by Kim Hooper
I wouldn’t put it past Marni.
“I want to create relationships that last,” she said.
I held my breath.
“When I place you in a job, I want you to feel like it’s the perfect fit for you.”
I exhaled.
“That sounds great,” I said.
“First of all, I think it’s very important to perfect your interviewing skills.”
She talked slowly, like she had all the time in the world, like she used to be a hypnotist or a sex line operator.
“I’ve gone ahead and made a list of companies that I know have openings,” she said. She pulled a paper out of her notebook and handed it to me.
“Now, these positions are mostly administrative. They wouldn’t be in your exact field. But I want you to go and interview just to practice building your confidence.”
“Like fake interviews?”
“Well, if you decide the position sounds appealing, I suppose you could consider it a real interview,” she said with a sly smile.
She must have seen my confusion because she said, “It’s unorthodox, I know, but it’s the best way to practice.”
I nodded like I agreed, though I wasn’t sure I did. I glanced at the list. I didn’t recognize any of the companies.
And then:
“I know this guy,” I said, pointing to a name toward the bottom of the page.
It was Gabriel—Gabe—Walters. From college. His name was listed under a company called Berringer. His title was vice president, domestic sales.
“How funny,” Patricia said, with just the smallest of smiles, no hint of a laugh.
“I went to college with him.”
“Well, Berringer is a great company,” she said.
“What do they do?” I asked.
“Investment management.” She said it quickly, like she wanted to move on. I didn’t want to, though.
I hadn’t thought about Gabe Walters in years. He was everyone’s crush in college—and would have been my date if I hadn’t decided to spend that fateful night with Drew instead. I’d never been one to revisit the past, but the present was begging me to.
“I could do my practice interview with him,” I said.
She uncrossed her legs, her two feet side by side just so, and smoothed out her skirt.
“I would prefer you practice with employers you don’t know in order to simulate a real-life interview situation,” she said.
“Of course,” I said, feeling stupid.
Within a few minutes, she had penned stars next to two other companies on the list and said she would set up interviews with them.
“But don’t they know it’s not real? The interview?”
She looked at me like she knew so much more than I ever would.
“We don’t tell them that, no. That would defeat our purposes. We choose large corporations, corporations that have money and time to waste, companies with protocols in place saying they have to interview a certain number of candidates to be considered fair. It works out fine for all involved.”
She stood and I did the same. On my way out, she gave me a lengthy questionnaire that she said would help her determine the best work environment for “someone like you.” She said to fill it out that night and send it back to the office. At my next appointment, I’d report on how the interviews went and she would have my questionnaire analysis complete. Before I could even say thank you, she was greeting another girl in the waiting room—a girl who looked just as clueless and hopeful as me.
* * *
I opted for a strawberry ice-cream cone because it sounded right for a humid day just shy of the official start of summer. I crossed Forty-second Street to Bryant Park. All my years in the city and I’d never spent a leisurely afternoon in the park. I’d seen other people do it—sitting in chairs, at tiny round tables, on the expansive lawn. It all seemed very Parisian. Drew and I had come here once, for an outdoor fall film festival. I couldn’t remember for the life of me what had been showing. It had been right at the beginning of us, in that small and precious window of time between the night we met and the first time we had sex, when it wouldn’t have mattered what we were watching because our minds were otherwise occupied with anticipation of each other’s touch at the end of the night. I do remember that I’d brought my black cardigan, the one I always wore, and ended up tying it around my waist because it was so warm outside—still summer in early October, Indian summer, as they say.
There were several untaken chairs. They were probably occupied a few hours earlier, during the midtown lunch rush. I sat, licked my ice cream until I got to my favorite part—the soggy cone. I nibbled at it in a circle, like a neurotic woodland creature. When I finished, I balled up the napkin in my hand and leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes and turning my face toward the sun. It was one of those New York days that made me forget completely what winters were like. Selective amnesia, Marni always said. Days like this keep New Yorkers in New York.
I took out my phone and dialed Marni. No answer … just her voice telling me to leave a message. I didn’t. I’d thank her later for suggesting Patricia. I was bored enough to consider calling my mom, but I knew if I talked to her she’d just confirm that my life was a mess. I hadn’t told her I was jobless. I still hadn’t told her how bad things had gotten with Drew’s mom. It was better that way.
I looked at my watch, realized how little time had passed. I could go home, spend the rest of the day with Bruce, but I was in the city. It felt like a waste of an opportunity—to do what, I didn’t know.
I wandered up Sixth Avenue. When I was a kid, my elementary school class did a double-decker-bus tour of the city. The guide told us how Sixth Avenue became Avenue of the Americas in 1945, as requested by the mayor. Stubbornly, real New Yorkers persisted in calling it “Sixth Ave.”
I remembered there was a bar nearby, a place I’d gone to with former coworkers for a happy hour. I took a right on Forty-fourth Street and, sure enough, there was O’Malley’s. It was just what the name implied—a dirty Irish pub.
