by Joan Cohen
CHAPTER 8
Jeanne was useless at work. The technology acronyms that populated her incoming emails gained no purchase in her mind. Her thoughts were preoccupied with the ones Luke had talked about: PS1, PS2, APP, APOE-e2, e3 and e4. . . . She pushed her chair back in disgust. She needed something, anything, to divert her attention.
Where was that photograph? In a zippered pocket of her briefcase, she felt its glossy surface and pulled it out. Could she ever have been the girl gazing back at her? Some days it seemed she had sprung from the head of Zeus, fully formed and at work at her desk. Once her mother had weaned her from ballet, Jeanne had fallen in love with sports, and she’d excelled just like her father, a gifted athlete. That he played football was one of the few precious morsels her mother had shared with her.
Gazing at her photo aroused the same sense of wistfulness she’d felt going through her mother’s box. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the day it had been taken. The grass on the ball field was intensely green, not yet trampled by daily games. The dirt the team kicked up was newly thawed and smelled rich and fertile. How warm the spring sun felt on her shoulders. If only she could relive that moment. She would know now to hang on to it. At least her mother had thought to preserve the image.
As Jeanne approached HR, she saw three people standing in the hall in front of the cork wall. She poked her head in Alberta’s door. “Quite the attraction. What happened to all the stuff that’s usually tacked up there?”
Alberta laughed and rose from her desk. “Let’s hope the OSHA police don’t come after me for moving those postings. The contest is getting a great response. Have you looked yet? Some of the pictures are amazing.”
“Guess I’m a latecomer. I brought you mine, though.”
“As soon as they leave, we’ll add it. I just need to write your name on the back.”
“No need. My mother was an efficient labeler.” As soon as the three employees drifted away, Alberta took the photo from her.
“Wow! That’s you?” She tacked it up in the corner and stood beside Jeanne, who was perusing the board. “Guess you were a jock, huh?” Jeanne, eight years of age, looked wiry holding her baseball bat as she waited for a pitch. Her prodigious curls sprang out from under a Red Sox cap. Over the years, the curls had relaxed, which was more than she could say for herself.
“A million years ago—that’s when it was taken.” A ringing phone pulled Alberta away. So many adorable babies. They were lined up on the bulletin board in rows reminiscent of a hospital nursery window. Her hand crept to her belly.
The images showed children of different ages, most appearing younger than ten. Here and there were professionally posed shots, school photos taken against blue backgrounds with painted clouds. Most were candids: kids on trikes, bikes, skateboards, and in groups of siblings or teammates. The group photos had tiny red arrows stuck on them pointing to the faces of Salientific’s future employees. Amazing how easy it was to put names to some of the faces. The lucky ones now looked like older versions of themselves, while others were changed by age in significant and unattractive ways.
How much bias, though, did people bring to their perceptions? When people saw babies, they thought baby. They were first conscious of them as belonging to a category and only second as possessed of blond hair or turned-up noses. People perceived old people the same way, as belonging to a category. They saw the aged visage first and the features second. Only when people saw adults did appearance register before category. They didn’t think, there goes an adult. Jeanne thought of the Dawning Day residents, the ones in the Alzheimer’s wing, and felt a twinge of guilt. Objectifying them was so much easier than seeing human beings who had worked, laughed, fought, and made love.
Alberta had disqualified the executive staff from winning the prize turkey, but they were allowed to compete along with the rest of the company. Jeanne’s phone was in her jacket pocket, and she drew it out to record her initial guesses. The group pictures required closer perusal, and she rested her forefinger on the board as she peered at them. The basketball team—oh, of course, it was Clara Nordell. Even seated, her head was a foot above those of the other girls. Too easy. Jeanne made note of the number of Clara’s picture and moved down the row.
She stopped at a gymnastics group picture. Could that mop-haired kid be Parker Neal? So hard to tell without the toupee. Certainly, it was one of those faces rearranged by time or, in Parker’s case, cosmetic surgery. No clue in the school name, but wait . . . Jeanne’s eye was drawn to the coach in the back row. His features were familiar. She must have worked with him somewhere before. Jeanne gritted her teeth. That face was going to drive her crazy like a song she couldn’t place.
