by Lisa Genova
He yells it again and again, shaking my shoulders.
“Wake up?”
“Yes!” he yells and stops shaking me.
“I am awake.”
“No, you’re not.”
M O N D A Y
Welmont is an affluent suburb of Boston complete with tree-lined streets, landscaped yards, a bike trail that winds throughout the town, a private country club and golf course, a center populated with boutique clothing shops, day spas, and a Gap, and schools that everyone brags about, the best in the state. Bob and I chose this town because of its proximity to Boston, where we both work, and because of the successful life it promises. If there is a house left in Welmont worth under half a million dollars, some savvy contractor is ready to buy it, tear it down, and build something three times its current size and value. Most everyone in town drives a luxury car, vacations in the Caribbean, belongs to the country club, and owns a second home on the Cape or in the mountains north of Boston. Ours is in Vermont.
Bob and I were fresh out of Harvard Business School and pregnant with Charlie when we moved here. Saddled with $200,000 in student loans and nothing saved, affording Welmont and all that goes with it was a daunting stretch. But we both landed ambitious jobs and had unshakable confidence in our earning potentials. Eight years later, we are in every way keeping up with the Welmont Joneses.
Welmont Elementary School is just about three miles and ten minutes from our house on Pilgrim Lane. Stopped at a traffic light, I glance up at the rearview mirror. Sitting in the middle, Charlie is playing something on his Nintendo DS. Lucy is staring out the window as she mumbles along to some Hannah Montana song on her iPod. And facing backward in his bucket car seat, Linus is sucking on his nukie and watching Elmo’s World through the mirror that Bob strapped to the car’s backseat headrest; the video is playing behind him on the DVD player that came standard with my Acura SUV. No one is crying or complaining or asking me for anything. Ah, the miracle of modern technology!
I am still annoyed at Bob. I have a European staffing meeting at eight o’clock. It’s for an important client, and I’m stressed about it, and on top of this, now I’m worried about getting there on time because it’s Monday, my day to drive the kids to school and day care. When I told this to Bob, he looked at his watch and said, Don’t worry, you’ll make it. I wasn’t looking for a Zen outlook.
Charlie and Lucy are enrolled in the school’s Before the Bell program, which runs from 7:15 to 8:20 every day in the gym. This is where the kids with parents who need to get to work before 9:00 hang out under the supervision of a teacher until the school day officially begins at 8:30. At only five dollars a day per kid, Before the Bell is truly an economical godsend.
When Charlie first began kindergarten, I was surprised to see only a few of the kids in Charlie’s class in Before the Bell. I had assumed that all the parents in town would need this service. I then guessed that most of the kids had live-in nannies. Some do, but it turns out that most of the kids in Welmont have mothers who have opted out of the workforce and are stay-at-home moms—all women with college, even graduate, degrees. Never in a million years would I have guessed this. I can’t imagine opting out, wasting all that education and training. I love my children and know they’re important, but so is my career and the life that career affords us.
Parked in the school lot, I grab their two backpacks, which I swear weigh more than they do, get out, and open the back door like a chauffeur. Who am I kidding? Not like a chauffeur. I am a chauffeur. No one moves.
“Come on, let’s go!”
Still tethered to their electronic devices and without a molecule of urgency, Charlie and Lucy file out of the car and start heading like a couple of snails for the front of the school.
I press behind them, leaving Linus in the car with the engine and Elmo running.
I know someone from 60 Minutes or Dateline NBC would have a bone to pick with me about doing this, and I half expect Chris Hansen to ambush me from behind a parked Volvo any day now. I’ve already rehearsed my side of the argument in my head. First of all, his bucket car seat, the car seat all babies are required to ride in under the age of one, weighs a ridiculous nineteen pounds. Add in Linus, who weighs almost as much as the car seat and the poor ergonomic design of the handle, and it’s physically unmanageable to carry him anywhere. I would love to have a conversation with the exceptionally strong and obviously childless man who designed these things. Linus is content and watching Elmo. Why disturb him? Welmont is a safe town. I’ll be only a few seconds.
