This Was Not the Plan

by Cristina Alger

  “That’s really not how I remember it.”

  “I think she’s still in therapy.”

  “I wasn’t ready to date. I told you that.”

  “Are you on any medication, Mr. Goldwyn?” Dr. Fabio asks. “Do you take anything to sleep, or for anxiety, depression, anything like that?”

  “No. I mean, I take Tylenol PM sometimes to sleep,” I say, thinking of the three pills that I habitually swallow every night. “I know that’s not good for me, but it’s only occasional.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Use drugs?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you drink alcohol?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean, most people do, don’t they?”

  “How often would you say you drink? Once or twice a week?”

  “A bit more than that.”

  “Every day?”

  “About.”

  “How many drinks would you say?”

  “I don’t know.” I sigh impatiently. “I’m not, like, a boozehound or anything. I go to a lot of client dinners. And office parties. Everyone drinks at those parties, right?”

  “Have you ever met with a psychiatrist or a counselor of any kind?”

  “No. Why, do I seem unbalanced or something?”

  “Not even after your wife’s passing?”

  “No. I work. I don’t have time to lie around on a couch and talk about my feelings.”

  Dr. Fabio doesn’t respond. He keeps scribbling and scribbling like some kind of profiler for the FBI. I sit up and crane my neck, but it’s fruitless: the clipboard is too far away, and anyway, I can’t read upside down.

  “Any family history of depression or anxiety?”

  “No. My mother was one of the happiest people I’ve ever met. She genuinely loved life.”

  “She was a little depressed at the end,” Zadie says quietly. “I mean, who wouldn’t be?”

  I clear my throat. Zadie’s words hang uncomfortably in the air, a reminder that it was her, not me, who cared for our mother in her final days.

  “Anyone else you can think of? Your father? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”

  “No.”

  “Actually . . .” Zadie bites her lip.

  “What?”

  “Well, Dad has panic attacks.” She refuses to look at me as she says this. Instead, she stares at her hands, like she’s just testified against me on the stand. “Or he used to, anyway. He took something for it. Xanax, I think.”

  “How do you even know that?” I say, annoyed.

  “I don’t know. Mom must’ve told me.” Her voice quavers.

  “Dad’s issues have nothing to do with me.”

  “He’s asking questions, Charlie,” Zadie sighs. “I’m just trying to be honest. Depression and anxiety can be genetic, you know.”

  “I’m not depressed!” I practically shout. “I just had a bad fucking day!”

  “Okay,” Dr. Fabio intervenes. “Mr. Goldwyn, could you tell me what you were doing at the onset of this attack? Where you were, who you were with, how you were feeling? Please be as specific as you can.”

  “I was, uh, in a meeting at the office. With, um, three partners and the head of Human Resources.”

  “And how were you feeling at this meeting?”

  “Pretty stressed, I guess. It was a stressful meeting.”

  “Can you be more specific? Walk me through what happened.”

  “Well, the meeting ended, and I stood up and felt a pain shooting up my arm. Like I had acid in my veins. And suddenly the room felt very hot and I couldn’t breathe. I was sweating, but no one else seemed to notice. And the pain in my arm kept getting worse and worse. It was like an elephant on my chest, just crushing me. My heart was beating so hard, I thought it was going to explode. And then . . .” I trail off, remembering Lauren’s breasts swinging towards me like twin wrecking balls.

  “And then?” Dr. Fabio prompts. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “That’s it. That’s all I remember.”

  Dr. Fabio turns back to his clipboard, writing. Finally, he rips a piece of paper off it and hands it to me. “Mr. Goldwyn, this is the name of a colleague of mine. Dr. Harris is a clinical psychiatrist as well as a grief therapist. She’s very good. I’m going to recommend that you go see her, the sooner the better.”

  Zadie nods enthusiastically. “I think that’s a great idea,” she declares. She snatches the paper out of the doctor’s hands and slips it into her purse as though I can’t be trusted with it.

