by Joan Cohen
“Cancer?”
“Usually this kind of tumor originates in the lung, which we X-rayed as well. There’s no sign of a growth there, but sometimes a spot can be too small to detect.”
“What next? Surgery? Chemo? Radiation?”
“Unfortunately, the tumor has done considerable damage to the joint. We need to do a biopsy to determine what type of cancer we’re dealing with. Amputation is one alternative, although Bricklin is a larger breed than optimal for managing on three legs. Ms. Bridgeton . . .” His voice softened. “Your dog is ten years old. It may not be wise to put him through that.” Jeanne slumped in her seat. “Since he’s still feeling the effects of the sedation, I’d like to keep him overnight. You can call me tomorrow morning.”
Jeanne was overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness. After starting the ignition, she sat with her hands pressed against the steering wheel. Harder and harder she pushed until her arms were straight out in front of her and her back pushed deep into the leather seat. “No, no, please no.” She banged the back of her head against the headrest as she beseeched unknown gods. A courtesy beep startled her. A van had pulled close, awaiting her space. Embarrassed, Jeanne nodded and pulled out.
Owners had a responsibility to make difficult end-of-life decisions for their pets, but was she a hypocrite if she refused to put Bricklin down? She had all the data, thanks to Dr. Chu, but he didn’t know Bricklin the way she did. Her dog had so much spirit, she was certain he could fight his way back from an amputation.
She remembered Maggie at Dawning Day telling her the staff tried to give the residents pleasant days. Couldn’t Jeanne ensure Bricklin had good quality of life? Would that be shirking her responsibility? For a moment, the thought of his attempting to walk with only three legs roiled her stomach. She tried instead to imagine what Bricklin would want if she could ask him. He would sit in front of her, put his paw in her lap, and look up at her with eyes filled with trust. Maybe she was being selfish, but he had to go on living. Her baby would live, and so would Bricklin.
By the time Jeanne arrived at work, she was calm. She hadn’t arranged a meeting with Jake, but they needed to catch up. She found him intent on his monitor and was relieved to see his relaxed posture. He seemed fully recovered from the crash. When he saw her, he flashed a broad smile. “Just thinking about you. Have you seen your email?” She shook her head. “Bart’s been brainstorming for the sales kickoff. He wants a live bugler playing call to colors, and he plans to have the regional managers dressed as drill sergeants.”
Rising from his chair, he unfolded his tall, lean physique. He gestured toward his conference table, but before joining him there, Jeanne closed the door behind her. “Seriously,” she said. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this military theme of Bart’s? I still have some issues I’ve shared with him. You of all people . . . it doesn’t offend you?”
“Don’t worry, Jeanne. I’ll make sure he keeps it light and uses only the positive messages—discipline, persistence—that kind of thing. And where else can I be a general? It’s a big jump in rank.”
Behind Jake’s desk hung a painting of a soccer game. Jeanne had heard he’d been an All-American in college. On the side wall, over his bookcase, he’d displayed framed advertisements for Salientific. She nodded toward the pictures. “I’ll start working on recruiting posters to replace those. ‘Wanted: a few good men and women.’ We can use Bart as a model Marine.”
Jake laughed. “Bart’s not a model anything, but he sure knows how to close business.”
Jake looked at her expectantly, ready for her next agenda item. What to say? She rubbed her forefinger over a smudge on the table till it was eradicated and took a deep breath. “Do you mind if we discuss something else first, a personal issue? What I need to tell you is—this is going to be kind of a curveball—I’m pregnant.” Jake’s blue eyes widened, stared. When he finally spoke, Jeanne sensed what was coming. She couldn’t risk his asking about the night they’d spent together. She rushed to add, “I’m not leaving the company.”
“I’m not questioning your commitment, Jeanne. I’m just surprised. Never thought motherhood was on your radar.”
“It wasn’t.” She hesitated. How much to tell? “It’s hard to explain, but I’ve had a change of heart.”
“Jeanne, you don’t owe anyone an explanation for why you want a child.”
