Beauty

by Christina Chiu

  “Jayne, for one,” I say.

  “Hmmm…” Jeff sits back in the hard plastic seat.

  “She’s about to jump ship,” I say. “So is Marco.”

  “Marco?” he says, stunned. His lips purse. “That’s not good. That’s not good at all.”

  “We need something new, something spectacular, but… Every team pitches, and every team fails.”

  Jeff glances out the window. From the angle where we sit, there’s bare grey sky. He looks back at me. “You’re saying Jeff Jones needs a new CEO.”

  I’d thought of it, but it never seemed a real possibility to consider. “Actually, um, yes,” I say. “I guess I am.”

  “I’ll bring this up at the next board meeting.”

  “Didn’t you just have one?” Typically, it convenes every six months. The board consists of six people.

  “I’ll call an emergency for Thursday afternoon,” he says. “Alex will be back that morning, yes?”

  I nod. Alex is returning from skiing in Switzerland with his wife and 8-month-old, Kathryn. Jeff brought Alex onto the board before stepping down as CEO. Nepotism aside, Alex had by then established himself in his own right: he’d sold a start-up for 100.3 million dollars. BrainHeal focuses on innovative 3-D technological games and programs that treat brain rehabilitation and disorders ranging from Parkinson’s to Depression and ADHD.

  “I’ll speak with Alex and Ben,” I say. Over the years, Ben established himself as a fashion writer for The New York Times, Vogue, Y and GQ. Jeff offered him the position of Editor of Y, which Ben accepted, then asked him to join the Board the year I joined the company.

  “I’ll speak with Rain Bow and Jim.” Rain Bow is senior CPA at Ernst & Young and Jim Thompson is a Partner at a boutique law firm for Creatives called DREAM.

  “What should I say?” I ask.

  “We’re voting on the new CEO!”

  “But who do you have in mind?”

  Jeff smiles. “Alex.”

  “Alex?” Granted Alex is a dot.com genius; and he certainly thinks out of the box. “But he doesn’t know a thing about fashion.”

  “Oh, yes, he does,” Jeff scoffs. “He couldn’t have escaped us if he tried.”

  Just then, the doctor steps into the room. We’ve been waiting now an hour. He’s the young medical version of Jeff, his costume a long, white coat. Beautiful, charismatic. Full of himself. He examines Jeff, asking him to walk from one side of the room to the other. He tests reflexes, and asks Jeff to hold his hands straight out in from of him. It’s only then that I notice the tremor. The doc takes notes. He asks Jeff if there have been any new developments.

  “Some stiffness, perhaps,” Jeff says, rubbing his knees.

  “Not some,” I say. “Sometimes, he has difficulty standing up when he’s been seated.”

  Jeff quiets.

  “Sleep?” the doc asks. “From one to ten, ten being the best, how’s the sleep?”

  “Two,” Jeff states. “Or, one.”

  “That’s a noticeable decline from your last appointment,” the doc says.

  “I’m out of the Ambien.”

  “I’ll call in more,” he says, typing the prescription into the computer. Then he rolls his chair so that he’s facing Jeff again. “You’ve had a great run of things—”

  “Thirteen years,” Jeff says. He’s been committed to a daily regimen of cognitive and physical therapies, a battery of supplements, and is always seeing different energy healers.

  “You’ve obviously defeated the odds. Many patients would be progressively more symptomatic,” the doctor says.

  “And without meds!” Jeff states, proudly.

  The doctor presses his lips together. “It might be that time,” he says.

  Jeff allows the mask to take over and doesn’t respond.

  “Just consider it,” the doctor says. “I would start you on something called Levodopa, coupled with Carbidopa, a peripheral decarboxylase inhibitor.”

  “Are there side effects?” I ask.

  “Initially, there may be some anxiety, but that often tapers off. Dizziness. Hand tremors—”

  “Will the medication make it worse?”

  “That’s hard to say. It may. It may exacerbate the insomnia as well, I can’t say until we try.”