  “In the meantime, it’s essential that you relax. Rest as much as you can. Is it possible for you to take a small break from work? Perhaps a few days?”

  “No problem there,” I say, though neither Zadie nor Dr. Fabio picks up on the sarcasm in my voice. They exchange satisfied glances.

  “Terrific,” Dr. Fabio says. “And please do call Dr. Harris as soon as you are able. She isn’t taking new patients right now, but I’ll put in a call to make sure she’ll see you. She’s a close, personal friend of mine.”

  I’ll bet she is, I think as he offers me a wink.

  • • •

  “Well, he’s great,” Zadie says once the doctor is gone.

  “That guy? He looks like he should be wearing a pirate shirt on the cover of a romance novel.”

  Zadie makes a face. “Why do you always get so weird about therapy?”

  “What? When have I ever gotten weird about therapy?”

  “Um, every single time someone brings it up. Remember that woman who kept bringing over casseroles to check up on you? Catherine Klatsky or something? She mentioned that she had a great therapist, and it was like game over for you. You pushed her out the door and didn’t stop making fun of her for weeks.”

  “Who’s Catherine Klatsky? Oh, right, Crazy Eyes Klatsky. The one with the seventeen cats and the, you know . . .” I cross my eyes for effect.

  “Yes,” Zadie says, annoyed. “So fine, she’s just the slightest bit cross-eyed. She’s still very pretty.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Zadie closes her eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Catherine Klatsky is beside the point, Charlie.”

  “You think? I don’t even know what we’re talking about.”

  “I’m just trying to understand why you’re so resistant to the idea of therapy. You don’t have to just power through everything. You have to allow yourself to grieve.”

  “Maybe this is how I grieve. Maybe focusing on work is what makes me feel better. Not everyone grieves in the same way, you know.”

  “I’m not really sure pretending it didn’t happen is a sustainable strategy. Grief is like that, Charlie. You can’t just ignore it. It manages to seep out in other ways. Look at today, for example. Look where you are right now.”

  “What, this?” I say, pointing to my hospital gown. “This has absolutely nothing to do with Mira.”

  Zadie raises one skeptical eyebrow. “You know what I think?” she says.

  “What do you think, Zadie?”

  “I think you are still blaming yourself for Mira’s death. That’s what I think. And it’s eating you alive.”

  “Well, she should have never gotten on that plane. So, yes, I do blame myself for that.”

  Zadie winces and looks away.

  “But this has nothing to do with that.” I pause, take a deep breath. “I got fired today.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I. GOT. FIRED. TO. DAY.”

  Zadie’s mouth actually falls open.

  “Holy crap, Charlie,” she says. “Are you serious?”

  “Thanks for those kind and inspiring words of support.”

  Suddenly her arms are around me, squeezing me so hard it hurts. Without warning, I start to cry.

  Not manly tears, either.

  A full-blown, snot-filled sobfest.

  As I blubber on, Zadie strokes my head the way our mom used to do when I was a kid. Unlike Zadie and Mom, who were both passionat
e and emotional and highly in touch with their feelings, I never cried about anything. So when I did, they both knew it was a very big deal.

  It’s only when I calm down enough to listen to what Zadie is saying that my crying momentarily turns into laughter.

  “Holy shit, Charlie,” she says. “I think that might be the best goddamn news I’ve heard all week.”

  The Other Charlie Goldwyn

  I was just a few months into my tenure at Hardwick when the other Charlie Goldwyn joined the firm.

  I was a lowly first year associate. He was fifty-six and already a partner. He had been a rainmaker at his previous firm, Graves & LaSalle. Hardwick had reputedly wooed him away with a multimillion-dollar bonus and the promise of a corner office.

  “He wants your e-mail address,” Fred told me, in a voice that left no room for negotiation. “It’s going to be a huge pain in the ass for you. But it’s what he wants, so it’s what we’re going to do. What’s your middle name?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “That’s too bad.” Fred shook his head, like I had really let him down on this one. “I was going to say you should just start going by it.”

