The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 10: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2011

Anil pulls up in front of the hospital and comes around to open my door for me. For once, I don’t try to stop him. I rummage around in my purse, pull the surgical mask out and strap it on, and Anil smiles gently at me and says, “Be well, Ms. Sophie.”

“I’ll try,” I say, and I turn and head off to deal with the rest of my day.



Erica is waiting outside my office again, but she looks slightly less frenzied now, which I take as a positive sign. “They’re waiting for us,” she says, and leads the way to the boardroom at the end of the hall.

Marvin is seated at the table, along with two other men in lab coats. “This is Dr. Christian Viggars,” he says, gesturing to a tall, wiry man with short brown hair, a sulky expression and an unfortunate goatee.

“Dr. Viggars,” I say, taking a seat across from him. “I was surprised to learn about all of the media interest in your study, mostly because I’d never heard of it before this morning. Normally, when Baxter researchers have a discovery that they want to share with the world, they work with my office on a press release.” I have an expression that I have perfected for just such situations as this: a slight widening of the eyes to invite confessions of misdeeds; a gentle tilt of the head to indicate calm attention to detail; and a modest but non-toothy smile to communicate warm capability and reassurance. I deploy it now.

“Are you a scientist?” he asks.

“A scientist? No. I’m the Communications Director for the hospital.” My smile droops on one side, and I hoist it back up, exposing some teeth in the process.

“Exactly,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

Marvin clears his throat. “Dr. Viggars is of the view that researchers are in the best position to explain their work.”

I feel a migraine taking shape at the bridge of my nose. “So you leaked your results to the media?”

“I released my results,” he says. “The term ‘leaked’ suggests that they weren’t mine to disseminate.”

“I see,” I say, looking at Marvin for inspiration. He tilts his palms upward, as if to say, Search me. “And what are your results?”

“That children under the age of five who watch five hours or more of television per day have a greater chance of developing ADHD than children who don’t.” Unbidden, an image of my precious Jamie, rapt in front of the television, pops into my head, and I feel a wave of loathing for the entire group of pompous, childless lab-dwellers at the Baxter, secure in their belief that everything that matters can be quantified. I look at my watch: two minutes to two o’clock. Judging from Viggars’s bullish posture, I’m even less likely to resolve this issue in the next two minutes than I am to find Inner Peace at Family Yoga.

“Erica,” I say, “Could you step out into the hall with me for a moment?” We rise and I close the door behind us. “I’m due at another meeting,” I say. “I’d like you to finish up here for me.”

Erica looks stunned. “Are you sure?” she asks. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get him to agree to a proper press conference,” I say.

“I’m not sure he’ll agree,” she says.

I look at my watch again. I’m late for Will. “He’s unrepentant and unlikely to change his tune. But he wants attention and we can make sure he gets it. Do what you have to do to get him to see that.” I pat her shoulder. “You’re ready,” I say. “You can handle it.” Actually, I have serious doubts about whether Erica can handle it, but I know I can’t. My throat is tight and I’m afraid that if I stay, I’m going to burst into tears. “I’ll be in my office,” I say. “Come by when you’re done and let me know how it went.”

I rush back to my office, pausing at Joy’s desk to catch my breath. She barely looks up. “There’s someone waiting for you in there,” she says, pointing to my office with her chin.

I poke my head around the corner and freeze. His back is to me, his long body folded awkwardly into the visitor’s chair facing my desk, but I’d know him anywhere. “Will,” I say, and watch him rise and turn, with the unconscious grace of a natural athlete. For years, I’ve been waiting for Will to lose his hair or get squishy around the middle, but life isn’t that kind. Will gets more attractive with age, at least partly because sex appeal is a relative measure, and the rest of his cohort is losing ground. Not to mention the fact that his six-foot frame looks even better in a charcoal Armani suit than it ever did in jeans and a tee-shirt.

“Sophie,” he says, coming over to greet me. There’s an awkward moment where I reach out a hand and he reaches down to kiss my cheek and I lose my balance and end up plowing my head into the middle of his chest, but Will grabs my shoulders and steadies me.

“First day on the new feet,” I say, weakly, and he leans down and kisses me lightly, once on each cheek.

“It’s good to see you,” he says.

You broke my heart, you broke my heart, you broke my heart, you broke my heart, I think, but I say, “Can I get you a coffee?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “And I’m not going to keep you long. It’s not purely a social call, although I’d like to find a time to do that while I’m in town.”