  The light around Jeff seems to dim.

  “It’s possible there may be minimal side effects. Every person responds differently. And likely, it may even help to extend the positive streak with your health.”

  I’m touched by the doctor’s sensitivity, which I’ve never seen before. “Anyone in your family with LBD?” I ask.

  “Parkinson’s,” he says. “My grandfather.”

  “Is that why you went into this field?”

  “I was already in neurology,” he says, “but, yes, it influenced my direction. Especially in terms of research.”

  “How meaningful—” I start to say.

  “Thank you, doctor,” Jeff says, standing abruptly. The force of him pushing off the back of the chair causes it to bang against the wall.

  “Oh,” I say. Jeff shakes hands and in three evenly-paced steps is out the door. I get to my feet, fix the strap of my purse at my shoulder, and thank the doctor. “See you soon,” I say.

  “Talk to him,” he says.

  I nod and hurry after Jeff, catching up to him only in the waiting room. “You sure they got the diagnoses right?” I ask. “Cause I can’t keep up with you.”

  Jeff instructs the nurse to pick up the prescription from the pharmacy and to meet him at home. Then he turns to me. “Oyster rolls,” he says, offering an arm to grab onto.

  I slip my arm through.

  We’re enjoying our deep fried yet ungreasy Agedashi tofu and Tatsuda age appetizers when Jeff says, “As soon as Alex gets back, we need a meeting.”

  “I agree. It’s a good idea taking it to the board.”

  Jeff seems confused.

  “You think Alex can handle it?” I ask. “I mean, he’s so young.”

  He looks at me, stoney faced, and says, “He’s as young as I was when I started the company.”

  “True.”

  “But there is the issue of whether he’d want to step in as CEO.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “I don’t want to spring it on him. He may already have something going on. You know how he is. In fact, wow, how lucky are we that he’s with Beth?”

  “She’s a lovely girl,” he says.

  “That, too,” I say. “I’m just grateful she puts up with him.”

  “Genius comes with its petty quirks.”

  “You can say that again,” I laugh.

  The waiter arrives to clear the plates.

  “And the little one,” Jeff says, once the waiter’s gone. “She’s gifted, also.”

  “Uh, she’s eight months,” I say. “You can already tell she’s Einstein?”

  “Just you wait. She’s going to be the queen of fashion.” He swallows. “Like her Pops.”

  “You can tell this from the way she lies on her mat and stares up at her toys?”

  “I know these things,” he says. “Am I not always right?”

  I smile. It’s true. He is.

  The sushi arrives. All the pieces for each roll line up perfectly.

  “Seriously, though,” Jeff says. “When I said ‘meeting,’ I meant a family meeting. So, board meeting Thursday,” he says. “The three of us can meet for lunch Friday. Does that work?”

  “It can wait until next week,” I say. “There’s no need to rush things.”

  “Why wait?” he insists. “You never know. I could get hit by a truck tomorrow. Then, what?”

  “Don’t talk like that. You’ve done incredibly so far. The doc even said so. Keep up the good work and you’ve got another thirteen, fifteen years
. At least.”

  “I’m merely saying we should take care of business,” he says. “But since we’re on the subject, if anything ever happens—”

  “—Nothing’s going to happen.”

  He pauses.

  “Stop it, stop this craziness right now.”

  “Though it may seem rather morbid, I have a typed out list in my desk with the lawyer in charge of my will, the financial advisor in charge of my investments, the passwords for all my accounts—”

  I cover my ears. “La, la, la, la—can’t hear you, can’t hear a word you’re saying—”

  “Amy Wong,” he says, with his no nonsense voice.

  “La, la, la—” I push my plate away and wave for the waiter. “Check, please?”

  After lunch, Jeff insists on giving me a lift to the office. I tell him, No, I’ll take a cab. He can’t force me to listen to his crazy shit.

