Pretty in Ink

by Lindsey Palmer

  As if he can read my mind, Rob says, “It’s really happening, baby. Aren’t you thrilled? Say something!”

  “Wow” is all I can manage. I’m not thrilled, actually, although I’m not upset, either. I simply can’t get my brain to process this turn of events. I suppose this is what they call shock.

  “Listen, I have to call our realtor immediately and get things going on this end. Love you. We’ll talk later!”

  I hang up and stand dumbstruck, gaping at my surroundings: The office is a ghost town, with everyone gone from their desks and crowded into the conference room for Mimi’s praisefest. I feel as if I’m on a movie set of my life, the shooting wrapped for the day. I begin weaving the aisles of abandoned cubicles without pattern or direction. I don’t suspect myself of a motive until I notice that I’ve stopped in front of Laura’s computer and that I’m suspiciously checking my peripheral vision. Her e-mail window is right there, open on her screen—and below Laura’s in-box is Mimi’s (Laura has full access to keep track of her boss’s schedule). It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, as I reach for the keyboard. I’m out of here, moving to Vermont.

  And then it’s happening. It doesn’t feel like it’s me making the decision or like it’s my own hand launching Mimi’s in-box and conducting a search for my name, then wading through a flood of meeting invites and all-staff notes in order to locate something interesting. I feel one step removed, like an actress is playing the role of me.

  A header jumps out: “Staff changes.” Aha! Under this subject line lies a string of e-mails between Mimi and Mrs. Winters, Schmidt & Delancey’s editorial director (her signature actually says “Mrs. Winters,” as if she doesn’t even possess a first name). Their exchange reaches back to Mimi’s first day on the job, May 2, when the new editor in chief sent Mrs. Winters her first impressions of the then-members of the staff. I scan for my name: “Leah Brenner is deeply entrenched in and loyal to the old vision of Hers. She seems smart, more or less.”

  More or less? I’m fuming, but I’m also aware that I have to work fast. At any moment someone could emerge from the conference room and catch me, head bent over the wrong computer. Fingers keep guiding the keys, eyes keep skimming the back-and-forth. Shortly after Mimi delivered her snap judgments of the staff to Mrs. Winters, the latter e-mailed a lengthy spiel on the best ways to bolster staff morale during a time of upheaval. She writes about scheduling group brainstorms and providing opportunities for feedback so staff members are made to feel valued, like their opinions count. (Notably, Mrs. Winters’s stated goal is to give the staff the impression that they are thought well of; she offers no advice on how to actually value your staff or listen and respond to their feedback.) I skip over a series of bullet points on the blah blah blah of establishing authority.

  The next section is entitled, “The importance of timing.” In the dense paragraph that follows, Mrs. Winters lays out the thesis that, when a new editor in chief is rejiggering a staff to build a revised team, it is crucial for her to move quickly, but not too quickly. While she shakes up the old way of doing things, Mrs. Winters goes on to say, a new boss must maintain a certain semblance of stability. An easy way to do so is to temporarily keep on two to three members of the old establishment’s senior staff. Still, a new boss must be careful not to drag out the layoffs over too long a period, so as not to create a culture of fear and distrust among the remaining staff. According to Mrs. Winters, a window of three to four months should be sufficient.

  After this manifesto, Mrs. Winters ends with a section labeled “Big Blowout Party!” The gist is, Mimi should notify Corporate once she’s completed all of her staff changes, and then they’ll arrange and fund a fabulous party. This will serve as both a celebration of the magazine’s relaunch and an assurance to the remaining staff that they’re solidly and safely part of the new team—that they’ve survived.

  I stare at this last sentence, feeling wholly back to myself, knowing full well that I am violating my boss’s privacy and perhaps even breaking the law. Not only do I not care, but at the moment neither do I care about the house—our house—in Vermont; all that concerns me is that Mimi has not yet scheduled this Big Blowout Party. She’s closing in on four months at Hers, and there’s been no mention of such an event.

  I’m about to ex out of Mimi’s in-box when a new e-mail pops up on the screen. It’s a one-liner from Suzanne in Human Resources: “Meeting is on the books, 8 a.m.” I scroll down to find out what Suzie’s responding to, what this meeting is that she’s put on the books. The original e-mail from Mimi reads: “Please schedule an appointment for us and Leah Brenner on September 4, the earlier in the day the better.” The day after Labor Day, two weeks from today. My knees give out, and I plunk down into Laura’s seat.

