The Do-Over

by Georgia Beers

  It was impressive.

  Easton thought so every time she walked in, even after working there for over a month. She nodded to the other managers around the table and took a seat. A few minutes later, Richard Joplin, their regional manager who Easton mentally referred to as the manager of the managers, entered the room and they got down to business.

  By the time forty-five minutes had gone by, they were deep into a discussion about the negative responses of the employees.

  “You all know this is not a surprise, right?” Richard stood at the head of the conference table and looked around the room with dark eyes that seemed to take in everything, seemed to actually see each of the managers present. Easton had only met him a handful of times, but she liked him. Liked his wisdom, liked that he was business-minded but also seemed to understand people. “Xavier was successful and good to its employees. It only makes sense that they’re all feeling a little betrayed and battered. It’s only been five weeks. We need to give them some time.” He picked up the tablet he’d brought with him. “That being said…” He left the sentence dangling as he scrolled. “We’ve had some complaints.”

  Groans went around the table. Rolled eyes. Scoffs. Shaking heads. Sighs of exasperation.

  Richard held up a placating hand. “I know. I get it. And again, this is to be expected. Every one of you has received at least two grievances from your staff. Some of you, more.”

  His gaze didn’t stay on any one person, and Easton wondered how many she had. She braced.

  Instead of rattling off some of those complaints, though, he clicked off the tablet and set it back on the table before taking a seat and folding his hands neatly in front of him. “So, here’s what we’re going to do.” All the while, the eye contact remained, and he moved it slowly around the table. “We’re going to send you all to a conflict resolution class.”

  This time, they weren’t groans. They were gasps of surprise, of annoyance, of anger.

  “You’re kidding,” said Kim Banks, the customer service manager, her cheeks blooming red.

  “I’m not.” Richard’s voice remained calm and matter-of-fact. He waited them out, sitting quietly while they looked from one face to the next, grumbling their displeasure. While Easton wasn’t thrilled with the idea, she was willing to hear the explanation, which came once everybody had calmed down. “None of this is to reflect poorly on you. Not a single one of you would have been promoted to your current positions if we thought there’d be any issues. Granted, personality clashes happen, and there could conceivably be some at play here. But sending you all to this class is a show of good faith to the one hundred fifty employees we’ve taken on here. They were promised a smooth transition, and we want to make sure to keep our word.”

  “What about them?” asked Henry Deets, the traffic manager, pushing his glasses up his nose with a finger. “I mean, it’s not just us. You said so yourself.”

  Richard nodded. “They’ll be handled as well. We’ve got some things in place.” He glanced at the HR manager, and Easton realized they’d probably discussed it. Had to. “You’ve each been emailed the time and location of a conflict resolution class. I’ve put you all in the same one, figuring you can help each other out, talk about common issues. It takes place in the evening, which is an inconvenience, I know, but you’ll all be paid for your time. Once you pass the class, the instructor will send us the paperwork and you’ll be all set. Then we’ll have a company-wide meeting to let everybody know the steps we’ve taken.”

  Each of them was on his or her phone, scrolling to the email, muttering. Richard gave them a moment before asking if there were questions. Then he ended the meeting.

  The rest of the afternoon went by in a blur of phone calls, emails, and side-eyes from a couple of her staff, and it wasn’t until she was in her car and on her way to pick up Emma from after-school day care that she had time to actually think about what had transpired.

  “Conflict resolution, huh?” she said aloud as she sat at a red light and rolled it around in her brain. Despite the fact that it would be inconvenient and time consuming for the managers, it would show the Xavier-now-Hart employees that their new bosses were listening. It was a smart move in an attempt to promote harmony between the new and old factions of the company. Easton got that. It didn’t thrill her, but she understood the motive behind it. She would go. She would listen. She would pass. And that would be that. She’d only given the email a quick glance, but she saw that it was a six-week course, one hour for six Wednesday nights starting next week. And she’d get paid. Wednesday through Saturday morning were Emma’s days with her father, so at least Easton wouldn’t need to find a sitter.

  She parked in the Denby Day Care parking lot and got out, pulling her light jacket tighter around her and wishing she’d worn the heavier one. The weather in late April was hit or miss, and today, she’d missed.

  “Mommy!” The cry that Easton lived for. A seven-year-old blond torpedo shot across the room and wrapped its arms around her thighs.

  Easton squatted, took her daughter’s face in her hands, pushed her hair out of the way so she could see those huge blue eyes. “Hi, baby,” she said, and kissed Emma’s forehead. “I missed you.” She said it every day. Every day, it was true.

  “Look!” Nearly everything Emma said sounded like it had an exclamation point on the end, and she held up a piece of red construction paper with some other colors glued to it.

  “Did you make that?” Easton asked as she took it and scrutinized it like an art dealer.

  Emma nodded vigorously as one of the day care aides approached them with a smile. “Hi, Mrs. Evans,” she said warmly.

  “It’s Ms. Evans.” Easton smiled as she corrected the aide for what felt like the millionth time. “But call me Easton. Please.”

