“Right, of course,” Mat said. “What do you wanna do?”
“Be with you,” Ava said.
“Good,” Mat said, pressing into her more firmly. “My little Lamby.”
Under any other circumstance she would reject this infantilizing pet name. But now she struggled to have a defensible problem with it. She thought about his apartment, which had seemed like a real-life version of sponsored content. Who was he? she wondered, but the wonder was joyous, as if she were seeing an incredible natural landmark for the first time.
The Swyft bumped along in the direction of her apartment. Now that she’d gotten a taste of a sick day, she did feel entitled to one more. Her family had died in a car crash. She had thrown herself back into work the moment she was physically able. Jaime had once dragged her to a Self-Care Seminar entitled “Self-Care for the Workaholic” but she had left early; it had seemed like a license to be lazy and selfish.
But now she understood. She would let herself have this: one more day off. And then, rejuvenated, she would get back to work.
23
Judith’s office was cold and dry. Ava sat in an Embracing Armchair and looked out the enormous panel of windows, where a gray blanket of clouds met the jagged, navy Buttermilk Channel. It was the Monday after the Steinway tour, after a weekend lying in bed with Mat, streaming movies and eating leftover sushi. They had watched a movie called 7,000in which a man sent his kindergarten sweetheart a love letter every day, hoping that someday they would be together despite living on opposite coasts and knowing nothing about each other’s lives. But the woman’s mail carrier was in love with her and intercepted all seven thousand letters. They were both riveted by the film, by its obvious narrative flaws, by the lusty mail carrier, who was played by a grotesquely muscled man with a porn-star look.
And now, naturally, Judith was there to intervene in her private pleasure. She and Mat had been called into the People Office, separately this time, and Mat was meeting with Judith first.
This was a routine enough request, Ava reasoned—STÄDA employees were often asked to conduct Self-Reviews with People officers in addition to their managers, though in recent months these reviews had begun to feel less like resources for employees and more like resources for the company. How would you rate your personal morale after participating in Friday’s Manager Training? How would you describe the quality of your output since the introduction of Self-Care Trainings? Have the new rooftop gardens brought joy or stress into your life? She waited for what felt like two full units.
When the door finally swung open, Mat walked briskly out of Judith’s office without making any eye contact with Ava. She tried to ignore the sting.
“Ava,” Judith said with a tight smile. Ava followed her into her office and closed the door behind them. She sat facing Judith and eyed a thick stack of Vision Tower printouts from the week before on the far edge of her desk. Attached to the top sheet was a sticky note with a string of numbers written in thick marker.
Ava wished she had an extra layer. She knew she should act like she was getting over a cold, but she was a bad liar, and she was exhausted from the past few nights with Mat—a blissful exhaustion that had left her feeling like the sun was shining through her body.
“Feeling better?” Judith said, as though reading Ava’s mind. She took out her Prepared Pocket Knife and peeled an orange in her usual methodical way, stacking the four identical quadrants pulp side up on her desk. She offered Ava a wedge.
“No,” Ava said, declining it before remembering Judith’s question. “I mean yes,” she said. She cleared her throat. “I’m feeling better. Thank you.”
“Good,” Judith said. “Because I suspect you’re not going to like what I’m going to tell you.”
Ava’s stomach turned.
“As you know,” Judith said, “STÄDA is having an unparalleled year, businesswise.”
“Yes,” Ava said. “Karl mentioned—”
“Hence the wave of hires, the restructuring, Karl’s exit, the . . . New Agey meditation seminars.” Judith was unable to disguise her annoyance at the last item.
“Are you firing me?” Ava gripped the arms of the Attentive Desk Chair. “I’ve been here ten years, and my work—I only took two days off—”
“No,” Judith said. “No, don’t be dramatic. You’re our most valuable engineer, and personally I believe that the Very Nice Box will become one of STÄDA’s most enduring household items.” She began rubbing her temples with her middle fingers. “Though I think you should stick to wood,” she said. “The MDF looks cheap.”