I sit down at my desk. “How are you?” I say. “How’s Paula?” Paula is the most recent of Will’s live-in girlfriends. All of them have been impossibly gorgeous, chilly, high-strung and artistic. I take way too much comfort in the fact that he has never married, or stayed with any of them for more than a few years.

From the way he deflects the question, it appears that the pattern has repeated itself. “She’s spending most of her time in Santa Fe these days,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I say, not trying especially hard to sound sincere.

Will grins. “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he says. “It doesn’t suit you.”

He holds my gaze and I feel a blush rising. It’s always like this with him, as if no time has passed since our last conversation. “What brings you to town, Will?” I ask.

“I’ve got a proposal for you,” he says.

“I’m all ears,” I say, knowing that any proposal Will is prepared to make is one I’m likely to accept.

“I hear you’ve been spending some time with my Aunt Lillian.”

“Some,” I say, thinking of the fox. “She’s been misbehaving.”

He grins. “She told me. She also told me that she gave you the history of the Baxter Foundation.” I nod. “It’s been a family affair over the years, but Lillian and I agree that it’s time for a more modern structure. Lillian made me the Chair of the Board a few years ago, and we’ve done some excellent recruiting. But it’s time to professionalize the day-to-day operations.”

“How is it staffed now?”

He laughs. “Lillian wanders through the office a few days a week, but basically it’s a self-governing island of misfit toys. And we have bags of money, so we should be thinking more strategically about what we do with it. Our mission is pretty broad – we fund initiatives that advance the health and well-being of children – but ninety-nine percent of our grants go the Baxter Hospital and we aren’t spending anything close to the income we have available every year. It’s an amazing opportunity for someone to come in and build up the organization.”

“You’re looking for an Executive Director?”

“For now,” he says. “But really, I’m looking for a new President. Lillian isn’t going to be around forever, and we need to think about succession.”

My mental list of possible candidates shrinks as I begin to appreciate the full scope of the job description. “That’s going to be a tall order,” I say. “Most people would balk at the idea of having Lil looking over their shoulder.”

“Agreed,” says Will. “That’s why I think you would be perfect.”

“Me?” He nods. “I’m flattered,” I say, “But I don’t think I’m the right person.”

“Why not?” says Will. “You’re smart, organized, experienced and you know how to manage Lillian.”

“No one knows how to manage Lil.”

“You’re more qualified than anyone else would be.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” I say. “I love Lil. I don’t like the idea of trying to set up something in order to manage around her.”

“Sophie,” says Will. “Do you think the Board is doing this behind her back? It’s her Foundation. You are her choice. I’m here because she sent me.” My face must show a little of the unexpected disappointment I feel at his words, because he says, hastily, “Of course, I wanted to see you, which is why I volunteered to come and offer you the job on behalf of the Board.” He raises a hand to stop me from speaking. “Spend a couple of days mulling it over. Also, Lillian said to tell you that she’ll pay you more than they pay you here.”

“I’ll talk to Jesse about it,” I say. “It’s a really nice offer, just…unexpected.” It’s unsettling to see Will’s hands, bare of visible signs of commitment, resting on my desktop and I feel another blush coming on. Will was always good with his hands. I cover my discomfort by swiveling around to my computer and opening my calendar. “How long are you in town?”

“I’m leaving Sunday morning. I promised Lillian that I’d come to her party this year.”

“Do you have plans on Friday night?”

“If I do, I can move them,” he says, and a familiar glow spreads through me. There has never been any elixir as powerful for me as being the object of Will’s undivided attention. It is his gift: he turns his spotlight on you, and you are transformed into the star of your own fascinating story, and not merely background to other, more gripping narratives. It’s incredibly addictive, and dangerous. “Dinner?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation. “I’ll make a reservation and email you the details.” There’s a knock at the door, and Erica pokes her head in. “Sorry to bother you,” she says, and Will stands up.

“Perfect timing, actually,” he says. “I’ve got another appointment.” He turns to me and flashes the smile that has melted many hearts tougher than mine. “See you Friday, Sophie.”

“Bye,” I say.

Erica watches him go with an appraising eye. “Who was that?”

“An old friend,” I say.

“Yummy,” she says, completely inappropriately. I sit straight in my chair and regard her with a gaze that I hope is in the range of cool-to-withering. She drops into the visitor’s chair that Will has just vacated, oblivious.