It’s an unseasonably warm morning for the first week of November. Just yesterday, Charlie and Lucy wore fleece hats and mittens outside, but today, it’s already fifty, and they almost don’t even need their coats. Undoubtedly because of the weather, the school playground is packed and wild with kids, which is not typical in the mornings. This catches Charlie’s attention, and just before we reach the double doors, he bolts.
“Charlie! Get back here!”
My admonishment doesn’t even break his stride. He’s heading straight for the monkey bars and doesn’t look back. I scoop up Lucy in my left arm and run after him.
“I don’t have time for this,” I tell Lucy, my cooperative little ally.
By the time I reach the monkey bars, the only sign of Charlie is his coat, which lies rumpled on a pile of woodchips. I grab it with the hand already holding two backpacks and scan the playground.
“Charlie!”
It doesn’t take me long to spot him. He’s sitting at the very top of the jungle gym.
“Charlie, down, right now!”
He doesn’t appear to hear me, but the nearby mothers do. Dressed in designer sweats, tee-shirts and jeans, tennis shoes and clogs, these mothers appear to have all the time in the world to hang out at the school playground in the morning. I feel the judgment in their stares and imagine the range of what they must be thinking.
He only wants to play outside on this gorgeous morning like the rest of the kids.
Would it kill her to let him play for a few minutes?
See how he never listens to her? She has no control over her kids.
“Charlie, please come down and come with me. I have to get to work.”
He doesn’t budge.
“Okay, that’s one!”
He roars like a lion at a group of kids looking up at him from the bottom.
“Two!”
He’s not moving.
“Three!”
Nothing. I want to kill him. I look down at my three-inch Cole Haan heels and wonder for an insane moment if I could climb in them. Then I look down at my Cartier watch. It’s 7:30. Enough of this.
“Charlie, now, or no video games for a week!”
That does it. He stands, turns, and faces out, but instead of reaching down with his feet for the next bar level, he bends his knees and launches himself into the air. A few of the other mothers and I gasp. In that split second, I imagine broken legs and a severed spinal column. But he pops up from the ground, smiling. Thank God he’s made of rubber. The boys who witnessed this death-defying stunt cheer with admiration. The girls playing nearby don’t seem to notice him at all. The mothers continue watching to see how I’ll handle the rest of this drama.
Knowing he’s still a flight risk, I put Lucy down and grab Charlie by the hand.
“Ow, too tight!”
“Too bad.”
He pulls on my arm as hard as he can, leaning away from me, trying to get away, like an excited Doberman on a leash. My hand is now sweaty, and he’s beginning to slip out. I squeeze tighter. He pulls harder.
“Hold my hand, too,” whines Lucy.
“I can’t, honey, come on.”
“I want to hold hands!” she shrieks, not moving, balancing on the edge of a tantrum. I think fast.
“Hold Charlie’s.”
Charlie licks the entire palm of his free hand and offers it to her.
“Gross!” Lucy squeals.
“Fine, here.�
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I slide the two backpacks and Charlie’s coat to my elbow, and with a kid in each hand, I drag us into Welmont Elementary.
The gym is overheated and set with the usual cast of characters. The girls are sitting against the wall, reading, socializing, or just sitting and watching the boys, who are playing basketball and running all over the place. As soon as I let go of his hand, Charlie takes off. I don’t have the will to holler after him for a proper good-bye.
“Have a good day, my Lucy Goose.”
“Bye, Mommy.”
I kiss her on her beautiful head and dump the backpacks onto the pile of book bags on the floor. There are no mothers or fathers lingering around in here. I don’t know the other drop-off parents. I know some of the kids’ names and might know which parent belongs to which kid. Like that woman is Hilary’s mom. Most are flying in and flying out, no time for small talk. Without knowing much about any of them, I relate to these parents completely.