  “All right,” he says. The limo pulls away. It’s cool out and starting to drizzle, yet damp with the kind of humidity that makes one perspire. There’s congestion, but traffic is moving. A couple yellow taxis go by, but both are taken. How is it there are cabs all over but none when you really need one? The sidewalk feels uncomfortably crowded. The subway is only a block away, but the thought of even more people jammed together in a sardine can—with their umbrellas, no less—is more overwhelming than I can handle right now. I check the CityCar app on my phone to see if there’s one within a few blocks.

  But my phone rings, interrupting the app. It’s Jeff. I don’t answer. What can I possibly say that he will actually hear? It’s his life, right? He can do whatever the fuck he wants with it.

  The app indicates there’s a CityCar only a block away. I’m just about to order it when the phone sounds. It’s Jeff, again. I refuse his call, but by then the CityCar is three blocks going the opposite direction. Great, just great.

  Just then, Jeff’s limo pulls up. He swings the door open. “We’re late for Creative,” he says. He’s lit up again. He has the intense, open look that he gets when inspiration strikes. With his rigid schedule, requiring all the different therapies for the maintenance of his health, it’s hard to believe Jeff’s actually visiting the office. And yet, here he is.

  “Talk,” he says. “Tell me about your spectacular company-saving idea, Ms. Executive Creative Director.”

  As annoyed as I am, I get in the car. The team hasn’t seen him much since his departure last year. This surprise is exactly what they need. Jeff Jones. An infusion of his energy, drive, charisma—and leadership. “Not immediately,” Jeff likes to say, “Eventually.”

  “Okay—” I pause.

  “Ben mentioned you have a new line,” he says.

  “Sort of,” I gulp. It’s now or never: “Remember those sketches? The designs I was working on when we took Alex up to school?”

  He nods. “Go on.”

  We discuss my new line—target audience, sales pitch, marketing strategy.

  Jeff asks the driver to make a stop at my apartment. I race upstairs, grab the portfolio, and jump back in the limo. We leave for the office. I show him the drawings, the boards, sample fabrics, and my estimated sales projections.

  My stomach flutters. “Think it will be ‘substantial enough’?”

  “That’s up to the Executive Creative Director to decide.”

  Me. Oh, my god. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for all my life.

  I glance out the window at the blur of people crossing the street in front of us. The rain comes down like a steady mist. I can hardly sit still, I’m so excited and happy, but nervous at the same time.

  Jeff gazes at me.

  I feel it before I actually look at him. “What?”

  “I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  “That’s it,” I say, my hand on the door handle. “Let me out of here.”

  “Wait,” he says. “Just hear me out.”

  “Hear you out?” I gasp, tearing from rage and disgust. “You, you, you. You’ve always been such a fucking narcissist, Jeff. You know that? Everything’s always gotta be about you. It’s just criminal.”

  “Look at me,” he says softly.

  I make the mistake of looking. It’s Jeff. Not Jeff the man, but Jeff the boy who shared a lollipop with me on a beach at Cape Cod; he’d told me about his mother, a woman on her deathbed who told him he would be nothing without her; that he would fail.

  “Don’t do this,” I say. “Whatever you’re planning, just don’t.”

  “You’ve seen what LBD does to people.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I say, even though I’ve seen crushing videos on YouTube. One man kept seeing “bugs” on the floor even though his daughter pointed out none actually existed. And there was a video of a woman who said she always felt someone was behind her, almost an ominous feeling, and it made her paranoid, which is why she always felt compelled to look around and check. Another man became aggressive and menacing. He went after his wife and daughter, attempting to punch them with his fists.

  “That’s not me,” he says. “I don’t feel comfortable in this straightjacket.”

  “You have time. The doctor said—”

  “He said it’s time to consider medication. You know how that goes. Side effects. More meds to take care of those side effects. Then more meds on top of that. And, for what?”

  “For what?” I say, raising my voice. “How can you actually ask that?”