  “You want me to change my name?”

  “Just, you know, professionally. But at the very least you’ll need to give up your e-mail address.”

  “So if he’s Charlie Goldwyn at Hardwick dot com, what will that make me?”

  Fred shrugged. “How the fuck should I know?” he said, exasperated. “Ask someone in Tech.”

  The logistics of having two Charlie Goldwyns at one firm turned out to be nightmarishly complicated. The switchboard was forever mixing up our calls. The front desk regularly sent clients to the wrong office. At least sixty percent of my e-mails ended up in the other Charlie’s in-box. Internally, people started referring to me as “Associate Charlie Goldwyn,” or, more irritatingly, “Chuck.” One morning I arrived at my office to find that a new nameplate had been affixed to the door. Instead of “Charlie Goldwyn,” it now read “Charlie Goldwyn, Ass.” I took a photo and texted it to Moose. Then I called Lauren Hatchfelder and told her that everyone had a line and mine had officially been crossed.

  Lauren was, of course, mortified, and the sign was taken down within the hour. Still, my friends couldn’t resist knocking on my door and inquiring whether or not Charlie Goldwyn, Ass., was available. By noon the joke had gotten old.

  “Fuck off, Moose! I’m working!” I shouted, after the third knock in an hour.

  There was a long pause. Finally a soft female voice said, “Hello? May I come in?”

  A woman in jean shorts and flip-flops poked her head into my office. She had wild white-blond hair and wore a tank top that kept sliding off her shoulder. In one hand she carried a purple thermos. She offered me a nervous smile. When she waved, I noticed a tattoo of a bird on the inside of her wrist.

  “Hi,” she said, “I’m Mira.”

  “I’m so sorry, please come in. I thought you were someone else.”

  “You thought I was a moose?” she said, looking bemused.

  “Moose is a friend,” I said, feeling my face flush with embarrassment. “It’s just a nickname. He’s big. And from Maine.”

  She nodded and glanced around my office. “Should I sit?”

  “Yes, please.” We smiled at one another from across my desk. I opened my mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say. She was exquisitely beautiful. There was something almost otherworldly about her. Her eyes were different: one was bright blue, the other, green. Her skin was pale and clear, the color of milk. She stared at me, unflinching. Nervous, I began shuffling the papers in front of me into piles.

  “So, is he coming back soon?” she asked after a few seconds. I could feel her watching me with those incredible eyes.

  “Who? Moose?”

  “No. Charlie.”

  “I’m Charlie.”

  “What?” She frowned. “I’m looking for Charlie Goldwyn. We’re supposed to have lunch”—she checked her watch—“right now.”

  “I’m Charlie,” I said again, and then: “Oh.”

  “What?”

  “You must be looking for the other Charlie Goldwyn. There are two of us here. The front desk keeps sending guests to the wrong office. You mean Charlie Goldwyn the partner, right?”

  “I think he’s a partner,” she said. “Tall guy, silver hair? He’s my godfather.”

  “Hold on,” I said, dialing the other Charlie’s extension. “I’ll get you to the right place.”

  “What now?” he barked as a greeting. By then he was used to me calling about annoying name-related mix-ups. He always acted as though this whole thing was my fault, like it was rude for an associate to dare to have the same name as a partner.

  “Well, sir, your goddaughter is in my office. Should I send her up to you?”

  “Oh, Jesus H. Christ. Is it noon already? I’m stuck on a call on the other line. I completely forgot about lunch. Could you entertain her for twenty minutes or so? And then I’ll be down to get her. You don’t mind, do you?”

  I glanced across the desk. Mira smiled at me, revealing a dimple in her left cheek.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” Charlie said. His usual gruffness had dissipated now that I was doing him a favor. “Ask her if she doesn’t mind waiting.”

  I cupped my hand over the receiver. “He’s stuck on a call,” I whispered to Mira. “He asked if you wouldn’t mind waiting here until he’s ready.”

