This was a significant departure, and Max and Gus’s conversation went silent as they watched Lauren leave the room. The minute you allow yourself to be reduced to a servile position in any job is the minute everyone begins to perceive you that way. Soon they’ll start thinking of all kinds of menial things you can do for them, and when you seek a promotion later, they won’t be able to imagine you as a manager because you carry the stench of a servant. Darren and I stood in the kitchen like statues, wondering what to say.
“What?” Lauren whispered.
We blinked. She picked at her split ends and looked at the floor, unwilling to acknowledge her shift of allegiance.
Darren opened the bottles of chardonnay while I pulled the glasses out of the cabinet. Lauren stood against the wall and watched.
We heard footsteps approach, and then Gus poked his head around the corner. “What’s going on in here? It takes three people to pour some wine?”
“We’re just keeping Darren company,” Lauren said.
Gus frowned. “Girls. Darren is fine. Aren’t you, Darren? We didn’t banish him to the colonies. He’s coming back.”
Gus wrapped his old-man fingers around Lauren’s arm and guided her out. Darren and I exchanged mocking glances before I picked up the tray of glasses and followed, Darren coming out last with two chilled bottles.
“Max was just catching me up on the marketing plan,” Gus said. “Go ahead, Max, tell them what you just told me.”
“Well it’s a good thing we’re here, because the Europeans would have totally botched this.”
On Gus’s face a faint blush of pleasure bloomed at this confirmation of our domination over the European savages. It was the ultimate validation of the company’s enormous expenditure to bring us over here. We could see the cogs turning; he couldn’t wait to share this tidbit with the executive board.
“Since the Tantalus is brand new technology,” Max continued, “we can’t just shove it out into the marketplace. We have to prove to the public that it’s necessary and will improve their lives.”
My mind wandered to thoughts of Rousseau, and Max’s voice began to sound like a long string of meaningless sounds. I snapped myself back.
“Just show them the data,” Gus said.
Darren moved to say something, but Max interrupted him. “Simon Phloss has been conducting some focus groups, and the participants didn’t respond well to the data. Even though it ultimately benefits them, they found the Tantalus’s data collection processes and predictive analytics to be manipulative and invasive. I think we should consider initiating another round of research. I can stay here to manage it.”
Darren, who had done most of the work behind the story Max was telling, opened and closed his mouth in an attempt to add comments that would go unheard. Lauren stared at Max with focused concentration, the way a chastened dog might look upon its master. I worked to tamp down an emerging rage that had begun to bubble up into my stomach. I couldn’t decide exactly where to direct it; it felt more like rage for some communal sickness I couldn’t name. I wished I was a robot, that I could merely exist there without any human frailties, able to completely focus on the task at hand. It was a skill the others seemed to have mastered, to butcher their more unmannerly inclinations and replace them with empty space.
“So, have you come up with a theme yet, Max?” I asked, snatching onto a rare moment of silence. “Molly keeps asking for the booth graphic work orders, and I can’t send them to her until I know what the theme is going to be.”
“Let’s come back to that, Halley,” Gus said. “We were just getting to Lauren’s part next.”
Lauren looked over at Darren, who flipped to his other binder. But as soon as Darren opened his mouth to speak, Lauren began reading from a sheet of paper she’d brought.
“I have a list of all the materials I think we’re going to need to train the sales reps,” she said. “I’ve been working on a slide show, which will be the main training tool. And I’m putting together booklets for each rep that contain one-sheets on features and benefits, competition, and talking points, as well as easy-to-understand explanations of the data, and a copy of each of the articles that has been published about the device.”
She paused. Darren started to say “We also—” before Lauren spoke over him. “I’m ordering demo product for each rep, and I’m working on getting some branded swag to hand out. Briefcases, ties, pens.”
“When will the booklets be ready?” Gus asked.
Lauren looked at Darren.
“November first,” Darren said, dry-throated. He walked to the kitchen for a glass of water.
“Are you having them translated?” I asked.
Lauren hesitated, looking around. “Yes?”
“You know translation takes about six weeks,” I said.
Lauren moaned loudly. “Can’t anything just work? There has to be someone to do every tiny thing!”
“Okay,” Gus said, “moving on. Halley, where are we on the booth announcement? I heard from one of the other VPs that Anthony thinks he’s doing it.”
My stomach lurched. “Uh,” I stammered. “No, you’re making the announcement.”
My face flushed and Gus looked at me soberly. Darren looked away as if it was too uncomfortable to look me in the eye, and Max stared straight at me like a kid burning an ant with a magnifying glass.
I flipped through my binder. “I’m still waiting for the marketing managers to decide on the final booth design. The product managers need to decide which speakers they want for the podium talks and the symposium, and then I can figure out the content and timing and make all their arrangements. Clive needs to get me the attendee list for Europe and Scotty needs to get me the attendee list for the U.S. Jamie needs to get me the executive attendee list and send me the private plane info . . .”
Their eyes glazed over and Gus gave me a look that said he didn’t want to know how the coffee got made.