She tried moving down the row, but she couldn’t concentrate on identifying the others. She had to remember. Is this how it starts, she wondered? The more you try to grasp memories, the more they elude you? She shoved her phone back in her pocket and returned to her office.
Work would be the antidote for her frustration. A priority email from Lou asked if she was up for a walk at lunchtime. Odd he should suggest a walk rather than a lunch, but perhaps he was finally trying to burn off some calories. She looked out at the sunshine and checked the temperature on her phone. It was over sixty degrees out, unseasonably warm for November. That explained it. Everyone would be grabbing an hour of fresh air on one of the few mild days left before winter. She agreed to meet him in the lobby at noon.
Lou was chatting about football with Eduardo when Jeanne approached. She eyed his shirtsleeves and wondered if she’d be hot in her jacket. Tying the sleeves around her waist was no longer an option, but Lou ushered her out the front door before she could reconsider.
“You’ve got that pregnant glow people talk about.”
“Thanks, but I think people just say that because most women’s faces are green their whole first trimester. Glad to have that behind me.”
Lou laughed and gestured toward the road leading away from their building. Jeanne noted his avoidance of the popular walking path around the property but let him lead the way and set their speed, one unlikely to qualify their stroll as cardio. The sun shone through the leafless trees, and, in spite of their leisurely pace, Lou began perspiring. She itched to do some Weight Watchers proselytizing but would never risk offending him, so she offered a tissue from her pocket and said nothing.
Lou cleared his throat as though he were beginning a presentation. “You know about Parker and the board?” He didn’t wait for her response. “He isn’t wrong, you know.” She noted his circumlocution. Lou hated business politics, so she knew it must have cost him to broach this subject.
“I know Jake’s having some problems right now,” she replied. “I’m hoping they’re temporary.”
“Temporary or not, Jake’s problems are mine, and he’s in my face so often now, it’s hard to get our product issues resolved.”
“Literally in your face?”
“Hell, yeah. He keeps showing up in engineering like some old codger bellyaching that dinner’s late.”
A bus roared by, and Jeanne wrinkled her nose as the exhaust fumes reached her. “So, you agree with Parker and Bart.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But I thought—”
He stopped and sighed, as though he needed a moment to shore up his patience. “Jeanne, I like Jake as much as you do, as much as the board still does, but we both know the revenue projections. He’s going to become increasingly inadequate until his limitations start bending that revenue curve downward. Parker wants to do what’s best for the company.” He began to walk again but stepped up his pace.
“You don’t question Parker’s motives?”
Lou was breathing hard. “Motives don’t matter, only results. Do the right thing for the wrong reason, and I’m okay with it.”
Jeanne was not okay with it. She was worried about unintended consequences, but this was no time for a philosophical debate. “So, you’re lobbying me too?”
>
“I didn’t say that. I’m not sure we’ve outgrown Jake’s talents, though that time is coming. I’m surprised you don’t see that.”
“I’ve had reservations about every CEO I’ve worked for, but I’m not going to waste cycles contemplating a decision that doesn’t need to be made yet, nor do I plan to approach the board. If and when Jake needs to go, they’ll figure it out.” In spite of her words, the burden of being Jake’s sole defender felt oppressive. As they turned back toward the office, she wondered how she’d keep her marketing staff from noticing she was odd person out if the rest of the executive team seemed to shun her.
“Don’t worry, Jeanne. I’m not going to the board either—for now.”
How much time did she have to get Jake to shape up, and what were the odds she could even do it? If she told Jake about the risk he faced, it might feed his PTSD fears. She thanked Lou for sharing his thoughts with her and committed to weighing the issues carefully. What else could she say? She couldn’t promise to return Jake to a steady state. Only Jake could do that.
