Life, Libby, and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Hope Lyda

  With my perfect cup of coffee and a lighter spirit, I retrieved my emails and opened up the drafts of letters from Blaine and started to rewrite them. Only when I heard the sound of the squeaky mail cart did I remember the bag of items that needed to be shipped to Cecilia. I reached for yesterday’s Seattle Times that lay under a stack of folders. Quickly I wrapped each item in a sheet or two of the paper. Usually I’d have the warehouse prep and package items before mailing them, but I knew better than to have anyone other than me see these contents. Thankfully, Cecilia had a PO Box set up so I didn’t have an incriminating address with a line referencing “Recovery Ward No. 7” in it. Roger was passing by my cubicle doorway with the cart. I flagged him down.

  “Catch me before you head up another flight?”

  “We coulda wrapped that.”

  “It’s last minute. You know how bosses can be.”

  Roger shrugged with indifference. “Suit yourself.”

  “Five minutes. That’s all I need.”

  The squeak started up again. I looked around for something to use as the mailer. I reached for a few large bubble wrap envelopes but the crystal perfume bottle would never survive. Then my foot bumped against the Nike box under my desk. I started keeping a pair of walking shoes there after I noticed none of my pants were fitting well around the waist anymore. I bent over and felt the roll of stomach edge over the belt of my slacks, and I noticed how pristine these shoes looked. I grunted over the direct correlation and dumped the clean contents out to make room for Cecilia’s odd list of possessions.

  I kept my ears alert for the sound of unoiled wheels. Everything fit into the box, and I placed the envelopes on top and closed the lid. A couple rounds of clear packaging tape secured it and a quick handwritten label slapped on top would do. It looked like graffiti mail. I stood up and looked around for Roger, who was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Roger?” I asked. Something I was starting to like about cubicle land was the fact that you could toss out most any comment and get an answer.

  Rachel responded to me this time. “Roger went upstairs.”

  “Geez. Am I so unforgettable?” Then I was reminded why cubicle land was so annoying.

  “Your hot rocker sure didn’t forget you. What a hotty!” Marsha interjected.

  I called up to Leila, one of the few human resources people from the days of old who survived the merger, and asked her to send Roger back down. I returned to the letters. I was getting close to the end of the list and was glad for it. An entire morning had been spent spewing cordial corporate blah blah. All the names and letters were about the same. My eyes were crossing.

  And then I saw a name I knew. And I didn’t know it from the white label on a manila folder—Paulo Carrera. On the email message for this letter, Blaine wrote: You’ll have to research this address information. Get a file started on Paulo and send him a letter of introduction from me. Cecilia had some info on him, and it seems as though he is a serious candidate as a client.

  No research was required. I had Paulo’s address at my fingertips. Well, and taped in a Nike box. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. Dare I open these envelopes and find out more? It was a bit bizarre that while Blaine was considering pursuing Mr. Carrera, Cecilia was receiving mail at her home address from the same man. Now I heard the edgy groan of hard plastic wheels stretching their circumference over the wood floor planks and the occasional runner secured with double-backed tape. Tape! I grabbed my scissors, edged along the box lid, and removed the letters. I couldn’t mail these to her until I knew more about this strange connection.

  Roger stood outside my cubicle leaning against the cart and sighing heavily.

  “Sorry,” I said as I quickly retaped the box. When I handed it over to him, there were ribbons of tape stuck to itself and winging out around the edges. I tried to push them down while he held the box, but I gave up when he looked up at me from beneath the bill of his baseball cap and closed his eyes with exasperation.

  “Done. I’m done. Thanks, Roger.”

  He gave me a slight wave and tossed the box in the bottom of an empty metal bin. I cringed and hoped the perfume bottle survived the journey.

  One aspect of my faith I was no longer denying was that most coincidences were really much more. Why would Blaine be courting Paulo as a possible client? I hated to do this, but it seemed to be my only choice.