“Basically, I just really need the theme,” I said. “I can’t submit the graphic work orders without it.”
“Thanks for the update, Halley,” Gus said mildly.
His eyes seemed to be penetrating me for weaknesses, and the panic returned. I wondered if he secretly knew all of my inner thoughts, what I’d done to Celeste, what I’d been doing with Rousseau. Maybe they all knew. I felt the secrets like layers of concrete around my rib cage, squeezing and squeezing.
Gus looked over at Max, then back at me again. “Why don’t we schedule a meeting later this week to specifically discuss the theme? Clive is flying in for a couple days, so we can do it while he’s here.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That would be great.”
“Now,” Gus said. “I’ve been wanting to discuss my entrance to the launch gala. I’m thinking I’d like to zip line in.”
“Hello?” I said into the phone. “Hello?”
My dad cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice was thick and husky. “Hal, we need you to come home.”
His tone hit me like a slap. “Why?” I asked.
“Grandpa Mert died last night.”
“What?” I said, although I’d heard him clearly. I sat down heavily on the bed and stared at the rambling toile de jouy figures on the quilted comforter. “I mean . . . I just saw him a few months ago and he was fine. What happened?”
“He had a heart attack,” my dad said. He sounded tired, but gentle. “It happened really fast, he was gone before they got to the hospital.”
I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time anyone I knew had died, and I didn’t have the words to describe the strangeness of it. The muteness of my heart. I was supposed to cry now, to rush to the nearest airport and go home immediately and wear black and reminisce and sob at my grandfather’s grave. That’s what I was supposed to do. Death was supposed to be the ultimate in awfulness, and, therefore, this new
s was so awful that it didn’t seem like it could really be happening. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real, because this still felt just like any other day. Time did not stop; sad music did not stream through the background of our conversation. I felt nothing.
“Is everyone doing okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Well, I don’t know, maybe not. Your Granny is a mess, and your mom too. But, yeah, we’re okay.”
“Jeez, Dad, I’m so sorry.”
“I know, honey. When can you come home?”
I paused to think. I had meetings all week. And we were finally going to nail down the theme, which would set in motion a long list of tasks for me. What would happen if I dropped everything and left? I was still on probation here, still proving myself worthy of Level 3. Even though there was a death in the family, everyone would question my dedication. It wasn’t like one of my parents died; it was a grandparent, a “distant relative.” And that would be the least of it: if I left now, people like Max and Molly would take over my projects while I was gone, and they’d wreck everything. I had worked so hard to get here, I could not afford to let things slide now, when I was so close to the finish line. And what good would it do to go home anyway? Grandpa was already gone. He wouldn’t know if I’d attended his funeral or not. I could go and put flowers on his grave the next time I was there. It wasn’t like I was such an integral part of the family anyway; most of the time they didn’t even like me. No, I needed to stay.
“I don’t think I can get away, Dad,” I said. “Things are really hectic right now—it’s really bad timing.”
For a moment he didn’t say anything. Then he sighed. “Okay, Hal. Will you just think about it? We’d really like you to be here.”
I heard a shuffling, muffled voices, and I could feel the energy change as my mother grasped for the phone. Then her angry, pain-shaken voice.
“Halley Marie, how dare you?” she said, as if she’d been practicing the line all day, saving her ocean of vitriol for the one person upon whom she knew she’d be able to unload it.
“I—”
“You abandon your family for some job and we don’t see you for months and months, and now you can’t take two days out of your precious schedule to come home for your grandpa’s funeral? Your grandpa who loved you?”
I could hear her tears, her choking fury, her deep, full-hearted grief. She gasped for breath. “HOW CAN YOU BE SO SELFISH?” she screamed. “DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT WE SACRIFICED FOR YOU, WHAT GRANDPA SACRIFICED?”
I heard my father shushing her as she sobbed into the phone. My eyes burned.
“We gave up everything for you,” she cried. “Did you know that? You think we never wanted a different life? And I had you anyway, and Grandpa supported us. And all that time, after everything we gave up, this is what I had to look forward to?”
There was a long pause while she collected herself and I didn’t dare speak a word. I listened to her cough and blow her nose.
“I have never been more disappointed in you, Halley. You think you’re so important, flying around the world . . . that you’re better than us. You turn your back on your family like we’re nothing. We support you, we indulge you, and this is the thanks we get? You are not the child I raised. You are a bottomless pit, Halley, you just take and take and take. Don’t bother coming home. Do you hear me? Just stay there in France with your new family. Don’t come home at all.”
26
“My grandpa died,” I wrote.
A few seconds after I hit send, the phone rang.
“Aren’t you working?” I said. A phone call from him was a rarity.
“Yes, but I can talk for a few minutes,” Rousseau said. “Are you okay?”
“I feel awful. My parents want me to come home and go to the funeral, but I just can’t get away. Everything is so crazy right now with work. Please tell me I’m not a terrible person.”
“You’re not terrible,” he said. “We all have to make that choice sometimes, between work and family.”
“It’s just the launch. After it’s over I’ll be able to go back to normal again. But right now I can’t let anything fall through the cracks.”