“I know I don’t owe, but people gossip. I’d rather put it out there and be done with it. I was thinking maybe at this afternoon’s staff meeting, if that’s okay with you.”
“Whatever works for you.”
“I’m at an age . . . well, frankly, this was my last chance, so I decided to use a sperm donor.” The lie was easier to tell than she expected. Vince would be furious, though. They hadn’t settled the issue of a cover story. Letting him claim the baby as his own, moving in together—how could she do that if she didn’t know whose . . . ? Though Jake’s eyes probed hers, she couldn’t hold his gaze. He suspected.
“Becoming a single mother will be challenging,” she rushed to add, “but I’ve always embraced challenge.” Yes, these were words she was comfortable with, the language of business: challenge, opportunity, strategic change. Maggie’s face flashed before her. If she knew Jeanne thought of motherhood as strategic change . . .
“I’m sure you’ll do fine. I loved having kids, although my son and daughter now live with my ex-wife. We divorced not long after I returned from Afghanistan. Cause and effect, I’m afraid. Some experiences, some memories . . .” He shook his head. “They can be more vivid than the present.”
She swallowed hard and pulled her sweater tighter around her as though that might ward off any memories he was considering sharing or somehow protect her baby from them. “I’ll . . . uh . . . touch base with Alberta about maternity leave and the like.” She felt guilty for avoiding the subject of his service. What right did she have to avoid the horrors of a war for which they all bore responsibility?
Jake seemed deflated. She looked at the soccer painting behind him. He’d probably considered the game fiercely competitive in his youth, but compared with fighting to the death in Afghanistan . . . How that must have dwarfed everything in his life that had gone before. No wonder he was divorced.
As Jeanne stepped into the hallway, a distant siren drew closer. She winced as the driver delivered a powerful horn blast at the intersection. The siren wailed first on one side of their building, then the other. Whether the emergency vehicle was an ambulance or fire truck, it was headed elsewhere in the office park.
An ominous thump behind her made her turn. Jake was neither in his chair nor at his conference table. She re-entered and closed the door. Walking behind his desk, she found him crouching, pale as paper and shaking. He clambered out, collapsed into his chair, and covered his face with his hands.
“You have post-traumatic stress disorder, don’t you?”
“I hate that term.” He jumped up. “Disorder—a euphemism for the aftermath of experiencing the terrors of hell.” He walked to the window, where he looked out between the slats of his vertical blinds and then parted them, resting his hands against the metal window frame. “I thought I was past it.” He turned to her. “The crash—that car coming at me through the window . . . They’re back, the flashbacks and tremors.”
“Jake, you don’t have to—”
“I want you to know what happened.” He took a deep breath. “I had worked with and trusted a Taliban translator. Turned out to be a suicide bomber. His truck was coming right at us without slowing, so one of my men started shooting. The spray of bullets penetrated his windshield, and wounded, he looked straight at me. At the last moment, he turned his wheel. Probably thought he was doing me a favor, sparing me, but I lost half a dozen men—boys.” His voice broke. “One kept calling for his mother.” At that, Jake’s tears began again. “The injuries . . .” He pounded his forehead with his palms. “I should have died.”
“Oh my God, Jake.” Jeanne felt hollo
wed out. There were no words of consolation equal to the task. Calling his reaction survivor’s guilt would be minimizing it with a label, as she’d done with PTSD. Jake sank into his chair, so she moved closer and rubbed his arm. “I have no standing here, but look at the value you’ve created since then for everyone around you, the technology, the company.” Even as she spoke, the words sounded like self-help pabulum.
What was business compared to war? Yet war was business, often motivated by economic desires parading as causes. The country fought for a future its soldiers might never see. They could live only in the present, moment to moment, and when they were finished fighting, their future became hostage to their past.
“I shouldn’t have put this weight on you, especially now when you should feel . . .” He struggled for the right words, his language processor making a clumsy switch from the vocabulary of war to that of greeting cards. “Joyful anticipation.” He forced a smile. “I’m fine, Jeanne, really fine. I beat this thing before. The lobby crash was a blip on the radar.”
