Left Neglected

Chapter 12





My mother has been gone forever. I can’t imagine what could be taking her so long. It’s a strange thing, to be wishing for my mother to come back to me. I stopped throwing pennies down that well a long time ago. But here I am, sitting up in my hospital bed, saying hello to Jessica and Richard, trying to act normal, wishing my mother would hurry up and get here. I need that damn hat.

Jessica hands me a huge and heavy box of chocolate peanut butter fudge, sits down in my mother’s chair, and asks how I’m doing.

In my very best everyday, no-big-deal but assured voice, I say, “Good. Much better,” and thank her for the fudge.

I offer them a piece, but they both say, “No, thanks.”

I dig into the box, pick out the thickest cube, and pop the whole thing into my mouth. Big mistake. Now I’m unable to start up a conversation through all that chocolate and peanut butter, and Jessica and Richard aren’t offering anything. They’re just watching me chew. The silence feels thicker and more awkward than the giant wad of fudge in my mouth. I try to chew faster.

The image of me reflected in Jessica’s facial expression isn’t pretty. The incision scars, the bruising, the overall baldness. I’m a horror movie, and she desperately wants to bury her face in someone’s shoulder. Her good manners keep her from looking away, but there’s no hiding that my appearance scares her. This is not the confident image of health and competency I was hoping to project. Where the heck is my mother with that hat? I finally swallow.

“Thanks so much for coming. I would’ve been in touch, but my cell phone was missing, and my laptop didn’t survive the accident. If you messenger one over, I can easily work from here.”

“Don’t worry about work, Sarah. We’ll take care of everything until you come back,” says Richard.

Jessica nods, disgust and terror bleeding through her queasy smile.

“But I really need to stay on top of recruiting. It’s crunch time. My inbox must be insane.”

“We’ve rerouted all your email to Jessica and Carson. Let them handle crunch time,” says Richard.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” says Jessica, looking about as worried as a person can look.

Of course, they had to forward all my mail. That makes sense. They didn’t know how long I’d be out of commission, and the decisions pending can’t wait. Time may be a petrified forest here at Baldwin, but it’s a raging river rapid at Berkley.

“I know I’m not physically back in the office yet, but there’s no reason why I can’t work from here,” I say to Richard, looking at Jessica.

Wait. I’m talking to Richard, but I’m looking at Jessica. I’ve just realized that I’m not seeing Richard. He must be standing to her right. My left. Fantastic. In my mind’s eye, I picture Richard. He’s about six foot two, salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, slender, almost gaunt, blue suit, red tie, wingtips. The slender part is new. From a slightly more distant memory bank, I can also pull up Richard before his divorce—fifty pounds heavier, pink fleshy face, cantaloupe-sized, middle-aged paunch, bigger suit, same red tie. I imagine the contents of his refrigerator in his bachelor apartment at the Ritz—a six-pack of Corona, a few limes, an expired quart of milk. I try to picture his skinny face and wonder if he looks half as freaked out as Jessica does.

“It’s all being taken care of, Sarah,” says the voice of Richard.

“What about annual reviews?”

“Carson’s handling it.”

“Even Asia?”

“He’s got it.”

“And India?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, well, if he has any questions, or if he needs me for anything, tell him to call me.”

“I will.”

“I can at least phone in to internal meetings. Jessica, can you send me my calendar and plan to conference call me in?”

A cell phone rings. God, I miss my ring tone.

“Hello? Yup,” says Richard’s voice. “Good, tell him I’ll call him back in five minutes.”

Following some cue from Richard I didn’t see, Jessica picks up her bag from the floor and places it on her lap. The credits are rolling, the movie’s over, and she’s ready to get the hell out of here.

“Sorry to have to cut this visit short, but I’ve got to return that call,” says Richard.

“Sure, that’s okay, thanks for coming. And don’t worry. I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Good.”

“But while I’m here, Jessica, can you send me a laptop and keep me updated on meetings?”

“Sarah, we miss you,” says Richard. “But we want you to take your time and come back when you’re a hundred percent. The sooner you get better, the sooner we can throw you back into the fire. Focus on you, don’t worry about work. Everything’s under control.”

“I’ll send you more fudge,” says Jessica, like she’s a parent negotiating with a child, offering some lame alternative to what the child wants but can’t have.

“Is there anything else we can get for you?” asks Richard.

A computer, a cell phone charger, my calendar, some life-line to my job.

“No, thanks.”

“Get better. We miss you,” says Jessica as she backs away. Richard now steps into view.

“Good to see you, Sarah.”

He bends down over me and leans in to give me a polite kiss on the cheek. At least, this is what I assume. I’m already committed to returning his innocent peck on the cheek when his lips are surprisingly right in front of mine, and without time to think about what I’m doing, I plant a full-mouth smooch right on his lips.

I’m sure the wide-eyed astonishment on his face matches mine. My embarrassment races for an explanation. He must’ve been going for my left cheek, the cheek whose existence I’m only aware of in theory. This neurological logic satisfies me, but Richard is looking at me as if I’ve forgotten the nature of our relationship. Like I’ve gone insane.

“Okay, then, um,” he says, clearing his throat. “Get well soon.”

And they’re both out the door.

Great. I’ve just terrified my assistant and sexually assaulted my boss.

I flip open the box of fudge and pick out another big piece. They don’t want me back at all unless I’ve recovered 100 percent. I chew on this piece of information as I chew the piece of fudge. What if I don’t recover 100 percent?

I stuff another piece of fudge into my mouth. What if I don’t recover 100 percent? I eat another cube. I keep eating until I feel sick, but I still can’t manage to answer the question, and I can’t stop asking it, so I finish the box. Only the box still feels heavy. I shake it and hear and feel fudge bump against the side of the box. The left side. The side I have no awareness of. I shake the box again, this time like I’m trying to murder it, and a few squares stumble into view. I eat them.

What if I don’t recover 100 percent?