“So,” I say. “Where did we end up with the disagreeable Dr. Viggars? Do we have a press conference?”

“We’re good,” she says. “The press conference is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Did he give you trouble?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she says breezily. “And anyway, it’s not a bad news story for us. I mean, who lets their kids watch five hours of TV a day?”

I swallow hard. “Who indeed?” I say.

Joy appears in the doorway, looking anxious. “Aren’t you leaving early today?” she asks.

“Leaving early?”

“It’s Wednesday,” she says. “You always leave early on Wednesdays.” I have long suspected that Joy bolts out of the office as soon as I do, and her agitation at the fact that I am still at my desk at four-thirty on a Wednesday clinches it. But I have no time to enjoy this small victory, because I’m late for Family Yoga. And I would definitely skip it today, with a legitimate excuse in the form of my runny nose, except that I was not very nice to my mother yesterday, and if I don’t go to yoga it’s going to take a lot longer to get off her naughty list.

Family Yoga is the brainchild of my mother and Dana who decided in the summer that we should all spend more quality time together. Of course, they could have picked a different kind of activity, like drinking at a pub, but Family Yoga is supposed to be a form of intervention, taking me out of the office early and forcing me to relax. The underlying theory, I believe, was that a weekly yoga class would force me to clear my mind of all stressors and emerge at the end of the hour with readjusted priorities. What actually happens every Wednesday is that I spend the entire afternoon in a state of panic trying to figure out how to get out of the office in time for a five o’clock yoga class, knowing that I should leave at four-thirty but rarely departing before four forty-five. Then I scream down to the yoga studio, burst into the class late and disrupt whatever state of mindfulness the other people in the class have managed to achieve thus far. For the next hour, while others in the class empty the stress of the day from their minds, I fret. I fret about the work I left on my desk. I fret about how late I’ll be to pick up Scotty from the daycare. I fret about the broken faucet in the powder room, and the fact that I’ve forgotten, for the tenth day in a row, to call the plumber. I fret about the kids and their eating habits and whether I’ll be home in enough time to make something decent for dinner so that we don’t have to order pizza again for the third time this week. All in all, I’d have to say that the only clarity I’ve attained in six months of yoga has been the realization that I could be bound and blindfolded in a cave in Afghanistan and I would still be thinking I really hope Jesse is remembering to make the kids eat some vegetables, and If I die, how will he know when to do the kindergarten registration?

I do a quick ROAR calculation to see if there is any way I can justify skipping Family Yoga today. My desire to perform the activity is obviously zero, but my guilt factor is an eight (on account of yesterday’s temper tantrum), while my need to behave like a grown-up is five (which is the minimum for any activity where my sister-in-law is present) and my allowable selfishness is one (see temper tantrum analysis above; a runny nose is usually worth 3). So calculation for today is zero plus eight plus five minus, producing a blood-curdling ROAR of twelve. I grab my gym bag from under the desk and run to the elevator.

Here are the Top Five Things I Hate About Family Yoga:

1. That I forget about it approximately thirty percent of the time, thereby confirming for my mother that my life is completely out of control, and giving her a perfect opportunity to regale Dana with tales of my pathological workaholism.

2. The way my mother flirts with Leo, the admittedly hot instructor, who speaks in self-help aphorisms.

3. The dreamy expression that everyone else in the class affects, presumably to advertise to the group that they have arrived at a state of mindfulness, whatever that means.

4. That Family Yoga has not done one thing to reverse the alarming deterioration of my pelvic floor, a problem predicted by a variety of quasi-health professionals during my pregnancies. Having failed to embrace the recommended Kegel exercises at the time (which if you haven’t done them, involve contracting and releasing some rather intimate muscles, in a faintly theoretical attempt to strengthen them), I was rather hoping that yoga would have some remedial effect on my undercarriage. But no, I still wet my pants every time I sneeze.

5. The way my rear end looks in my yoga pants.

I tear into the yoga studio with moments to spare, throw my clothes into a locker and pour myself into my yoga outfit. Is it my imagination, or is it getting smaller? I manage to convince myself, as I do each week, that spandex shrinks, because the alternative is too depressing to contemplate. I duck into the bathroom stall with a couple of towels, set my BlackBerry to vibrate, and swaddle it into a roll. Then I tuck it under my arm, flush the toilet and run to the studio.

“Hi,” I say, panting, as I unroll my yoga mat next to Dana and my mother.

