I'll make a reservation and e-mail you the details.” There's a knock at the door, and Erica pokes her head in. “Sorry to bother you,” she says, and Will stands up.

“Perfect timing, actually,” he says. “I've got another appointment.” He turns to me and flashes the smile that has melted many hearts tougher than mine. “See you Friday, Sophie.”

“Bye,” I say.

Erica watches him go with an appraising eye. “Who was
that
?”

“An old friend,” I say.

“Yummy,” she says, completely inappropriately. I sit straight in my chair and regard her with a gaze that I hope is in the range of cool-to-withering. She drops into the visitor's chair that Will has just vacated, oblivious.

“So,” I say. “Where did we end up with the disagreeable Dr. Viggars? Do we have a press conference?”

“We're good,” she says. “The press conference is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Did he give you trouble?”

“Nothing I couldn't handle,” she says breezily. “And anyway, it's not a bad news story for us. I mean, who lets their kids watch five hours of TV a day?”

I swallow hard. “Who indeed?” I say.

I dismiss Erica as quickly as possible and start mining through the stacks of paper on my desk. An hour passes, and then two, but the paper still towers.

Joy appears in the doorway, looking anxious. “Aren't you leaving early today?” she asks.

“Leaving early?”

“It's Wednesday,” she says. “You always leave early on Wednesdays.” I have long suspected that Joy bolts out of the office as soon as I do, and her agitation at the fact that I am still at my desk at four-thirty on a Wednesday clinches it. But I have no time to enjoy this small victory, because I'm late for Family Yoga. And I would definitely skip it today, with a legitimate excuse in the form of my runny nose, except that I was not very nice to my mother yesterday, and if I don't go to yoga it's going to take a lot longer to get off her naughty list.