The only parent I know at Before the Bell by name is Heidi, Ben’s mom, who is on her way out as well. Always in scrubs and purple Crocs, Heidi is some kind of nurse. I know her name because Ben and Charlie are friends, because she sometimes drops Charlie home after soccer, and because she has an approachable energy and a sincere smile that has many times in the last year communicated a world of empathy.
I have kids, too. I know.
I have a job, too. I know.
I’m running late, too. I know.
I know.
“How are you?” Heidi asks as we make our way down the hallway.
“Good, you?”
“Good. I haven’t seen you with Linus in a while. He must be getting so big.”
“Oh my God, Linus!”
Without offering any explanation, I sprint away from Heidi down the hall, out of the school, and down the front steps to my running car, which, thank God, is still there. I can hear poor Linus wailing before I even touch the door.
Bunny is on the floor, and the DVD is sitting idle on the menu screen, but my mother’s ears and heart know his cry isn’t about a stuffed lovie or a red Muppet. Once the video ended and Linus came out of its magical trance, he must’ve realized he was trapped and alone in the car. Abandoned. The number one primal fear for any baby his age is abandonment. His red face and hairline are soaked with tears.
“Linus, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
I unbuckle him as fast as I can while he screams. I pick him up, hug him, and rub his back. He smears a gob of snot onto the collar of my shirt.
“Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”
It’s not working. In fact, the intensity and volume of his sobs are escalating. He’s not willing to forgive me so easily, and I don’t blame him one bit. But if I can’t console him, I might as well get him to day care. I pin his distraught body back into the car seat, place Bunny on his lap, hit Play on the DVD player, and drive while he screams murder to Sunny Horizons.
I hand a still-heaving Linus, Bunny, and diaper bag over to one of the day care assistant teachers, a kind young Brazilian woman new to Sunny Horizons.
“Linus, shhh, you’re okay. Linus, please, honey, you’re okay,” I say, trying one last time to convince him. I hate to leave him like this.
“He’ll be fine, Mrs. Nickerson. It’s better if you just go.”
Back in the car, I exhale. Finally, I’m on my way to work. The clock on the dash reads 7:50. I’m going to be late. Again. Clenching my teeth and the steering wheel, I pull out of Sunny Horizons and start rummaging through my bag for my phone.
My bag is embarrassingly huge. Depending on where I am and whom I’m with, it functions as a briefcase, a pocketbook, a diaper bag, or a backpack. Wherever I am and whomever I’m with, I feel like a Sherpa carrying this thing. As I grope around for the phone, I touch my laptop, crayons, pens, my wallet, lipstick, keys, Goldfish crackers, a juice box, business cards, tampons, a diaper, receipts, Band-Aids, a Handi Wipes container, a calculator, and folders stuffed with papers. I do not touch my phone. I upend the bag, dumping the contents onto the passenger seat, and look for it.
Where the heck is it? I have about five minutes to find it. I’m aware that my eyes are spending significantly more time on my passenger seat and floor than on the road. The guy gunning past me on the right is flipping me off. And talking on his phone.
I suddenly see it, but it’s in my mind’s eye. On the kitchen table. Crap, crap, crap! I’m on the Mass Pike, about twenty minutes from work. I think for a second about where I could get off and find a pay phone. But then I think, Do pay phones even exist anymore? I can’t remember the last time I saw one anywhere. Maybe I could stop in a CVS or a Starbucks. Some nice person there would probably lend me their phone. For a minute. Sarah, your meeting is for the next hour. Just get there.
As I race like a NASCAR driver on crack, I try crystallizing my notes for this meeting in my head, but I’m having trouble concentrating. I can’t think. It isn’t until I pull into the Prudential garage that I realize my thoughts are competing with Linus’s video.
Elmo wants to learn more about families.
CHAPTER 3
I am sitting in the front row of the Wang Theatre, just to the right of center. I check my watch and look up again, stretching my neck, searching the faces of the densely crowded aisles for Bob. A small elderly woman walks toward me. At first I think the woman must want to tell me something important, but then I realize that she’s eyeing the empty seat to my left.