  I cleared my throat. “Marsha?”

  Silence.

  “Marsha?”

  I saw the fluff of bangs followed by the entire round face of Marsha above the cubicle wall. Her face was flushed and her eyes were wide. I had completely forgotten about the charade Rachel and I had played out moments before. Apparently she had bought it. I’d have to correct that, but right now I had some research to do.

  “I hate to ask this of you…but I need a favor.” I held up the envelopes, careful to cover up Paulo’s name. I didn’t even need to explain, to ask, to provide detailed information. Marsha knew exactly what I was asking.

  Moments later we were standing over the coffeemaker. Marsha had the envelopes in her hand and angled just above the brewing basket. A new, full pot had been made, but she disposed of that while pretending it was an old batch of house blend. We started another round and let the steam rise up and do its job on the envelopes. I actually had thought this was a pretty old-fashioned trick for today’s corporate snoop, but the coffeepot rather than a brewing pot of tea lent itself to a more urban feel of espionage.

  “I heard the Mariners have quite a team this year,” Marsha said loudly. I looked around in hopes of seeing nobody. I thought Marsha was a pro. The two of us chatting loudly about sports was hardly a perfected decoy conversation.

  I tried to bring it back to reality. “I don’t know much about sports, Marsha. Are the Mariners better than last year?”

  She seemed pleased by this response. “Definitely. We should go to a game together. You’d be surprised how fun it is.” Marsha looked at her temporary possessions, which were opening beautifully. So I did too.

  “Most definitely.”

  “I just made coffee,” Tara said from behind us.

  Marsha looked startled and about to break character as an avid sports fan, so I reached for the now open envelopes and quickly headed to the copier room. When I was sure that nobody was coming down the hall, I quickly removed the letters and placed them on the glass. The scan of light flashed side to side. I retrieved the copied pages and placed the originals back in the envelopes. Back at my desk, I used rubber cement to reseal the originals and then slipped them along with the copies in to my coat pocket.

  My computer monitor beeped, alerting me it was time to call Cecilia.

  “What do you know,” she answered with a voice swagger, “the girl can tell time.”

  I wanted to say “I can shout your name right now. I can put you on conference call with Ken’s office.” Instead I asked, “Has the situation changed? Do you not need my services anymore?”

  She cleared her throat as if considering this carefully. “I do need you. Do you have the package ready to send?”

  “The package or the package? Because there was a package I picked up a few days ago at the airport…”

  “You know what I meant. Unfortunately there is no time to correct your mistake with the scarf and sunglasses. These will do.”

  “Am I really going to have to ask how you know about my mistake?”

  “I have surveillance cameras that are triggered when someone enters my apartment. I had them installed in case my help should decide to help themselves. I asked the security company to alert me of any suspicious activity. I forgot to mention that you’d be picking up items for me, so they notified me that you were…stealing.”

  “Stealing!” I shouted. “Please tell me you clarified this!”

  “Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t steal from any high-end department stores for a while. I use the same security company they do.”

  “If you were me
, there wouldn’t be a nanny cam installed to watch my ‘help.’”

  “The package is going ‘next day,’ right? You got everything…the crystal, the scarf, the letters?” Cecilia lingered on the last word as if to imply insignificance, but instead she gave away the importance of the letters.

  I looked over at my coat and saw the edge of the envelopes and the copied pages poking out of the pocket. “The package is going out overnight.”

  “You might suggest to Rachel that she let up on eating my imported nut mix. I saw her replace a third of the can with Planters. As if I wouldn’t know generic.”

  “Technically, Planters wouldn’t be considered generic.”

  Click.

  Thirty-Three

  The scents of broccoli and ginger revived my sense of hunger. I’d downed several cups of coffee on an empty stomach. I went from feeling queasy to wondering if the plant in the foyer was edible as I waited for my family at the restaurant. Mom and Cass had probably argued about whether to take the van or negotiate public transportation, Mom being on the side of public transport and Cass being on the side of getting to the restaurant before closing.