  “Can I have a word with you before you go?”

  “Sure,” Easton replied with a nod, and told Emma to get her things together.

  “Let’s go in here.” The aide led her into an empty office and closed the door behind them.

  Oh, this can’t be good. Easton kept smiling.

  ***

  As soon as Easton opened the front door of her house, Emma blew past her, dropping all her kid crap on the floor as she did, and was through the kitchen heading toward the family room where all her toys were.

  “Um, no. Get back here, young lady.” When there was no response, she raised the volume. “Right now, Emma!” Easton was not a woman accustomed to raising her voice. It wasn’t done in her family (probably because nobody talked about anything emotional…at all) and it simply wasn’t something she had experience with.

  Until Emma was able to walk.

  It started slowly, maybe raising the volume a notch or two here and there. And then Emma turned four and it went up another notch. At five, Easton wondered if all kids instantly went deaf, as Emma didn’t even turn to look at her most of the time. And seven?

  God. Seven was killing her.

  “Emma Catherine Douglas, come here, please.” Easton rolled her eyes and muttered, “Yeah, because asking nicely will make all the difference.”

  It seemed like another ten minutes went by and Easton had to force herself not to chase Emma down instead. Shondra was always on her about that. “Don’t give her the power. You’re the mom here. You’re the boss.” Easy to hear. Hard to enact. Finally, Emma came trudging back to the entryway, casually brushing the hot pink mane on one of her My Little Ponies.

  “What is going on with you?” Easton asked, her voice calmer.

  Emma continued to brush as she lifted one small shoulder in a half shrug.

  Easton squatted to be on the same level. “Sweetie.” She put her hand gently over Emma’s brushing hand to get her attention and waited until Emma’s big blue eyes met hers. “You’re a big girl now, and you know how to share toys. You can’t be snatching them out of other kids’ hands. You can’t be mean like that. You know better.”

  “I don’t like her,” Emma said, so so
ftly Easton barely heard.

  “Who?”

  “Millie.”

  “Is that the other girl?”

  Emma nodded, working the pout hard by sticking out her bottom lip.

  “Why don’t you like her?”

  Emma looked off into the room as if searching for the right words. “’Cuz she thinks she’s better than everybody. She’s always talking about her stuff, how her toys are better than the stupid ones there.”

  Easton rolled her lips in, not wanting to smile at the tone of grave injustice Emma was using. Instead, she nodded with understanding.

  “So, I told her to go play with her own toys then.” Emma went back to brushing her pony.

  “And you took the one she had.”

  Emma gave one very satisfied nod.

  “Emma.” When she kept her focus on the toy, Easton gently took her chin and turned her face to look at her. “You know that was wrong. Don’t you?” Using her best Mom Look of Intensity (tm Shondra), she waited.

  Emma finally sighed. “Yeah.”

  “And you’re not going to do it again?”

  “Ugh! Fine.” Emma groaned then, making it sound like Easton had asked her to eat nothing but vegetables for a week. Without waiting for more discussion, she turned on her little heel and stalked back toward the family room.

  Easton stood up with a sigh. Being a parent was the single most rewarding and frustrating thing she’d ever taken on in life, and she often wondered exactly how badly she was destined to screw up her daughter. The fear of every parent on the planet, she’d discovered.

  “All mothers think like that, honey,” Shondra would say. And she would know, being slightly older than Easton and with three kids of her own. But knowing all mothers felt the same way didn’t make feeling it any easier.

  Shaking the thought away for the time being, she took off her lightweight jacket and hung it in the coat closet. Soon she wouldn’t need it. It was still a bit cool, but May was this weekend and then summer would be on them before they knew it: Easton’s favorite season. She sifted through the pile of mail as she fantasized about the upcoming months. She loved being warm. Loved the sunshine. Loved lounging by the pool (which had been a requirement when she bought the house last fall). Loved—

  Easton swallowed hard as she stared at the big white envelope in her hand. The one with the names of four attorneys in the return address corner. She knew what it was, didn’t need to open it. Knew she should be happy about it, happy to have the failed chapter of her life finally done and over with, but… Tears welled up in her eyes and a lump of emotion sat solidly in her throat, despite her efforts to swallow it down.

  Her divorce was final.

  “Mommy, can I have Goldfish?” Emma’s words died as she stopped in front of Easton. “Are you okay?” she asked softly.

  Easton nodded, pulled herself together. “Yes. Absolutely. Mommy’s fine. You want Goldfish?”

  Emma looked unconvinced, but nodded anyway, her eyes carefully tracking Easton’s movements, watching her face. Easton could feel it even when she wasn’t looking. She might be in her terrible sevens, but Emma had always been a very emotionally tuned-in kid. She worried about Easton, and Easton knew it. And hated it. She didn’t want to add more stress to her child’s life than she already had.

  “One bowl of Goldfish crackers, coming up,” Easton said, with forced enthusiasm. She sniffed, mentally shook herself, then held her hand out to Emma and marched with her into the kitchen.