“Thank you,” Ava said.
“However,” Judith continued, “as you may or may not know, STÄDA is opening a second headquarters in Gambier, Ohio.”
“Gambier?” Ava said. “I . . . I can’t go to Gambier.”
“We’re in agreement,” Judith said. “You’re a veteran employee here, with an entire team of engineers and technical writers reporting to you. I see no reason to ship you out to Gambier. However, Mathew Putnam can—and will—go to Gambier.”
“He what?”
“Mathew Putnam can—and will—go to Gambier.”
Ava was trapped. To act upset would give the relationship away. She could lose her job. Mat could be blacklisted from the industry for taking advantage of his subordinate.
“Judith,” Ava said, “Mat’s been great here. For everyone’s morale. I think you’re making a big mistake.”
“This is a significant promotion for Mathew,” Judith said, “one which he just wisely accepted, moments ago. They need someone young and energetic to lead the Gambier campus. He begins there two Mondays from now. And I thought you might like to know, given that he’s your manager.”
“But—”
“I suggest you keep your reaction professional,” Judith said sharply, “since the nature of your relationship with Mathew is professional. Isn’t it?”
Ava’s anxiety suddenly yielded to rage. “I don’t know why you’re bent on making everyone miserable,” she said. The words emerged from her mouth before she was able to filter them.
“Everyone?” said Judith. “Or you?”
“He means something to me,” Ava said. “You know that.”
Judith folded her hands together. “Ava, my position as the chief people officer is to—”
“Make people fall into deep depressions? Take good things away from good people? Well, you succeeded,” Ava said. “Congratulations.”
If Judith was affected by the outburst, she didn’t show it. “I appreciate your frustration,” she said.
“Do you?” Ava said, with tears brimming.
“I do,” Judith said. “The loss of Andie was a loss to all of us at STÄDA who knew her.”
“Oh, please,” Ava said. “You have no idea what the loss of Andie was. You have no idea how lonely my life has been.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said, standing. “You’re right. I can’t imagine. But now our conversation has taken a detour. Do you need a moment to recover before you get back to work?” She moved a box of tissues closer to Ava.
“No,” Ava said. “But you should know, it’s freezing in this office. It doesn’t make anyone feel welcome.”
She abruptly stood and left, her heart skipping. The adrenaline coursed through her as she made her way to Floor 12. Mat wasn’t in his office. Had he left already? Was he angry at her? Had she given the relationship away somehow? She should have been slicker! She’d been so caught up in the romance that she’d done a horrible job hiding it. How could she have thought that calling out sick the same day as Mat was a good idea? Was it possible that somewhere, subconsciously, she had wanted to be found out? This was a question her SHRNK would undoubtedly ask.
She surveyed the various clusters of teams working quietly, diligently, their heads bowed. That’s how she used to work. Diligently, obsessively, without distraction. She’d been the most ambitious engineer at STÄDA. Her love for Mat had taken such a strong hold of her, she co
uld not even recognize herself. She sat at her desk and checked her phone, but there was nothing. Did Mat blame her? Had Judith told him something that she hadn’t told Ava? Did everyone on Floor 12 know? Her panic twisted into something new but familiar—the burned sugar, the screaming sirens, the crunch of glass, that strange light that she couldn’t identify. She felt dizzy.
Ira.
Cut the seatbelt—
Vitals stable—
A voice ripped her out of the vortex.
“Scarlet sin,” the voice said.
Ava sat up and looked around but couldn’t find the source of the voice. She saw that others on Floor 12 had perked up too. Jaime had removed his Peaceful Headphones and tilted his head, listening. A cluster of technical writers looked up at the overhead speakers. It was the same voice that had led the office meditation—a woman’s voice, which hovered between artificial and human:
Thy ambition, thou scarlet sin, robbed this bewailing land. Thy ambition, thou scarlet sin, robbed this bewailing land. Thy ambition, thou scarlet sin, robbed this bewailing land. Thy ambition, thou scarlet sin, robbed this bewailing land. Thy ambition—
“Shakespeare,” someone said. The voice continued on a loop, clearly programmed, increasing in volume with each repetition. It was Lexi who’d spoken up—the same Spirit staffer who’d introduced Mat to Ava. “It’s Henry VIII,” she said. She looked around self-consciously. “What? I wrote my undergrad thesis on this play.”