Jeanne’s heartbeat rose from her chest till it pulsed in her neck and behind her eyes. The fan-shaped picture was clearer this time. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. When she finally turned away, she couldn’t look back. Pulled and repelled, wanting her baby yet wanting to end its gestation, she closed her eyes.
How wrong the pro-lifers were to think the sight of a live fetus would reverse the decision of a woman contemplating abortion. What an outrageous oversimplification of human emotion and our capacity for gut-wrenching ambivalence. Jeanne forced herself to look at the screen. To allow that thumping heart and half-formed body to develop would be the crueler alternative. It would be selfish, irresponsible. Seeing it convinced her.
Perhaps her face betrayed her churning emotions, because Dr. O’Rourke felt the need to comfort her. “You’re not unusual in finding this a moving experience. Everything looks fine, though. Normal pregnancy, normal fetal development. Get dressed and come into my office.”
She hardly noticed what she was doing as she pulled on her clothes. When she leaned down to pick up her handbag, she saw her trouser socks lying on the floor. She’d put on her boots without them, and rather than remove them, she stuffed the socks in her purse. Her feet rubbed against the stitching inside her boots as she walked down the hall to O’Rourke’s office. It was an easier pain to focus on than her feelings.
The doctor had entered another examining room while Jeanne was dressing, so she dropped into one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. She’d never paid much attention to the bulletin board on his wall with its collage of baby pictures and hand-scrawled notes thanking Dr. O’Rourke for all he had done. So many exclamation points. A happy business he was in, or was that just marketing? Why would he want to be reminded of anything else: the babies born with deformities, mental defects, congenital diseases, drug addictions? Did those mothers send thank-you notes too? Weren’t there mothers who didn’t want their babies because they didn’t have the time, money, or inclination to nurture them?
By the time the doctor strode into his office, she was slumped in her chair, eyes downcast. “You’re the most dejected patient I can remember, especially for one who’s just seen her baby on a sonogram.”
Jeanne leaned forward, twisting her hands in her lap. “There’s a good chance, maybe even fifty-fifty, I’m carrying one of the genes that causes early-onset Alzheimer’s.” The doctor frowned and lowered his generous body into his chair. She told him what she’d learned about her father’s condition and related Lucas Menton’s observations. “I may have to abort my baby. . . .” Her voice broke.
“Let’s not assume anything yet.”
“But I have a responsibility. . . .”
“Not yet, you don’t. Let’s get things in the right order.” He leafed through the folder in front of him. “You haven’t seen the genetics counselor yet? I don’t see a report from her. You understand, don’t you, that your baby is at greater risk for conditions like Down syndrome than for Alzheimer’s?”
She nodded. “I’ll call. I promise. But even if the genetic test is negative, my father showed his dementia so young, how can I be sure there isn’t something terribly wrong in my DNA?”
“It’s only natural your mind is jumping from one bad alternative to another, but let’s not make a decision before we have to.”
Her very words to Lou, but this situation was different. She was in purgatory, and working in the unpredictable world of Jake’s ups and downs felt in no way comparable. “Every day that passes tears me apart a little bit more. Will I or won’t I have to terminate my pregnancy? It’s getting harder to part with this baby.” She pulled a tissue from the box on his desk. “I couldn’t even part with my dog, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t know how your dog is connected with this, but I do know you’re going to have to live in limbo until your genetic results come in. In the meantime, you need to schedule your next monthly appointment. Did you find out the health history of the baby’s father? Assuming you’re free of the Alzheimer’s gene, we have to plan for your amniocentesis next month.”
Jeanne’s guts twisted. “I don’t know who the father is,” she blurted out, flushed with embarrassment, “but there are only two possibilities.” She felt like a teenager who’d spent time in the respective back seats of two boys’ cars.
One of O’Rourke’s eyebrows rose. “I assume you want to know. Why don’t you take a paternity test? You can easily do that yourself.”