  Closing that chapter. Time to start a new one.

  That was her mantra. She used it all the time, said it aloud and in her head. But starting a new chapter was easier said than done.

  It was also terrifying.

  Chapter Two

  “Hidey ho!” Bella Hunt called out as she walked through the front door of her friend’s town house. The smell of burnt toast immediately assaulted her nostrils—a good way to be sure she was in the right place.

  “Nobody says ‘hidey ho’ but hobbits and leprechauns, Bells. And you’re small, but not that small.” Amy Steinberg smiled and wrapped her arms around Bella. Lowering her voice, she added, “Heather’s busy scorching the eggs. Be nice.”

  Bella shook her head with a grin as she took off her jacket and tossed it on Heather’s overstuffed couch. “Who burns eggs?” she whispered as she followed Amy back to the kitchen.

  “Really? Have you met our friend Heather? Sweet, funny, thinks she can cook?”

  Louder, Bella said, “Hey, you!” as Heather Simmons came into view. “What’s cookin’?”

  “Omelets. Hungry?” Heather smiled at Bella, her face a portrait of endless hope, her black apron telling everybody God’s honest truth with its screen-printed words: Dinner’s Ready When the Smoke Alarm Goes Off.

  “Starving,” Bella said, and kissed Heather on the cheek, trying not to look at the devastation in the frying pan Heather manned. “I brought bagels.” She held up a bag and stifled a laugh as Amy mouthed a silent “Thank God.”

  These were her best friends, and not a day went by when Bella didn’t thank her lucky stars for them. They’d met in college, had all been on the same floor their freshman year, all with roommates they didn’t really click with. Once they realized they shared the same psychology major, they’d decided to get a suite together their sophomore year, and the three of them had been the best of friends ever since. They’d seen each other through everything: job changes, deaths, breakups. Their lives were busy—Bella worked at a corporate wellness center, Heather was a social worker, and Amy, a school counselor—but they had brunch together every Sunday they could, and their group text was constantly active.

  Amy handed Bella a champagne flute filled with the lovely orange shade of a mimosa, then touched her own glass to it with a pretty clink.

  They worked as a team, removing plates and silverware from cabinets and drawers, each of them knowing mostly where everything was in one another’s kitchens. Amy chatted about one of her students as they set Heather’s small kitchen table and Bella put the bagels on a plate, arranged two kinds of cream cheese around it.

  “I thought you were making omelets,” Amy commented, as Heather scooped what could only have been considered scrambled eggs onto her plate.

  “Shut up and eat,” was Heather’s response.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Amy said as she glanced at Bella, who was grinning.

  “There’s cheese and green peppers and onions,” Heather said, defending her case. “All your favorite things. Eat it.”

  Bella laughed. “Wow, somebody needs more coffee.”

  “No, I need more alcohol.” Heather grabbed the third flute and sipped, punctuating it with an exaggerated “Ahhhh!” of satisfaction.

  They sat down to eat, and Heather brought up a family she’d been dealing with that involved a father dealing drugs and a mother working herself to the bone, how heartbreaking the situation was. Bella never said so, but the clients Heather’d just described were the very reason she hadn’t gone into social work. She didn’t think she could handle it, the emotional toll it would take on her. Heather didn’t look nearly as tough as she was. Bella thought she looked a bit like a ’50s housewife with her ash blond hair cut to chin length, her plump build, her penchant for floral dresses, and her perpetual smile. She was instantly likable. Endlessly optimistic and cheerful. Bella had no idea how she did it, given what she saw every day. But when you were in a bad mood or felt you’d lost hope for all humanity, spending an hour with Heather was the cure. She was the opposite of sadness and frustration, and she always had plenty of good things to say about anybody and everybody. Which was not to say she was a pushover. Far from it. Amy, a little more descriptive than necessary sometimes, liked to say Heather could put a person’s balls in a vise, turn the crank, and smile sweetly the whole time she was doing it. Bottom line was simply that Heather was the kind of person Bella wanted to be when she grew up: sweet, kind, tough as nails.

  The three of them talked. All the time. A
bout everything, good and bad, especially when it came to their work. Bounced things off each other. Everybody always remained nameless in their conversations—clients, patients, and the like—but the three women found it endlessly helpful to get the thoughts and opinions of the other two. Often, new angles or perceptions were discovered in their discussions.

  “What about you?” Amy asked as she pointed to Bella with a fork.

  Bella shrugged as she forked some well-done egg into her mouth. It didn’t taste bad at all if she didn’t eat the blackened parts. “The usual. Nothing much to report since our last brunch.” She swallowed, then recalled something. “Oh! I’m doing a conflict resolution class starting on Wednesday.”

  “Your first one,” Amy said.

  Bella nodded.

  “Do you know who’s in it?” Heather asked.

  “We were hired by a big company. Hart something. They’re sending us their entire management team, I think.”

  “Wow.” Amy sipped her mimosa. “They must be having issues if all their managers need conflict resolution.”