“I know. I really do understand.”
“My parents don’t. They’re furious. My mom . . .” I thought again about what she’d said, and I started to cry.
“It’ll be okay,” Rousseau said gently. “They’re just upset. They’ll come around.”
Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.
“I miss you.” I wished he was there to hug me. I pressed the phone closer to my face to hear the way his lips would shape the words.
“I miss you too,” he said.
There. The bittersweet longing was like a hit of cocaine, laced with just enough pain to make me question what we were doing, just enough impermanence to keep me wanting more.
“Tell me things are going to change someday,” I said. “Not today or tomorrow, just someday.”
“You mean between us?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “How was your meeting? Did they finally decide on a theme?”
These words, and his buoyancy when he said them, felt a little cruel. For him, everything must have been perfect. He had it all. I wanted him back in the trenches with me. I breathed deeply.
“Come on, Thomas. I just need some light at the end of the tunnel. Can you not give me that?”
I was willing to believe the words, even if they were lies, if only he would say them.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should talk to you later, after you’ve had some time to rest.”
A sharpness sprang up inside me. “For fuck’s sake,” I said. “I don’t need rest. Why can’t we just talk about this?”
I took a breath and stared at my reflection in the sliding glass door. Way to go, Halley. Now you’ve ruined it. Sometimes I could sense him beginning to grow tired of me, sense myself becoming tedious, and it made me want to turn it all around. I still could. I could be what I was in the beginning, distant and easy and carefree. I had to be, because in this relationship I was the “vacation person.” I wasn’t allowed to be sad or upset or tedious. I might have one low moment in a week, but if that was the moment he saw, it became the totality of me, despite the fact that I may have been happy and fun during thousands of other moments he didn’t see. And the more time passed, the more tedious I would become, because, as my feelings deepened, it took more of him for me to get my fix. Those sweet early months had already faded to something different.
“I’m starting to have some doubts,” I said to him.
“About what?” he replied.
“Us.”
He paused. “Don’t say that.”
“Sometimes I just don’t see the point. We’re hurting ourselves. You’re risking your family. I’m risking my career. And for what? So we can miss each other forever?”
“Because we have to,” he said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“I want you in my life. I need you.”
“I don’t know if that’s enough. Long term, I mean. Put yourself in my position.”
“Look, I would leave my wife for you today,” he replied. “But I can’t destroy my family. Not yet, at least. Maybe someday, when the kids are older. I just don’t want to ruin their lives.”
“I don’t want to ruin anyone’s life either,” I said. “But what about my life, Thomas? It seems so unfair. I’m not happy.”
The moment I said it, I knew it was true. In our heads it had all seemed reasonable in the beginning, like a simple math problem: love plus love equals happiness. But real life was more complicated than that. We were both silent for a minute.
“You’re serious about this?” he said.
I didn’t know how to respond. Saying goodbye wa
s really the last thing I wanted. I just wanted him. The way we all want the things we can never have. We can imagine them. We can desperately try to will them into being. But, eventually, don’t we have to make peace with not having them? Stop dangling them in front of our faces, torturing ourselves with the hope that anything will change?
“Can I just say one thing?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“I love you.”
“I know,” I said.
He didn’t reply.
“Let me think about it for a couple days,” I said.
“Okay.”
I couldn’t see the future. I didn’t know if I’d be better off with Rousseau in my life or not, and I was afraid to close that door and find out later that it was the wrong decision and be unable to open it back up again and regret it forever. I knew people who were full of regrets—who’d passed the prime of their lives and wished they’d loved more, wished they’d traveled more, wished they’d lived more fully, more in the moment. Wished they’d gobbled up life, rolled around in it and sucked up all of its bitters and spice. I was terrified to end up like that, to end up like my parents. Would it really be better to turn away from this? Embrace comfort and mediocrity because it was the easier thing to do? To wash all of life’s sharp edges away in a tsunami of numbness? No, I wanted the scorching pain and the euphoric joy and the wild freedom. The minute I began to think of comfort, the softness of that feather bed began to feel sickly and I longed for the cold hard ground again. Life wasn’t supposed to be easy and pleasant; it was supposed to be ghastly and devastating. It was supposed to feel alive, and the prospect of mere comfort felt deadening. I wanted all of it, I wanted exceptional, even if it meant traveling to the very edges of sanity.
And this was the cycle. No matter how resolved I was to end my relationship with Rousseau—and there were more than a few occasions when I was—by the next morning the frost had always melted away. In the absence of consistent hurt, it was easy to forget these intermittent stings and remember only the way he touched me, the way he looked at me, all the ways he made me smile. Only remember that he tempered the pain, forgetting that he was part of the reason it was there in the first place. I felt a little insane some days, going from cold to hot in a span of hours. But those hours stretched out into minutes and seconds spent reliving our best moments. I lived months together with him in days, and he wasn’t even there. My happiness and my anguish were bound together as if by string, seesawing back and forth in perfect proportion to one another. The deeper one burrowed into my heart, the more space there was for the other to fill.
The Insatiables Page 17