I’d never been the type to visit a bar before sundown. We’d taken clients to nice restaurants with fancy wine bars for three-hour lunches, but never to a pub like O’Malley’s. The stools at the bar were mostly empty. A big-bellied man sat by himself, his hands so large they made the tankard of beer he was clutching look miniature. He didn’t even look up when I walked in. Two guys, with ties swung over their shoulders, sat in one of the booths. Their faces were red with drunkenness. It was likely they’d had their own three-hour client lunch and then decided to ditch out on the rest of the workday. I’d done that sometimes, but I always went straight home to Drew.
The bartender gave me a lazy nod. This wasn’t the type of place that welcomed you. The booths were on raised platforms. I stepped up into one and looked at the beer list. I wanted something strong, something that would make me not care that I had an entire empty afternoon before me. I chose the darkest Guinness stout they had. I’d never liked stouts.
A few sips in, I took out the questionnaire Patricia had given me, along with the paper with the starred companies she wanted me to use for interview practice. I was intent on completing my questionnaire and sending it back to her so she’d realize I was a serious overachiever worth her time. But I kept looking at that name—Gabriel Walters. I wondered: Would it be so crazy to call him? I imagined him answering and me starting the conversation with, So, funny thing today … I imagined us laughing like the adults we weren’t in college.
I started filling out the questionnaire:
Q: At a party, are you the type to socialize with many people, 1 or 2 people, or no one?
A: 1 or 2 people.
Q: How would you rate your confidence level with public speaking on a scale of 1 to 10 (1 = no confidence, 10 = completely confident)?
A: On a good day, 8. On a bad day, 1.
I put down my pen and finished my beer with one long gulp. There was no harm in calling Gabe. Patricia had said
his company, Berringer, was a good one. I wasn’t picky about the type of work I did. Any job would do. The worst that could happen was he’d say I wasn’t a good fit. Or, maybe, the worst that could happen was he wouldn’t remember who I was. You know, Em. Emmy? Emily? Emily Used-to-be-Overton? You asked me out—several times. I canceled our date that one night because I’d met someone.
I could always just hang up.
It was easy to get the main number for the Berringer corporate office. Before I knew it, a receptionist was putting me through to his extension. If it had been a couple years earlier and I didn’t have a cell phone, I would have abandoned the idea to contact Gabe. I would have sobered up by the time I got home to my landline and decided I was being ridiculous. New technology allowed for impulsivity.
The phone rang once, twice, three times, then:
“This is Gabe.” His voice was deep and strong. He spoke in public with level-ten confidence, I was sure.
“Gabe,” I said. “This is Emmy. From college. Emily Overton.”
The five seconds of silence that followed felt like five minutes. I squeezed my free hand so tightly that a couple of knuckles cracked.
“Emmy Overton?” He said it with the type of surprised enthusiasm I’d hoped for. I relaxed my hand. The bartender brought me another beer.
“It’s me,” I said. I wanted to blurt out a coherent explanation for why I was calling, but my throat was clenched shut by nervousness.
“Are you finally ready for that date I offered eight years ago?” he asked.
I laughed, thankful for the broken ice. He didn’t only remember me, but he remembered wanting to date me. There was no pause in the calculation of how many years it had been; he knew.
“Sometimes a girl needs time to think about such a thing,” I joked.
He laughed.
“It’s good to hear from you,” he said. “What the hell are you up to?”
“Well, at this moment, I’m just starting my second beer.”
I took a sip.
“Sounds like a better Thursday than the one I’m having.”
“Trust me,” I said, “I’d much rather be behind a desk right now.” This declaration wouldn’t make sense to an employed person, so I explained: “I got laid off last week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I worked at an ad agency. They’re notorious for layoffs. Lots of client turnover, that kind of thing. It’s amazing I lasted as long as I did. That was my first real job out of college, if you can believe it. So much for loyalty to employees.”
He was quiet. I was saying too much.
“I’ve heard ad agencies can be brutal,” he said, straining to contribute to the conversation I was dominating.
“Anyway,” I said uncomfortably, “that’s actually why I’m calling.”
He was quiet again.
“I may have heard through the grapevine that you’re hiring right now.”
“Oh,” he said. “Right.” There was a subtle disappointment in his voice, like he’d wanted to believe I was calling for a reason other than hitting him up for a job. “What grapevine might this be?”
“I can’t reveal that information,” I said with false seriousness.
He coughed and said, in a suddenly professional tone, “It’s an administrative assistant position in the international sales department. Coordinating travel arrangements, handling expense reports, scheduling appointments, receptionist duties.”
He said it like he’d explained the position to a hundred other people. He may have already had someone in mind to hire. I just said, “Uh-huh.”
“What did you do at the ad agency?” he asked. This was becoming an interview, which was what I thought I’d wanted. I felt a little let down, though, deflated. Maybe I wanted it to be something else.
“I was just a writer,” I said, downplaying myself. Then: “I hear Berringer is a great company.”
“It is.”
With the help of the beer, I asked, “Do you think I could come in for an interview? Catch up?”
“Those are two different things—an interview and catching up.”
“I suppose so,” I said. My heart was beating fast. “We could just do drinks. Or something. Keep it casual.”