Same question Maggie had asked. Of course, Jeanne wanted to know. Ignorance wasn’t bliss. It was contemptible, at least she’d always thought so, yet if she never found out which of the two was her baby’s father, would that be so terrible? The sperm donor story had its appeal. Her child, if she had it, would be all hers. She tried not to think about her own father and how much she’d longed to know him.
Each day, focus and concentration seemed more elusive than the day before, and Jeanne’s command of details, a skill she took for granted, eroded. She defended herself against the assault on her self-confidence by blaming “pregnancy brain,” though she didn’t really believe it.
How could she possibly have misplaced her precious Alzheimer’s notebook, the repository for all her information on the disease from Luke Menton and the Internet? She had used the folders in the notebook’s divider pages to hold printouts from the websites of the Alzheimer’s Association and several universities, including Fenway’s School of Medicine.
She’d been keeping it in her briefcase. It was too large to fit in her pocketbook, since she deliberately carried a purse small enough to be stuffed into her briefcase. She hated showing up at business appointments with multiple shoulder straps like a photographer on a shoot.
Was this how it started? Short-term memory was the first to go. Had she put the notebook somewhere for safekeeping and failed to file the location in her brain? If she sat quietly and mentally retraced her steps, she’d remember where she’d left it. A minute with closed eyes yielded no clue.
Perhaps she’d carried it to the coffee room, unlikely as that seemed. She hurried off to check the kitchen. Two engineers were making coffee when she arrived, and one turned to congratulate her on her pregnancy. His wife had delivered twins two weeks earlier. He was bubbling over with the thrill of it, intent on letting Jeanne know what she had to look forward to. She thanked him for his warm wishes, although he looked impossibly young to be a father. Was he thinking the opposite of her?
A quick glance around the room told her she hadn’t left the notebook there, so she turned to leave. “Didn’t you want to use the coffee machine?” the young man asked. Flustered, she placed a cup on the brewer plate, selected a decaf pod to insert, and hit “brew.” When the coffee was ready, she pressed a lid onto her cup with fumbling fingers that failed to secure it and splashed her hand with hot coffee.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. Hair-on-fire was an unaccustomed state for her. If Magg
ie were there, she would counsel Jeanne to meditate. Not going to happen, Jeanne thought, but took several deep breaths anyway.
On her way back to her office, Jeanne stopped in reception to ask Eduardo if anyone had turned in a notebook. “I have three pairs of sunglasses, a Mont Blanc pen, and a single pearl earring, but no notebook. “Was it very important?”
“No,” she replied breezily, “just some information for a friend, but I’d like to get it back.” Eduardo promised to keep an eye out and asked if she’d checked the women’s restroom, which she made her useless next stop.
She was busy berating herself for bringing the notebook to work when Mariana caught up with her. “Would you sign this requisition, Jeanne?” Handing off her coffee, Jeanne flattened the paper against a wall so she could sign it. “Thanks. Oh, and I just saw Parker by your office. I think he was looking for you.”
Jeanne wasn’t about to seek him out. She shrugged. “He’ll be back.” Mariana disappeared down the hall, and Jeanne plunked herself down at her desk and chewed her lip. Gingerly, she opened each drawer as though she expected a rodent to jump out. When she reached the right bottom, she spotted the notebook nestled between her purse and a box of business cards. What the fuck!
She had Maggie’s number on speed dial. “I’m losing it,” Jeanne whispered into the phone. She related the story of the missing notebook.
“Alzheimer’s doesn’t come on that fast. Sounds to me like a touch of pregnancy brain fog. Take a few deep breaths, and if you can’t compose yourself, leave the building for a quick walk.”
“Alzheimer’s has to start somehow. Maybe this is the first episode. What if I misplace the baby? Don’t laugh. Remember the guy who drove off with his baby in an infant seat on the roof of his car?”
“Jeanne, I hate to cut you short, but I’m in the middle of mediating a dispute between two residents with high blood pressure. I’ll call you back in a few minutes . . . promise.” Jeanne grabbed her coat and left the building, heading for a residential area behind Salientific’s office park.