  I still haven’t moved when I hear Abby’s voice. “Leah, is that you? What are you doing?”

  “Borrowing a Post-it,” I say on reflex.

  Abby eyes me warily. “Come on back to the meeting, OK?”

  She leads me, the walking dead, back to the conference room. Maybe it’s just paranoia, but as I enter the room I sense my coworkers’ looks of pity like spiders on my skin. I imagine this is what it would feel like to be bald and underweight after chemotherapy. (I immediately scold myself for the comparison.)

  Mimi is raising a glass of champagne. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I am so enormously proud of what this magazine is becoming, and I can’t wait to keep up the momentum we’ve started. Cheers!” Someone places a glass in my grip, and I feel my eyes blur with tears as I raise my champagne to the thing I’ve been fearing and dreading and half-hoping for all summer. I toast what I now know for certain will be my last ever issue of Hers. As the bubbly liquid slides down my throat, I think about how every single month for the past fifteen years—my entire working life—I have been instrumental in putting out a magazine. That’s nearly two hundred issues that I’ve used to measure the progress of my career, and more than that, my life. I wonder, next month and the month after and the month after that, how will I mark the passage of time?

  I arrive home bursting with the news of my official end date, but the moment I open the door and discover my house in the cleanest state I’ve ever seen it, the information flees my brain. The front hall, usually a disastrous wreckage of shoes and coats and toys, looks like the set of a Hers lifestyle shoot, all clean surface and calm. The sight of a vase with actual fresh flowers poking out nearly moves me to tears. I step into this alternate universe of my home, and there is my husband in the living room, dressed in slacks and a button-down instead of his standard uniform of jeans and ironic T-shirt, splaying out my magazines in a fan on the coffee table.

  “What the hell is going on?” I ask. Maria emerges from the kitchen carrying two platters of catered cold cuts. My mother trails behind her, stealing a slice of Swiss from one of the trays. “Mom? What are you doing here?”

  “Your husband called me to come help out.” She plops down onto the couch and grabs a magazine, disrupting Rob’s stylized design. He swoops in to rearrange.

  “Help out with what? Rob, hello, can you hear me?”

  “Hey, baby.” My husband leans in for a kiss, then grabs a broom and sets about sweeping around my feet. “Sorry, I’ve been running around like a crazy person. The realtor was able to pull together a last-minute open house for tonight. She said to expect at least a dozen people. She also recommended we clear out, but I thought it would be fun to attend. So Maria’s going to take the girls out driving—let’s pray they fall asleep in the car—and your mom offered to do the appetizers.”

  “I ordered from Zabar’s,” she says. “It’s my not-so-secret scheme to get you to stay near Manhattan. Fix yourself a sandwich and you’ll realize what morons you are to move. What kind of bagel do you think you can get up in Vermont, in the middle of nowhere?”

  I roll my eyes. “I love you, too, Mom.”

  I squeeze Maria’s arm. “Thank you for staying late. The girls tend to nod off at t
wenty-five miles per hour.” Our nanny’s nod is gracious, like I’m enlightening her with information she doesn’t already know. Last week we finally told her about the probable move. We invited her to come with us—wherever we ended up, we knew we’d have room to spare—and she said she’d think about it. I consider Maria to be family; still, I know her real family all lives here in New Jersey.

  I turn to Rob, trying to tamp down my panic at this sudden turn of events. “Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come home early. How can I help?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you at work. Everything’s under control here. Just try and relax.”

  “OK.” But I can’t relax when everyone else seems to have a job to do. Rob and Maria buzz around like it’s their calling to transform the house into a pristine museum of itself. Even my mother looks like she’s on a mission, though in her case it’s to lounge around on the couch with her boot-clad feet propped up on the coffee table. I loiter, still clutching at my work purse, feeling like I’ve already been displaced from my home.

  “What time are people coming over?”

  Rob checks his watch. “T-minus ten minutes. Prepare to be one half of the charming couple who owns this charming house.”