  I glanced around in case anyone from work was dining here. It was a futile effort since bamboo screens divided the tables and booths from the waiting area. Nobody except the smiling hostess with her hair up in chopsticks could witness the reading of stolen letters. I removed the copied sheets from my pocket and picked away several pieces of red lint—leftover from mittens I owned two years ago.

  I skimmed the dates and selected the earliest written one. It was handwritten by Paulo but sent from his law office.

  My Cecilia,

  It had been much too long since we last spoke. I was afraid that our last time together in Brazil had left you unwilling to communicate with me. I’ve missed you and your beautiful smile. Hearing your voice on the phone brought back many tender memories.

  When I imagine the curve of your lips, I think of the dewy petals of the crimson lilies on our private balcony in the winter of 2000.

  Well, he should be thinking of collagen.

  How delighted I am that we can put our heartache behind us and work together on this venture. What we have in common is that neither of us trusts more than a few confidants, a small circle of those who have proven their loyalty. And now this common trait will serve us well as we trust one another and increase our mutual and independent interests—my success with the biggest lawsuit ever to come out of the music industry and your entry into celebrity PR as an immediate star with the bank accounts and bankable reputations of my clients in your capable, lovely hands.

  We’re both in to win. For this I’m grateful. Already there is much in motion. Now that we’ve located the property, you must establish a series of delays that will buy us the time we need to sign on the dotted line. Communicate as soon as you’ve made contact.

  Let us be as united in business as we are in spirit.

  Paulo

  Paulo was some letter writer. He was Cecilia’s opposite. He drew his prey into his lair with sweet words and enticements. Cecilia roped them in with curses and threats.

  A small bell jingled as the door opened. I smelled my mother’s perfume and reluctantly put the letters away. I couldn’t wait to read the second one—I was hooked on this like Marsha with a Harlequin in hand.

  I hugged Nate first. “I miss you,” I whispered into his ear.

  He held me at arm’s length after our hug and said, “We miss you, kid.”

  “So what are we getting?” I asked my usual.

  “Everything…and then some with dim sum,” Dad said to complete the routine.

  We always ordered family style, which was my favorite way. This translated into lots of leftovers. I wondered if Hudson was finishing off the leftover fried chicken from Levi today for lunch. Last night when I had returned from Cecilia’s place, he had presented me with a foil chicken containing three wings, my favorites. “This ain’t no swan,” I had said, mocking his creation. He had responded, “I worked at a mini-mart, remember.”

  After reading the letter from Paulo, I was pretty certain Cecilia was trying to line up even more big-name clients to save her job. I wondered if any attention was really being spent on Hudson’s situation. Was she using all of her time at the SOS making sure she had a place to jump should she fail to complete this mission? Was I prepared to jump if she failed to complete this mission?

  “How’s the job?” Dad asked me. We were sitting at a round table so everyone could see everyone else’s expression. Mom thought this best for the meal’s purpose.

  I knew this was actually Dad’s way to warm up the group for the main event. We would dine on appetizers of rice wraps and egg rolls and tidbits of my life, and when Nate and Cass were relaxed, Mom would check her watch and begin her session at an exact quarter hour moment.

  “It’s becoming interesting.”

  Everyone raised their eyebrows, surprised to hear me use the word interesting in a sentence describing my demotion.

  “How so?” Nate asked with genuine support. I smiled over at him warmly. I’d been trying to send him comforting looks since he came through the door.

  “Well, my responsibilities keep expanding. The atmosphere is actually better in the office these days. After the loss of some employees and the coming aboard of some others, everyone has settled into a content, focused mind-set.”

  “And your boss?” Cass said with a bit of tease in her voice.

  I smiled broadly. I could feel air on all my front teeth. “He gives me room to grow and space to be responsible. It’s a nice feeling.”