He didn’t look fine with his flushed face and red eyes, and Jeanne was reluctant to leave him, but he stood, signaling she was to go. She closed his door behind her and saw Parker coming down the hall. “Jake on the phone?” he asked.
“A personal call and, from the sound of it, he’s going to be a while. I’d come back in half an hour.”
“Shit.” He turned on his heel.
As much as Jeanne yearned to talk with someone about Jake’s condition, she had few options. Parker was watching Jake for missteps. Alberta had the HR experience, but not the judgment or maturity. Vince was on the board, so informing him of Jake’s instability could jeopardize Jake’s position as CEO. Bart was . . . well, Bart. Perhaps Lou, if she could catch him after the staff meeting. Jeanne walked toward HR, half hoping Alberta’s office would be empty. She tried to put Jake out of her mind and focus on spinning the news of her pregnancy. If she could think of it as just another press release . . .
Alberta’s eyes lit up when Jeanne told her she was pregnant. “Have to say, I’m a little envious. Waiting around for that special someone really sucks, if you know what I mean.” Jeanne read this as a reference to Bart. Alberta must actually believe Bart was going to divorce his wife and marry her. “I respect you for going it alone, Jeanne.” As little regard as Jeanne had for her, she couldn’t help but feel pity. Love may be blind, but Alberta’s love had eclipsed all five senses.
Alberta had a face that was, at best, pleasant looking. Her pasty complexion was not improved by the foundation she slathered on, nor were her eyes enhanced by the heavy black eyeliner that turned upward to create the effect of cats’ eyes. What she did have was long blond hair and the kind of curves no man could ignore, and Bart was not one to admire from afar.
Jeanne was eager to change the subject from Alberta’s allusion to “going it alone.” Although she had checked the web for local sperm banks in case anyone probed her lie, her technical knowledge of the artificial insemination process was at the turkey-baster level. “About maternity leave—I’m due April eighteenth and expect to work right up to the end.”
Alberta swiveled around in her chair and opened a file drawer in the cabinet behind her. She pulled out a folder and opened it to show Jeanne the necessary forms to fill out. “I can email copies to you if you’d prefer, and you can fill them out online.” Jeanne thanked her as she stood up.
Bart would undoubtedly hear the news from his indiscreet paramour, but at the staff meeting, he’d feign surprise. One advantage of Jeanne’s sperm donor tale was that Parker would think her relationship with Vince had ended. Perhaps that would stop his requests to leverage her connection to BTF Venture Capital in the service of his mutiny against Jake.
As two o’clock approached, Jeanne felt anxiety roiling her stomach like a piece of bad shellfish. Jake’s revelation had upset her homeostasis, and announcing her pregnancy was hardly the usual update from marketing. Teasing would likely come her way along with the congratulations. At least that would ensure a convivial staff meeting and take some pressure off Jake.
She was the first to arrive in the conference room. She helped herself to a cup of decaf from the thermal carafe on the side table. Jake and Lou showed up at the door together, but Jake allowed Lou to precede him into the room. Lou took up the entire doorway. Jeanne imagined how daunting it must have been for opponents to face him on the college football field.
For years, Lou had tackled nothing beefier than a Big Mac and an engineering schedule, but woe to anyone impeding his project plan. When his engineers fell behind, he’d threaten the laggards with a trip to the hood where his homies were waiting to teach them a lesson about commitment. Never mind that Lou had grown up in affluent Lexington and studied at MIT. If he had homies, they weren’t hanging around the streets.
Jake took his seat and slammed his notebook down on the polished walnut table. “Goddamn crash—Globe reporter won’t quit calling me for a follow-up.” A deep crease formed between his sandy brows. Jeanne berated herself. She should have insisted he go home earlier, when his instability was obvious. Jake peered into each face in turn and gripped the edge of the table. “Louis,” he barked, “let’s talk about product development. What’s the latest on Version Two? Will it go into testing first quarter?” The late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds made Jake look as though he were wearing war paint. He walked to the window and jerked the blinds shut.