  “Aren’t I always?” I say, thinking I better rush to kiss the girls good night if I’m going to have time to chug a glass of wine before the home invasion.

  Ten minutes is not nearly long enough to prepare myself for the pockets of strangers gathering in my living room, peeking into my private spaces, and sizing up my home. Rob insisted our presence would be a selling point for the house—we’re a young, attractive couple that others will aspire to be like, he claimed—but now I’m seeing why people generally hit the road for their own open houses.

  From my hideout in the kitchen, I can hear Rob in the next room parroting our Vermont realtor, singing the praises of our light fixtures and original moldings. I’m shoving my eighth slice of turkey into my mouth—my mother is right, this stuff is addictive—when I sense a woman at my side.

  “I hate to say it, but you’ve got a beautiful home,” she says.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, mouth full.

  “Sheesh, I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I’m Isabella.” She sticks out her hand, and I wipe my own greasy one on my shirt before reaching for a shake. “I figured you were the owner, since you’ve been standing around looking so wistful and uncomfortable.”

  “Oh.”

  “Plus, the décor in here is to die for, and you’re the best-dressed person in sight. It all just added up.”

  “Thanks,” I say, thinking maybe I like this woman. “Picture the place covered with toys and dirty dishes and you’ll have a more accurate idea of what it’s usually like.”

  Isabella laughs. “We live in SoHo. I’m here with my husband, Jim. He’s the one talking square footage in the other room with the guy I presume is your husband.”

  “Fascinating.” I roll my eyes.

  “Can I let you in on a secret?” Isabella reaches over me for a bagel, then tears into it. “I’m absolutely petrified of the suburbs. Jim dragged me out here kicking and screaming.”

  “God, I know what you mean. I grew up in Manhattan, and Rob and I were in Williamsburg before we transplanted out here.”

  “So are you guys moving back to the city?”

  “With triplets, are you crazy? No way. I wish, though. I miss all the restaurants and the 24-hour delis. All the people. All that energy.”

  “The truth is,” Isabella whispers, leaning in to speak, “I’m pregnant, ten weeks along. Jim thinks we’ll need more space once we have the baby.”

  “People in the city manage OK with one kid, right? Are you in a studio or something?”

  “No, we have an extra bedroom.”

  “Oh, then you’ll be fine. Are you planning on staying home?”

  “Lord, no. I’m an attorney. I do litigation, mostly mergers and acquisitions, some bankruptcy cases. I’d rather shoot myself than become one of those moms who quits her job and is so bored she becomes president of the PTA and starts running it like a Fortune 500 company.” I’m cracking up and nodding; I pass those women in the supermarket all the time. “So what do you do?” she asks.

  “I’m an executive editor at Hers magazine.” I’m about to say, for now, but Isabella gasps.

  “That is incredible! A job where you get to be creative, and where you probably don’t have to wear a suit, wow. I’m seething with envy, honestly. I always wanted to be a writer, but I never had the guts. Hence the boring, sensible lawyer track. You must absolutely adore it.” I smile, which seems like the simplest response. “But wait, you’re moving away.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a long story.”

  “Ah. So tell me, how brutal is the commute? My office is in midtown.”

  “It’s pretty bad. You get used to it, but it’s kind of like Planes, Trains and Automobiles, only with you it’ll be Car, Train, and Subway.” Just saying the words is enough to overwhelm me, to set into motion a tidal wave of exhaustion—the back-and-forth from suburb to city and city to suburb, day in and day out, the attempt to be everything and everywhere at once, the spreading of myself so thin that sometimes it seems as if I’ve disappeared entirely, the impossibility of it all. I feel like I’m drowning, and I grab Isabella’s arm to steady myself.

  On a whim, I start spewing my thoughts: “Isabella, don’t do it. I’m telling you, stay where you are. Live in SoHo, take a ten-minute train ride to work, go out to dinner at the cool new spot on the corner, and bring your baby to the hip bar where they allow kids. Live that illustrious Manhattan working mom life. Whatever you do, do not buy this house and move to the suburbs.”

  “Um.” Isabella is looking at me like perhaps I need to be institutionalized.