“That sounds good,” he said, his voice relaxing again. “Does tomorrow work for you?”
“Tomorrow. Friday. Sure,” I said. “I don’t see why not.”
I waited for him to suggest a time. A lunch would mean one thing; a dinner, another.
“You know Mangiapane’s? In the Village?”
“Heard of it,” I lied.
“Pianist starts at seven. Meet you then?”
“Great,” I said.
I heard someone’s voice in the background and Gabe said he had to run. When I hung up, I felt dizzy—from the beer or something else entirely. I asked the bartender for water and sipped it until I could close my eyes without feeling the world spin around me.
SEVENTEEN
I would describe myself as a cynic, but there are times I think I’m a closet optimist. I’m just afraid of vocalizing my hopes and jinxing everything. I assume, for example, that the chemo is working. It must be. There are days when I feel like it is killing every cell in my body, and that must include the cancerous ones. There are lots of people in the infusion center who come in for treatments like they’re just part of a regular routine, like going to the gym or getting a manicure. I eavesdrop and they all speak of end points—When this is over, When I’m done, that kind of thing. Maybe we’re all just trapped in a bubble of denial.
“It’s not working as well as I’d hoped,” Dr. Richter says when I meet with her.
Bubble, popped.
I sit there, unblinking, staring at that picture of her girls.
“It doesn’t look like the cancer is spreading, which is a good thing, but it’s not retreating, either,” she says.
“Not retreating,” I echo.
The way my body reacts—a wave of nausea, clammy hands—tells me I wasn’t ready for this news, not at all.
“I’m going to try Taxol,” she says, writing down something on a pad of paper.
She looks up and her face softens when she sees my expression. I must look horrified.
“Most of my patients do the combo ACT regimen.”
ACT—Adriamycin, Cytoxan, Taxol. Going through cancer is like working in corporate America—so many acronyms.
“And that’s better?”
“The response rate with using Taxol after AC is as high as thirty-three percent.”
So, sixty-seven percent of people are still shit out of luck.
“That’s not very high,” I say.
“In the world of cancer, it’s high.”
The world of cancer sucks.
“I’ve had successes,” she says.
But the tightness of her smile tells me she’s had failures, too.
* * *
The infusion center is decorated for the holidays, a half-assed attempt at merriment. There’s a fake tree—frocked—in the corner, underneath the wall-mounted television. A few ornaments hang from it. Red, green, and silver tinsel is strung from one corner of the room to the other. The red strand has fallen from its taped-up spot. I keep waiting for someone to fix it.
“So they’re switching you to Taxol,” Nurse Amy says, hooking up a bag of the brand-new poison.
“Yeah, the other stuff wasn’t working, apparently.”
Nurse Amy does a little flip of the wrist to suggest this is no big deal.
“Lots of people do ACT,” she says. She knows the acronyms.
The bag is attached, the poison is flowing.
“Most people seem to have fewer side effects with this one,” she says.
“I sure hope that’s true.”
I want to believe her, I really do. I’ve been a crappy excuse for a mother lately because I’m just so exhausted. The chemo is bad, yes, but it’s the attempts to show Claire that I’m okay, that our life d
oesn’t have to be totally consumed by this, that really take it out of me. I don’t know how I’m going to tell her the chemo isn’t working. All this, and the cancer just sits there, unmovable. Not retreating. I resisted asking Dr. Richter what happens next, if the Taxol doesn’t work. I will die, but when? A year? Three years? Five years? Will I get to teach Claire how to drive? Will I know her first boyfriend? Will I see her graduate high school? These are the important questions.
Paul comes in wearing his usual Cubs baseball cap. He’s from Chicago, originally. Somehow, I have found myself in conversation with him almost every time we’re here together. Amy says I have a kind face. Maybe that’s why he keeps talking to me. I told her that my kind face is a disservice to the general public. It sets unrealistic expectations.
“Taxol,” he says, squinting to read the bag.
“Trying something new,” I say. Here in the infusion center, we speak of chemo drugs like they’re different entrées at a popular restaurant.
“I was on Taxotere first,” he says. “Similar name. Not sure if they’re similar drugs.”
“Didn’t work?”
He shakes his head. I’m comforted by the failure of his chemo drug. It’s sick, I know.
“The one I’m on now seems to be working, though. Jevtana. I told my doctor it sounds like the name of an airline with direct flights to Bali—Jevtana Airways.”
“The not-so-friendly skies,” I say.
He laughs way too loudly.
“You’re funny.” He’s one of those people who laughs and then feels the need to comment on the laugh.
“Isn’t she?” Amy says.
I just shake my head at both of them.
“Hey, how’s Claire doing?” Amy asks me.
I hate when she does this—asks about my personal life right in front of Paul. As a result, Paul knows way more than I’d like him to.
“I haven’t told her about the Taxol,” I say. She hasn’t asked me directly if the chemo is working, so it’s not like I’ve actively lied to her. Like me, she seems to be operating on the assumption that everything is going swimmingly, that we will go through this treatment and then wrap this damn cancer experience with a big bow—pink, of course—and go on a cross-country road trip.