  “That is a huge compliment. Often the new guy, especially one in charge, is reluctant to give over that kind of freedom,” Nate responded. “Believe me, I see the opposite in the military all the time. Blaine, did you say? He must really trust you.”

  Hearing it put this way took my breath away for a moment. “I hadn’t thought…”

  “It’s important for a family to understand what each other is going through. Often we get caught up in our own lives and cannot discern our own messes or successes because our vision is shortsighted or is blurred by the impact of our emotions.”

  And the clock struck 12:30.

  I folded my hands in my lap and stared down at them. I wasn’t hurt by the transition because I had expected it. My mind was lost in Nate’s comment combined with Mom’s introductory speech. I’d been letting my emotions direct me for a long time, and now was no different. But what was different? Before I had wanted to please everyone because I expected something in exchange. I wanted fairness and freedom. And here I was working for a guy who was offering me those things and I still wasn’t happy. So what was it?

  I sat here with my life coach father and psychiatrist mother and knew I needed help they couldn’t offer. “Would you excuse me?” I stood up, interrupting my mother and the waiter who was displaying a platter of fried rice.

  “Libby?” Cass was worried I was exiting before the main discourse arrived.

  “Forgot to make a call for work. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Not waiting for reprimand or the chance for Cass to plead for me to stay, I dashed out the door with my cell phone in hand. Thank goodness it was now charged. Pulling up the contact list, I pressed a button and started pacing along the sidewalk.

  “Please be there. God, please let her…”

  “Hello?” Aunt Maddie answered.

  “Thank goodness. I need you to help me figure something out.”

  “Libby? Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I mean, I don’t know. I thought I was doing pretty well, but then I had this weird feeling as though I was missing something big in my life.”

  “Back up. What triggered this?” Maddie did share my mother’s ability to be matter of fact when a situation required it.

  “Do you have time? What time is it there?”

  “Just after ten. You’re fine. Shoot.”

  “Nate mentioned how Blaine, my n
ew boss, trusted me. And then Mom was talking about how our emotions often cloud our ability to see our own problems or circumstances.”

  “Okay.”

  I was in the middle of downtown Seattle with shoppers, lunchgoers, and street kids walking all around me. I barely noticed them. “Well, I thought about how before this demotion I had really wanted my situation to be fair. I wanted someone to recognize my hard work and honor me for it. And I wanted freedom—to see you, to see the world, to see a paycheck that allowed me to afford my apartment. Those things.”

  “Ah.”

  “What’s the ‘ah’ for? I haven’t even explained the problem.”

  “But you have, my dear. The frustration in your voice speaks volumes about your heart right now.”

  “What’s it saying?”

  “That ‘more’ we talked about—you are so close to it, Libby. I can feel it all the way from here. Tell me…do you now have these things?”

  “I have versions of them, except the travel, but I’m working on it. Or at least I thought I was. Now I wonder if something else is at play here.”

  “You are your mother’s daughter!” Aunt Maddie squealed.

  I stopped to lean against the outside of a Pottery Barn. “Don’t say that.”

  “Your mother is not in the business of giving advice because she wants to control people. Although, I think that is a side benefit, between you and me.”

  I laughed.

  “She has wisdom. And you, Libby, have wisdom. The beautiful thing is that you understand you need God’s wisdom to get to that place of fulfillment. Your mother’s rejected that, but I’m hopeful. That’s another conversation. The other thing at play is what keeps you from all of it—faith, happiness, a sense of self, and contentment.”

  I looked up across the street and saw a sign promoting shock therapy. A bolt of understanding went through my own mind. I could barely get it out. “Fear?”

  “Well, you’d sure be abnormal if that wasn’t it. Do you know why you’re afraid or what of?”

  “I’m afraid that God is like the people around me. I’ll trust the process of faith and be let down just like I’ve been at work and in love. Or I’ll misread God, like I’ve done with my friends lately. What if I give everything over and I’m no better off?”