  He watches as I continue my tirade. “You can’t take away your son’s father. Or your granddaughter’s Pop-Pop—”

  “Darling,” he says, softly. “It’s exactly that which I intend to preserve.”

  We arrive at the office. The driver comes around to help us. I step out first. Jeff hands me the portfolio. This time, the driver has to move into the car to help Jeff up from the seat. For the first time, Jeff allows me to see his struggle. He puts an arm over the driver’s shoulders, and the driver practically has to haul him from the car. Jeff fixes his jacket. He pulls at the cuffs of his shirt sleeves so that they are just barely showing. The sheer effort up to this point is so great that perspiration dots his brow. Even then, he’s looking around and checking that no one else—especially from the company—has seen him get out of the car.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “As okay as I’m going to get,” he says, reaching for the portfolio. “Ready to do this?”

  I hand him the black case. Together, we enter the building.

  As soon as we step off the elevator at our floor, the receptionist, a woman who has worked for the company close to twenty-five years, runs out from behind the desk to greet Jeff. It’s as if he’s risen from the dead. I realize that while people may not know what he’s battling against, they’ve known all along it’s something serious. “Mr. Jones,” she says. “It’s so wonderful to see you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Rose,” he says. “How’s your granddaughter?”

  “I have two now,” she says.

  “They must adore you.”

  “I spoil them,” she says, nodding. “May I get you some coffee?”

  “Believe it or not, Rose, I cut out coffee when I got on this health kick.”

  “No!”

  Jeff leans over to give her a kiss on the cheek. She blushes.

  We make our way through the office. He stops to greet each employee who comes up to him in the same manner he greeted Rose. If he doesn’t remember the person’s name, he manages to recall something about the person, or at the very least, says something humorous or charming. Buzz and a general sense of excitement and hope spreads through the building. Upon entering Studio One, Jeff is actually greeted with a full-blown standing ovation.

  “Thank you,” Jeff says, clearly touched by it all. “Thank you.”

  Finally, everyone set
tles down. “It’s so wonderful to be back, surrounded by all my favorite—” he pauses for emphasis “—mannequins.”

  Deadpan. Everyone laughs. Jeff catches my gaze. He has proved that the Parkinson “mask” is good for something. A feeling of awe moves through me.

  “No, really,” Jeff says. “Look around.”

  We look at one another. Then everyone glances about as Jeff points out the design samples and story boards, the industrial half- and full-body mannequins, both men’s and women’s, many of which are dressed or pinned. Floating at the back of the room are racks of the season’s latest sample garments from Everyday wear to Couture. Against the wall are shelves overflowing with fabrics and textile samples, including the usual cotton twills, printed linens, cotton voile, silk crepe de Chine, and floral brocades. Nothing is new. Nothing particularly special.

  “It all starts here,” he says. “This—”

  Tears swell to Marco’s eyes.

  “You,” Jeff says, “are Jeff Jones.”

  “Yes,” Marco agrees. “But the problem—”

  Jeff holds up his hands to stop him from saying more. “I hear we have some Not Substantial Enough business to talk over,” he says, unzipping the portfolio. “But, first, I’d like the honor of introducing a truly spectacular line, something that has taken years in the making, and in many ways it’s a culmination of a life’s work and experience. “This,” he says, “is Amy’s new and latest brainchild—”

  He pulls out a sketch. The corset-top dress from my second thesis portfolio.

  “This line will be geared toward the more mature, modern woman,” he says.

  Jayne gives my hand a soft squeeze.

  “Finally 50,” Jeff says. “These are the comeback women, the ones who were beautiful in their 20s and 30s but never seemed to know it on the inside. We all know one or two of these women, now, don’t we?” He glances at me. At Jayne. The other’s nod, yes, yes.

  “Well, now they’ve come into themselves. They’re more confident, more spiritual. They are 50, 55, 60. They realize exactly how beautiful they are. They walk down the street and it’s ‘Yes, look, this is the real me and I love it.’ ”

  Jayne claps, and others follow suit.