The Hole in the Middle (24 page)

“Dad was immensely talented in obvious and also unexpected ways. He was a brilliant student who became a brilliant lawyer. Many of his friends and colleagues were mystified when, almost a decade ago, he moved to Port Alice to become a small-town solicitor. There were those who thought he'd thrown his talents away. But Dad never doubted his decision. He was the most self-aware person I've ever known. He knew what he wanted, and he was utterly unmoved by considerations of public opinion.” I risk a glance up and see Lil sitting on an aisle; the seats beside her are empty. She smiles at me, and it strikes me that my dad would have gotten quite a kick out of her. The thought makes me sad.

“Dad believed that the most important things in life were simple—love of family, investment in community, self-respect, and the reward of good work done with integrity. For him, these things came into focus much more clearly when he was out of the city. He was at home in the country. He was in his element here.”

Almost done. I take a final breath and launch into the last paragraph. “Of all the things my dad valued, he treasured his family above all. His love for us—my mother, my brother, and me—was uncomplicated and unconditional. He wanted nothing more than our happiness. He taught us so much about how to live.” And now my voice cracks as I fight to hang on, and I manage to squeak, “We'll carry him with us always,” and I run down the stairs, crash down in the pew, and bury my
face in my hands, as my mother whispers in a thick voice, “He would have been so proud of you today.”

The rest of the service passes mercifully quickly, and soon we're spilling out onto the front lawn. Few people linger; the pale sunlight doesn't cut through the harsh wind, and most of the guests are planning to come to our house this afternoon anyway. But Lil is standing at the bottom of the stairs, a little off to the side, surrounded by A.J., Will, and Zoe. I promptly burst into tears again and throw myself into Zoe's arms. I'm so happy to see her that I almost forget for a few seconds how incredibly wretched I feel, and from the expression of satisfaction on Lil's face as she watches us, I wonder if she's responsible.

“How did you know?”

“Lil called me,” Zoe confirms. “She tracked me down somehow and got me on a flight.”

“Thank you so much,” I say to Lil and give her a hug.

“You're welcome, sweet girl,” says Lil. “You were very brave in there.” Tears well up in my eyes again, and I see Will and A.J. shrinking back collectively.

“Will you come back to the house?” I ask.

“No, my dear. The boys and I are going to head home. But Zoe's going to stay with you until tomorrow if you want her to.” Lil shivers. “I'm going to wait in the car, boys.” She squeezes my hand. “I'm so sorry, Sophie. I'll see you when you come home.”

A.J. moves to follow her, but I stop him. “Wait,” I say. “I never thanked you properly for everything you did for me the other day. You were a really good friend.” And before he can deflect me I reach up and give him a kiss on the cheek. He blushes scarlet, mumbles his condolences, and rushes after Lil, leaving Will and Zoe and me in a huddle. I haven't been this close to Will in weeks, and as thrilled as I am to see Zoe, I want her to vanish for five minutes.

“Zoe,” I say, pointing to the waiting black limousine. “Can you let Mike know that you're coming with us?”

“Sure,” she says, giving me an odd look, but complying.

I'm getting colder by the second, and my family is waiting. Today of all days, my pathetic drama with Will should be banished from my mind. But he's here, on the worst day of my life, and if he won't take me in his arms, he's not climbing back in the car without giving me something more than a pat on the shoulder. “You came,” I say.

“Lil thought you'd want me to. Was she wrong?”

“No,” I say, trying not to be hurt that his presence here is not entirely his own doing. I remind myself that excessive emotion, like hospitals, makes him squeamish, and smother a fleeting sense of irritation. “It's good to see you.”

“I don't know what to say, Sophie,” he says. “I'm sorry about your dad. I'm sorry about everything.”

“Me too,” I say. And then, knowing that he won't deny me anything today, I say, “You owe me a conversation. I want to talk to you about what happened between us when I come back. Promise me.”

He looks down at his shoes. “I promise,” he says. I wonder, uncharitably, if he has his fingers crossed behind his back, and before I can say anything else, Zoe sprints up, panting.

“Your mom wants to get going, Sophie.” She tucks an arm through mine. “Come on. It's freezing out here.” She pulls me away from Will, toward the car.

“See you, Will,” she calls over her shoulder. He waves at her, but his eyes are on me.

“Take care, Sophie,” he says.

“You poor baby,” she says. “I missed a lot this year, didn't I?” I sniff, and she says hastily, “Listen, I've got an idea. I want you to come and stay with me in Paris this summer. Come for your birthday. You'll love it there and it will give you something to look forward to. Sound good?”

I smile at her, and I think,
This is what Lil was talking about
. Someday, maybe in Paris, I'll be able to smile without finding it strange that I still can, without feeling the corners of my mouth turn up and wondering how the muscles move of their own accord. “It sounds perfect,” I say.

saturday, december 7, 2013

I follow the film crew up to the ward and stand around for a while until it becomes clear that I am not needed. I touch Geoff's arm to get his attention and he jumps back as if stung; his involuntary reaction makes both of us feel terrible.

“Do you think I could go up to my office for a while? It looks like things are under control.”