  “Of course not,” she replied. “As long as I’m not in your way, that is.”

  “We’re fine,” I said to Charlie. “Take your time.”

  I hung up the phone. “So,” I said.

  “So.” She smiled back.

  “Is that a bird tattoo?”

  She held up her wrist. “It is.”

  “So, what’s it, like, mean?”

  “You know . . .” she leaned in to the desk, one eyebrow raised, “that’s kind of a personal question.”

  “Oh, is it? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Yeah, in some circles, asking a stranger about her tattoo, well. It could get you killed.”

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  She giggled. “I’m just joking.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I said, feeling both relieved and embarrassed.

  “I just like birds. They’re so free. This”—she ran a thumb over her tattoo—“I guess it reminds me to be myself. That probably sounds stupid, right?”

  “Not at all. Now, if it was supposed to remind you to be someone else, that would be stupid.”

  Mira let out a surprised laugh, like she hadn’t expected me to be funny.

  She was about to say something when my phone began to ring.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to ignore it. “You were saying?”

  “No, please go ahead. Take the call.”

  “It’s okay. It’ll go to voicemail in a sec.”

  The phone fell silent. Just as I was opening my mouth, it began to ring again. Mira set down her thermos on the edge of my desk and pulled a beat-up paperback from her bag. “I’ve got a book,” she said, holding it up. “And my tea. Please, I’ll feel terrible if you let me interrupt your work.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not busy at all,” I said, though this was, of course, an enormous lie. As if on cue, the phone began to ring a third time. I leapt up to silence it and knocked Mira’s thermos over in the process.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I shouted. I snatched up a stack of depositions and flapped them wildly in the air. It was too late: the top pages of each were sopping wet.

  “Oh, jeez—here.” Mira hopped to her feet and tried to mop up the spill with a scarf that was tied around the strap of her bag. “I’m so sorry!”

  “No!” I shouted at her. “No—I mean, I didn’t mean to yell—sorry, I just don’t want you to ruin your scarf. I’m sorry about your tea.”

  “What about your desk? It’s everywhere!”


  “My desk is fine!”

  “Okay!” She widened her eyes at me. “Just stop yelling!”

  We both burst into laughter.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m a little stressed-out today.”

  “I can see that,” she said, and dropped to her knees, searching for the thermos cap under my desk. “You want to talk about it?”

  “No, just one of those days at work, you know?”

  She stood up, holding up the cap. From her blank smile I could tell she didn’t. “My work place is pretty zen,” she said almost apologetically. “I teach yoga and meditation.”

  “I love yoga,” I said, another lie. Unable to stop myself, I added: “I’ve been thinking I should try meditation, too.”

  “Really,” she said, her eyes skimming my soft waistline. “Well, I teach at a little studio in the West Village. You should stop by sometime. We have a wonderful seminar coming up, an introduction to meditation. Actually, here”—she pulled a brochure out of her bag and handed it to me—“here’s some information on it. You can sign up online.”

  “That would be terrific,” I said, giving it a quick once-over. My eyes bugged out slightly. “Wow, seven hours?”

  She laughed. “Usually the seminars are two days long. But this is just a quick introduction. Don’t look scared. If it’s too much for you, you can always do a private session instead. Those are just ninety minutes.”

  “Do you teach privates?”

  She laughed again. “Not usually. But maybe I can make an exception.”

  Just as I was about to say something witty and charming, Moose barged through my office door, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “Chuck, what a fucking day. I’m going for a smoke. You wanna come?” His eyes fell to Mira. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “This is Moose,” I explained to Mira. “Moose, Mira is the other Charlie’s goddaughter. She ended up in my office by accident.”

  “Got it. Yeah, poor Chuck here. Your godfather stole his name. This morning he ended up with a sign on his door that said—”

  “Moose, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  Moose’s eyes widened. “Oh, right, yeah, sure. Nice to meet you.”

  “Wait!” Mira said. “What did the sign say? You can’t leave me hanging like that.”