“Somebody turn it off,” Ava said, standing.
“I’m working on it,” Jaime said. “I’m working on it.” He had his Peaceful Headphones back on and was typing rapidly. The big screens near the engineers, which normally showed videos of customers calmly assembling STÄDA products, now projected a 3D simulation of the Vision Tower on fire: first the smoke, then the fire, then the ashes, then a blooming garden.
Ava scanned the room for Mat, but there was no sign of him. She made her way up the stairwell, eleven floors, skipping every other step, her blood pumping, her heart loud in her ears, the recorded voice muffled in the stairwell. One thousand percent my fav place to just chill, she remembered Mat saying once. When shit just gets too hard. She emerged onto the roof, where there was no sound besides the unobstructed wind. She looked around. Each of the Husky Camping Chairs was empty except one.
24
The accident had ripped away Ava’s voice. It took her a few days to speak in full sentences. She responded “yes” or “no” to the questions Teddy asked about her comfort level until eventually she was wheeled out of intensive care and into a rehabilitation ward.
This wing of the hospital was bright and sterile, and the rubberized floor cheeped against the nurses’ sneakers. Hospital equipment lined the edges of the room, leaving a wide-open space in the middle for rehabilitation exercises. Someone had tried to warm the space with categorically pleasing art: photographs of meadows, young animals, the smiling elderly. A bulletin board documenting patient milestones was framed with pink and purple streamers.
Ava’s physical therapist, Diane, was short and thin, with light hair that she parted in the center and pulled back. Her scrubs hung loosely from her body. Ava was surprised by the strength of Diane’s hands as she gripped Ava’s elbow, supporting her weight through the more difficult exercises.
Until this moment, aside from feeling trapped, Ava had felt only numb. She knew she was in pain, but she was able to experience it from a neutral position. It was as if she saw her condition from high up, like the diagram of the collision that the police had shown her a few days earlier. She could turn her head forty-five degrees to the left and sixty degrees to the right. She could walk seven steps with a cane and tighten her grip around a pencil for twelve seconds. But now that she had to push these limits, the pain of her injuries rang in every inch of her body. She could feel it behind her eyes.
One morning Diane led Ava through an exercise to rebuild strength in her knee. The goal was to support as much of her body’s weight as she could for as long as she could. As she stepped forward, a sharp pain cut through her like a hot blade. She had to stop. Her eyes welled.
“It helps if you break the time up into small units,” Diane said. “You’re going to find your baseline, your limit. This is the maximum amount of time you can spend on something before you can’t do it anymore.” She was warm but not patronizing. “The important thing is that every day you try to add time to the unit. It can be a second or five seconds or a minute, but it’s a one-way street—your baseline unit stays the same or it grows. It never shrinks. Got it?”
Ava appreciated the clarity and the rules. They started again from the beginning. She could apply weight to her leg for three seconds at a time, and then four. Eventually her baseline unit reached one minute, then two, then five. Some days were better than others.
The pain came in and out like a tide, and eventually—so slowly that it was indiscernible—it began to recede. The units stretched to ten minutes, then fifteen. Fragments of the accident that had lingered in her memory—Offending Vehicle #1, the driver’s mess of hair, the smell of cinnamon, the crunch of metal, that unidentifiable channel of light—had faded. Her job wasn’t to remember, it was to get better, and she was going to do it well.
Twenty minutes, twenty-five.
She had visitors. First Andie’s father showed up. “You never have to worry about meeting him,” Andie had once told her. But here they were, face-to-face. He was a short, stout man with a handlebar mustache and a shiny bald head that reminded Ava of a cue ball. He showed up while Ava was working with Diane on wrist rotations. “You’re Andrea’s roommate?” he said from the doorway, looking down at Ava skeptically.