  “Hey, ladies.” Rob sidles up to me, eyeing me warily, and Isabella’s husband is at her side now, too. It’s clear they’ve overheard my tirade. “I take it you met Jim’s wife,” my husband says. “I was just telling Jim here about the Westfield neighborhood association, and how responsive they are to complaints.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Very responsive.”

  Rob goes on: “They were saints helping us with that rabid raccoon we had up in our oak this spring.” I smile and nod, but I’m zoning out, imagining a different sort of neighborhood association, one that could respond to other kinds of complaints: I want to work and be with my family and also get seven hours of sleep each night. Why is that too much to ask? How can you work so hard to build a big, ambitious career, only to have it all come to pieces at the whim of a single person? How will I figure out a new life?

  After all the strangers retreat from the house, my mother walks around with a garbage bag and collects the half-filled cups and paper plates with scraps of food. Maria pulls into the driveway and carries our sleeping babies, one by one, upstairs and into their cribs. I stand at the sink, washing dishes, and Rob stands beside me, drying them. He doesn’t scold me for begging that woman not to buy our house. He doesn’t insist that he had the husband sold. He doesn’t say a word. When the dishes are all clean and dry and tucked away in the cupboards, the two of us go upstairs, lie down in our joint bed, and each think our own separate sets of thoughts until weariness overtakes us, and we both sink into sleep.

  18

  Jane Staub-Smith, Associate Editor

  I’m emptying another pack of ballpoint pens onto the tidy but growing pile in my apartment’s storage nook, when Jenny appears in the doorway. She’s invited herself over to help me, in her words, “buckle down and make a goddamn decision.” I, meanwhile, would rather revel in my brand-new stash of office supplies—so much shiny, functional stuff. I’ve never been much of a hobbyist, and I’m amazed how satisfying it can be to grow a collection, to set my sights on certain specific things and then acquire them.

  “Ready yet to take out Staples?” Jenny asks. I don’t respond. “Well, it’s up to you. You can fill this space with a pile of pens and paper, or you can have
a nursery. I found you a great crib, half off, in case you’re interested.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got loads of time, you know.”

  “Not as much as you think. Time flies, as they say.”

  “Oh, is that what they say?” Jenny’s strategy has been to push, push, push me. She’s started bringing me Babies “R” Us catalogs with pages dog-eared on what she considers mommy essentials, as if such inspirational fodder will magically shift my desire for office supplies into a desire for onesies and bibs. Or maybe her theory is, learning about all the gear and gizmos required for motherhood will be enough to repel me from the whole idea and get myself to the clinic. Jenny believes, if I can actually visualize what it will be like to have a baby, I’ll be able to make the best-informed decision about my situation. Her whole earnest campaign, as if my pregnancy were one of her P.R. accounts to manage, makes me want to curl up into a ball and take a nap.

  The next morning I get to work early and plot my path to nab three new staplers. I do a mental calculation of my winnings from the past two weeks: twenty-one ballpoint pens, two reams of paper, a calculator, a clipboard, four pairs of scissors, a dozen Post-it pads, and six one-inch binders. I’ve built up my stash carefully but quickly, placing small orders through the company’s Web site, ducking into the supply closet to swipe extras and, only when I’m feeling desperate, snatching items from other people’s desks. I don’t have near enough, and though I’m not quite sure what “enough” is, I’ll know it when I see it. The important thing is to be prepared.

  I duck down to the cafeteria for a wedge of frittata, and when I return to my desk, Zoe eyes my purchase. “Didn’t you have a bagel an hour ago?” she says. “Is this some kind of strategy: fatten yourself up so Mimi will look skinny in comparison and bring you into the inner circle again?”

  “Lay off, Zoe,” I say, digging into the eggs. “I’m just stressed.”

  “OK, whatever.” Of course it’s this creature growing inside of me that’s driving me to eat and eat and eat, sapping my energy, and reducing me to tearful fits of anxiety at the slightest provocation. Morning sickness is not supposed to start for several more weeks, according to a book Jenny’s forcing me to read, so it must be my nerves twisting me with nausea. I pray I can keep the whole debacle a secret for as long as possible. At least until I decide it’s what I want. I fear an impending baby will give Mimi yet another reason to cut me loose, so she won’t have to pay out my (admittedly paltry) salary during a maternity leave.