“This seat’s taken,” I say, placing my hand on it.
“Is someone sitting here?” the woman asks, her brown eyes murky and confused.
“Someone will be.”
“Huh?”
“SOMEONE WILL BE.”
“I won’t be able to see if I don’t sit in front.”
“Sorry, someone’s sitting here.”
The old woman’s muddy eyes suddenly turn lucid and piercing.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
A man two rows back gets up from his seat and heads up the aisle, maybe to go to the men’s room. The old woman notices this and leaves me alone.
I touch the collar of my snakeskin coat. I don’t want to take it off. It’s nippy in the theatre, and I feel beautiful in it. But I don’t want someone to steal Bob’s seat. I check my watch and my ticket. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Where is Bob? I take off my coat and save Bob’s seat with it. A chill slithers up the base of my back to my shoulders. I rub my bare arms.
I search for Bob again but soon get taken in by the magnificence of the theatre—the regal red velvet curtains, the towering columns, the Greek and Roman marble statues. I look up. The ceiling is open air, a breathtaking view of the night sky. While I am still enchanted with the stars above my head, I feel the subtle weight of a shadow fall upon my face. I expect to see Bob, but instead it’s Richard, my boss. He tosses my coat to the floor and plops down next to me.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” he says.
“Of course I’m here. I’m so excited to see the show.”
“Sarah, the show is over. You missed it.”
What? I look back at all the people standing in the aisles and see only the backs of their heads. Everyone is leaving.
T U E S D A Y
It’s 3:30, and I have a half hour, the first gap of the day, before my next meeting. I begin eating the chicken Caesar salad my assistant ordered me for lunch as I return a call to the office in Seattle. While I’m chewing lettuce and the phone is ringing, I start skimming the emails that have accumulated in my inbox. The managing director picks up and asks me to brainstorm with him about who of our four thousand consultants would be available and best suited for an information technology project coming in next week. I talk to him while I alternately type responses to a number of emails from the UK about performance evaluations and eat.
I can’t remember when I learned how to have two completely different professional conversations going at once. I’ve been doing it
for a long time, and I know it’s not an ordinary skill, even for a woman. I’ve also mastered the ability to type and click without making a sound, so the person on the other end of the conversation isn’t distracted, or worse, offended. To be fair, I choose to answer only the emails that are no-brainers, the ones that just need my yay or nay, while on the phone. It feels a little like having a split personality. Sarah talks on the phone while her crazy alter ego types. At least the two of me are working as a team.
I’m the vice president of human resources at Berkley Consulting. Berkley has about five thousand employees in seventy offices located in forty countries. We offer strategic advice to companies all over the world in all industries—how to innovate, compete, restructure, lead, brand, merge, grow, sustain, and, above all, make money. Most of the consultants who work to deliver this advice have business degrees, but many are scientists, lawyers, engineers, and medical doctors. They are all extremely bright, know how to think analytically, and excel at finding creative solutions to complex problems.
They are also mostly young. Consultants at Berkley typically work where the client is. The consultants for any given project can be based anywhere in the world, but if the client is a pharmaceutical company in New Jersey, then that is where the consulting team will live for the duration of the project. So for twelve weeks, a consultant from our office in London, staffed on this case because of his medical background, will live Mondays through Thursdays in a hotel in Newark.
This lifestyle is workable for the young and single, and for a while, even the young and married, but add a few years and a couple of kids, and living out of a carry-on starts to get old fast. The burnout rate is high. That poor guy from London is going to miss his wife and kids. Berkley can throw more and more money at him to keep him, but at some point for most people, it’s not enough to make it worth the toll this job takes on families. The few consultants who persevere beyond five years go on to become managing directors. Anyone still standing after ten years becomes a partner and, as a result, extremely wealthy. Almost all are men. And divorced.