“Fiancée,” Ava said.
“Fiancée,” Andie’s father repeated, shaking his head. “Well, God does communicate his wishes to us in interesting ways. Doesn’t he?” he demanded when Ava didn’t respond.
Diane quickly escorted him out. “Good grief,” she said, shutting the door. “We need better screening protocols here.”
Ava’s friends arrived next: three women, all of whom had known Andie first. Ava had grown close to them over the years and was looking forward to seeing them, but when they arrived she felt like she was sinking. Anna, who had messy chin-length hair and wore the same blue work pants that had become Andie’s daily uniform, kept her gaze on the only window in the room, as though she were considering an escape. Priya and Maddy, a couple, shared a look of profound confusion and held hands. The way they drooped in their plastic chairs by her bedside, with rounded shoulders and bowed heads, made Ava feel horrible. The only thing she could see when she looked at them was Andie, whose absence inflated between them as quickly as her presence had brought them together. Ava felt guilty and defective. Why couldn’t she just embrace them?
Ava enjoyed Karl’s and Jaime’s visit more. Their support felt reserved but sincere. They arrived at her room awkwardly, each trying to let the other lead. Karl was wearing his signature white button-down, which looked pristine next to Jaime’s floral T-shirt.
Karl took Ava’s hand and held it between his dry, warm palms. “Ava,” he said somberly, with his usual soft, steady expression. “We are . . .” His voice faded as he searched for the right words. “It’s important that you use all the time you need.” This was one of Karl’s mannerisms that had always been charming to Ava. He occasionally used the direct translation of a Swedish phrase rather than the English expression. In Karl’s world, you used time—you didn’t spend it or take it.
Jaime was more upbeat. He’d offered to take care of Brutus until Ava returned home, and had arrived with a laptop onto which he’d downloaded all the Hotspot episodes she’d missed. “You are going to lose your mind when you watch the third one,” he said. “I don’t want to spoil anything, but what I will say is, Comic Sans.”
This made Ava smile for the first time in weeks. “Thank you,” she said.
From his backpack Jaime pulled out an oversized card, which had apparently b
een passed around the office. It was the same kind that circulated for birthdays and employment anniversaries. Someone had begun to write “I’m sorry for—” but crossed it out, opting for “Get better soon!” instead.
Ava had to stop herself from doing what she would have done on more ordinary occasions, which was to search for Andie’s note. While most people wrote boilerplate congratulations, Andie’s were always thoughtful and funny.
She read through the card once and turned it over. In crisp cursive, Judith had written something so classically Judith that Ava would have laughed if her ribs weren’t bruised.
Dear Ava, This card is insufficient to express my sadness and condolences. Please know that the People Office will do all we can to support you in your transition back to work.
Ava was relieved when the stream of visitors eventually thinned, which allowed her to focus on the work of recovery rather than the absence or the sadness or the sympathy. By now she could turn her head sixty degrees to the left and a full ninety to the right. She could walk unassisted for twenty steps and tighten her grip around a pencil for sixty seconds. Diane told her she’d be able to leave the hospital in a matter of weeks.
This was meant to be encouraging, but the truth was that aside from seeing Brutus, Ava felt no real urgency to leave the hospital. Her physical recovery had felt gratifying and within her control, but the visitors had reminded her of the broader damage to her life, which now felt like a vast and barren landscape stretching out in all directions. A thin film of sweat materialized on her forehead at the thought of it. She would bolt awake at night, disoriented, at the four corners of this desert. She knew that when it came time to leave, she’d have to deal with her parents’ house. Did they have wills? Life insurance? What would she do with their things? She guided her mind through the space, allowing herself to smell the old books, hold the fiddle, and run a hand over the Steinway’s edges. She learned that she could apply Diane’s time trick to this kind of discomfort too. Thirty seconds. She could feel sad for thirty seconds, and then she’d have to use time for something else.
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