“It's going great,” Geoff says stiffly. “Really, Sophie, you don't need to be here. Go home. Be with your family.” It feels like the rebuke that it is, and I don't know what to say, so we stand there for an awkward moment or two until I can't stand it anymore and beat a hasty retreat. I wonder how many parts of my life I can screw up in one week. From the vantage point of Saturday morning, it looks like one for the record books.

I'm standing in front of the elevator, awash in indecision, when my cell phone rings. It's Zoe.

“I know you're busy,” she says, “but when can you get out of there? I need an intervention.”

I hesitate only for a fraction of a second, realizing that I can't afford to lose any more karmic points by being a fair-weather friend, and that if I meet Zoe for lunch in her time of need, I might actually earn some
back. I also know that conventions of female friendship demand that I deliver a full and frank airing of the Will issue in the wake of my disappearance at dinner last night. That and, let's face it, I'm desperate to get away from Geoff and Claudio and everything to do with the Baxter Children's Hospital. Plus the idea of going home and dealing with the aftermath of my fight with Jesse makes me want to put my head in my hands.

“I'm leaving now,” I say. “Where do you want to meet?”

“We're going to the Four Seasons,” she says. “They have a really expensive wine list and Richard is paying.”

I look at my watch. “Isn't it a bit early?”

“Nonsense,” says Zoe. “By the time you get here it will practically be lunchtime.”

“Are we eating lunch?”

“If you want,” she says indifferently.

When I arrive at the restaurant, Zoe is already working her way through an impressive-looking bottle of red.

“Are we celebrating or commiserating?”

“A little of both,” says Zoe. “I kicked Richard out last night.”

“Wow,” I say. “For good?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Oh my God,” I say. “This is huge. I'm so sorry, Zoe.”

“Don't be sorry,” she says. “I know you never liked him.”

“Zoe, I . . .”

She holds up a hand. “You were right. He was an arrogant, humorless bastard.”

I'm in dangerous territory here. A breakup is a fragile thing in its early days, and I know from bitter experience that the friend who shares fully in the piling on of insults can find herself shivering in cold and lonely isolation while the once-again happy couple basks in the afterglow of reunion sex. In such moments, therefore, it is critical to be mindful of all possible outcomes, and to employ a contextual filter to any remarks about the maligned partner's conduct that you might be tempted to make. “I never said that,” I say.

Zoe laughs. “I admire your caution,” she says. “But you can relax. There is no prospect of reconciliation. When I got home last night, earlier than expected, there was a Prius in the driveway. So I let myself in the back door and kind of tiptoed into the living room, and surprise! There's Richard making out with some girl on the couch. And I recognized her but I couldn't quite place her, you know, and then I realized that it was the salesgirl from Hiker's Haven who sold us the kayak for Richard's birthday.”

“Mr. Intellectual is banging a girl who sells kayaks for a living?” I say, as my filter slips ever so slightly.

“Oh, yes,” says Zoe. “And now we understand the sudden interest in camping. Can you believe it?”

“God, what a jerk,” I say, filter now entirely disengaged.

“That's more like it,” says Zoe. “But wait, there's more. According to Richard, this is my fault because I kept him in a ‘box of urbanity' and prevented him from accessing his ‘primitive soul.'”

“I don't even know what that means,” I say.

“It means that I never have to listen to him whine about his sinuses again. I never have to pretend to like conceptual jazz or experimental theater.
He
can figure out what to buy his odious parents for Christmas. I am
so
finished with all of his bullshit.” Zoe takes a long drink and looks thoughtful. “You know, it's funny,” she says. “I always thought there was a possibility that Richard would leave me, but I never thought it would be for some pretty little dimwit.”

I adjust my face into what I think is a neutral but supportive expression.

Zoe laughs. “You still think he's gay?”

“I never said that either!” I say, horrified.

“True. You never did, but you have a lousy poker face. It never bothered me in the least, though, because your instincts on that front are hopeless, as you demonstrated again this week.”

“Fair comment,” I concede.

“Honestly, one of the only things I'll really miss about being married to Richard is watching you try to figure out how to like him,” says
Zoe. I start to protest and she puts up her hand. “I'm not criticizing. I've really appreciated the effort you put into it all these years.” She smiles. “I think I was always afraid that Richard would leave me for someone more creative or intellectual or political. Someone more like you, actually. Book smart rather than street smart.”

I bristle at the backhanded compliment. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you can speak intelligently about virtually any topic but have trouble seeing things that are right in front of you.”

“Such as?” I say sharply.

“Take your pick: the fact that your office lapdog is in love with you, or that your husband is being pursued by his business partner, or that you're still half in love with Will Shannon, or that you're having a full-fledged midlife crisis,” says Zoe.

“I'm not having a midlife crisis. You're projecting. I'm not the one leaving my husband,” I say unkindly.

“I'm not trying to be mean,” says Zoe. “I don't deny that I married a flaming asshole—clearly a mistake. But aside from that admittedly large issue, I'm happier with my life than you are.”

My indignation evaporates in the sure knowledge that Zoe is right about this. “You know what?” I say, as if changing the subject, “I was sitting in a meeting this week and I had this fantasy that I quit my job to stay home with the kids.”