“Hi Sophie!” Dana leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek. “You look tired.”

“I’m getting a cold,” I say.

“Again! You have got to start taking better care of yourself,” says my mother.

“Fatigue is the body expressing itself to you,” says Leo, rising from his mat at the front of the room and making his way over to our little family group. “You must learn to listen when your body speaks,” he says, laying an unwelcome hand on my shoulder.

“That’s exactly what I keep telling her!” my mother trills. “Maybe she’ll listen to you!”

“Ah,” murmurs Leo, nodding meaningfully and gazing deeply into my mother’s eyes. “Wisdom may be given, but it is not always received.”

“I’m still here,” I say, a bit too loudly.

“Are we ready, everyone? Let us leave our place of quiet meditation. Now that we are all here, we may begin our yoga practice.”

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“We begin with Sun Salutations,” says Leo. “Mountain pose, please.”

I put my hands together in front of me, and Dana whispers, “Busy day at the office?”

“And arch back and fold forward. Very nice,” says Leo.

“Crazy,” I say.

“And lunge – right foot, not left, Sophie – yes, and plank, good.”

“What’s going on?” whispers Dana, who can speak while doing a plank, which is evidence that her fitness level is well above mine.

“The usual,” I gasp, pushing myself from an upward to a downward dog.

“And lunge again – other leg, Sophie, yes – and fold and back to Mountain. Very good. Again.” And now Leo is beside me. “You must focus, Sophie. Let your mind – and your lips – be quiet.” This seems rather unfair, since it is Dana who insists on conversing during yoga to ratchet up the quality level in our time together. But Dana is such an incredibly nice human being that’s it’s hard to blame her for anything.

Leo glides between the yoga mats, adjusting everyone’s positions. “As we move through our practice, we must listen to our Inner Voices,” Leo pronounces. “The Inner Voice is the guide to our deepest selves. If we can clear the path, it will speak to us. But we must first let go of all of noise in our lives – the demands, the stresses, the desires, the ambitions, the self-criticism, the anger. The noise blocks us from receiving the wisdom within our own bodies.” Leo is very keen on the Inner Voice.

There is a muffled moaning sound nearby, like the call of a sick moose. It is coming from my towel roll.

“Now we move to balancing poses,” says Leo. “Reaching forward, right leg lifts, and into Warrior Three.” I wobble, and Leo comes over to adjust my posture. “Focus your mind,” he says. “The mind-body connection is the source of your greatest power. When you achieve this connection, you allow your Inner Voice to speak to you. Hear it. Trust it. The Inner Voice leads us to self-knowledge as we begin to understand our unique place in the universe. Breathe.”

I lower my leg and watch everyone else balance as I summon the energy to try again. My BlackBerry moans again.

“Do you need to check it?” whispers Dana, who knows my dirty little secret.

“Not yet,” I whisper back. “If it’s an emergency, you’ll know.”

“Crane pose,” says Leo. “Knees wide and squat. Very good. Fingers wide on the mat. Lean forward and find your balance. Now lift your toes and hold. Breathe.”

I topple over and land on my hip on the hard floor, missing my mat entirely. “Ow,” I say before I can stop myself. Leo comes over. “Let’s try again,” he says. The BlackBerry vibrates insistently. Leo looks confused. “What was that?” he says.

“That was me,” says Dana.

“Crane pose, Sophie,” says Leo. “Squat and reach…”

A long low moan emanates from the towel, the product of messages being sent over and over again in rapid succession. The towel starts moving across the floor. “I’ll be back,” I say, grabbing the towel and racing for the door.

Outside, I unwrap the BlackBerry and see ten missed calls from Jesse, and a text message in all caps: URGENT: TRAPPED IN MTG W INVSTRS. CAN U PICK SCOTTY UP.

I look at the clock. It’s five forty-five. I grab my running shoes and shove my feet into them as the door to the studio opens. It’s Leo. “Sophie,” he says. “We all have our own journey to make, but we come together in a state of mutual understanding and respect in this room. I cannot allow you to bring an electronic device into our studio.”

“Understood,” I say, lacing up my shoes.

“If I may,” says Leo, “It is not an accident that balancing poses are so difficult for you. To balance the body, you must first balance the mind. You must become more attuned to your Inner Voice. Until you do, I fear that you will not realize the benefits of this class.”

“Go f*ck yourself, Leo,” I say. “There, you see? I’m completely attuned to my Inner Voice right now. Great class.”