Lou leaned in to rest his powerful forearms on the oak table. “There’s a piece of functionality we’re having trouble with. I’d hoped this wouldn’t happen, but I did warn you. The schedule’s going to slip. It’s unavoidable.”
When Lou said something was unavoidable, Jeanne believed him. She squirmed with discomfort as Jake exposed his weakness. Though a technological visionary, Jake was out of touch with the engineering effort required to produce a piece of software. His idea of long-term planning was flossing. Lou had been the perfect hire to turn Jake’s ideas into products, and until this moment, Jake had accepted Lou’s recommendations.
“Maybe we should talk about recalibrating our product intro plans,” Jeanne offered.
Jake smacked his cell phone on the table. “No! I’m not changing anything I’ve told our investors. This whole cybersecurity market is going to go the way of buggy whips if we don’t get Version Two on the street.”
Alberta’s hands were clasped in her own lap. She was a model of good posture, and Bart’s face lacked its customary smirk. While Jake and Lou continued their testy debate, the rest of the team remained mute. Parker rolled back from the table and stretched out in his seat, content to observe Jake’s implosion. She bit her lip, wishing she could make him stop. A slip in the schedule was regrettable, but they were doing fine. Only three months ago they’d been celebrating the company’s performance.
Lou made the necessary commitments to wrap up their discussion, but Jeanne suspected his objective was simply to defuse Jake’s anger. Lou turned to Bart. “Don’t worry about your sales meeting. Everything will be on schedule by then. Last thing my team needs is a bunch of suits storming engineering.”
Bart laughed. “I want my guys psyched up for a fight but not an internal one.”
Jeanne gave Bart credit for breaking the tension, although in the past he had waged war, and surely would again, against other departments. Jake looked as though he had just awakened and found himself in the conference room. He smiled and looked over at her. “Jeanne, want to share your news?”
“Um . . . telling you all together seemed like a good idea. . . .” She looked around the table. “Efficient use of time and all that, but now I’m not so sure.” Alberta glanced at Bart, who ignored her. “I’m pregnant.” Jeanne went on to deliver her sperm donor story, taking note of Lou’s wide-eyed reaction and Parker’s single raised eyebrow. She didn’t owe them an explanation but thought it best to head off speculation on the father. “So, the next time you come to my office, you’ll see a new project on
the marketing whiteboard with a due date of April eighteenth.”
Talking about her personal life this way was just too weird. She eyed the door with longing, but Jake had several more agenda items to cover. When he finished, she bolted.
Parker was close behind Jeanne as she headed for marketing, but he was not, as she feared, pursuing her with questions. His purposeful gait had some other objective, one she suspected would be of no help to Jake.
When Jeanne arrived at Birch Brook, she swung by the bank of mailboxes and collected a heavier batch than usual. “Junk,” she grumbled. “More food for the recycling bin.” Opening the kitchen door from the garage, Jeanne half expected to see her tail-wagging official greeter. No human would show such excitement at her return or welcome her with an offering, which, in Bricklin’s case, was a squeaky dog toy.
After tossing the mail on her kitchen table, she hung up her coat and collapsed on the couch. It really wasn’t fair. She’d decided to have a baby, and her reward was yet another life-and-death choice. She stared at the empty window, sill feeling hollowed out. No matter what she did, Bricklin would never jump onto it again.
Her limbs felt heavy, but she forced herself to return to her kitchen table. Starting with the letter on top of the pile, a credit card offer, she dealt unopened envelopes into a trash pile. Her mother’s mail had diminished in volume but continued to arrive. Never mind that Jeanne had closed all her mother’s accounts, even the dead were credit worthy.
An envelope from the estate lawyer for Fay Bridgeton stood out by the quality of the ivory paper even before Jean saw the return address. Another copy of documents, she thought, setting it aside while sorting the rest of the mail. Cybersecurity News and a couple of other industry magazines joined a pile of periodicals Jeanne had neither the desire nor focus to read.