“I suspect that would be a bad result all around,” says Zoe. “You might want to consider some options in between. In the meantime, though, what's going on with you and Will?”

It's a good question. If I read back a transcript of everything that Will and I have said to each other in the past several days, there would be no outward sign of the tectonic shift occurring beneath the surface. But since his return, my world has been clearer and sharper and more colorful, as if he's adjusted the dial to eliminate the gray static around me. “I have no idea,” I say. “It's very confusing. He offered me a job.”

“What job?”

“Running the Baxter Foundation with a view to taking it over from Lil.”

“Interesting,” says Zoe. “What does Jesse say about it?”

“He thinks it sounds interesting,” I lie.

“And what do you think?”

“It's a dream job,” I say. “It's all the things I love to do, and almost none of the things I hate, not to mention better pay and way more autonomy and flexibility.”

“But it feels like a handout?” Zoe guesses.

“It
is
a handout,” I say. “They're only offering it to me because of the personal relationship I have with Lil.”

“Does that have to be a bad thing?” asks Zoe. “Is it absolutely necessary that you earn everything by yourself without any help from anyone else? They know and like you, yes, but they wouldn't want you if you weren't capable of doing a fantastic job.”

“Possibly,” I say. “But then there's the issue of working for Will. He's the chair of the board. I'd report to him, at least technically. And I'm not sure that's smart.”

“Because?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Because of what happened the year you were in Paris. Because it's never been resolved or discussed or even acknowledged between us. Because he makes me feel like I'm twenty all over again whenever I see him. Because it drives me insane that I still don't know what's going on in his head and probably never will. Because for all of these reasons, I'm in a state of complete anxiety when he's around, and I don't want to have that kind of relationship with my boss.”

“OK,” says Zoe. “Let's focus on the anxiety. I have a theory about that.”

“You don't say.”

“I think that you are terrified of really examining your feelings for Will, because you think that if you do, you'll discover that you married the wrong man.” I half rise from my seat, and she holds up a hand. “Let
me finish. I also think that you're mistaken about Will. According to my theory, you married the right man.”

I exhale slowly, beating back my flight instinct. For all of her new age zaniness, I have to admit that Zoe is unexpectedly perceptive, and I'm willing to seize on any theory, no matter how implausible, if it validates the core decision of my adult life. “Enlighten me,” I say.

“The idea is that all women have a dominant romantic archetype that drives their choice of partners. Most women are also influenced by one or more secondary archetypes, which can complicate their choices. I think that's what's happening with you.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, by which I mean,
Is there a reason why self-help devotees are never content with mere self-help? Is the process of salvation incomplete unless you commit yourself to showing others the light?

“I've identified six major archetypes. You, for example, are dominated by the Jane Austen. The Jane Austen's romantic narrative is about rescue, but Jane won't agree to be rescued until the rescuer demonstrates that he recognizes her as an intellectual equal. She's like Cinderella with a university degree. She wants the Prince to see her for who she really is inside.”

“You should write this stuff down,” I say, by which I mean,
Carl Jung is spinning in his grave
.

“You also have a strong Amelia Earhart, which means that you are looking for an impossible challenge in love. You're attracted to the danger and sheer unlikelihood of success. You're determined to beat the odds or die trying, metaphorically. It's your Amelia Earhart that can't let go of Will Shannon.”

“What does the theory say about you?” I ask.

“My dominant archetype is the Jerry Maguire.” She gives me a withering look. “Don't laugh. My romantic narrative is that I'm looking for someone to complete me. To summarize a very long story, my role in my family was to be the pretty, sociable one, so that my brother Zack could be the smart one, which he needed to be since he was pretty dorky. But my romantic choices have all been about trying to find someone to help me reclaim the smart side.”

I am reminded, not for the first time, how little we understand the people we most love. “Zoe,” I say, “I've always thought of you as one of the smartest people I know.”

Zoe blinks hard and squeezes my hand, and then continues. “I was flattered that Richard thought I was intellectual enough to share his life. It made me feel whole. And my choice was reinforced by my secondary archetypes. Like you, I've got a lot of Amelia Earhart in me, and Richard was always a challenge. But he also appealed to my Mother Teresa.” I bite my lip, taking in Zoe's flawless makeup, her Victoria's Secret model hair, her designer skinny jeans, and the shimmering rope of semiprecious stones looped casually around her neck, but I don't laugh. “Mother Teresa's romantic narrative is about finding a partner who genuinely needs her and who can be transformed by her love. I thought I could do that for Richard. I thought his sarcasm was a defense mechanism against vulnerability. I thought his coldness was a fear of expressing his true feelings. I thought his selfishness would melt away when he realized that I wanted to take care of him. I thought he was a Jerry Maguire. But he's actually a Material Girl.”

“I thought the archetypes only apply to women,” I say, mostly to avoid engaging with the topic of Richard as Material Girl.

“It's a work in progress,” she says. “The Material Girl is the opposite of the Mother Teresa. Her narrative is about finding a partner who meets all of her needs. She's doesn't value permanence. Relationships are commodities to her. Once she extracts everything useful from the relationship, she moves on.”