The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 14: THURSDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2011

I’ve spent way too long at lunch, and at two-fifteen I’m racing back into the hospital so that I can drop in on Christian Viggars’ press conference at two-thirty. Too late, I remember Nigel, who spots me before I can think of a plan to avoid him. I cast about the lobby wildly, and see Jenny Dixon from the search committee waiting for the elevator, just beyond Nigel’s station.

“Jenny!” I call, and I see her turn with a puzzled look as she notices me waving frantically. “Be right back,” I say to Nigel over my shoulder, and I dash off in Jenny’s direction. “I need to ask that woman something really important.”

“Hey!” Nigel yells after me. “You can’t…” but I already have, and I’m feeling very pleased with my quick thinking.

“Are you alright?” Jenny asks. She looks mildly concerned.

“Of course! I just wanted to say that I got your message and I’ll send you the reports as soon as I write them up.” I shoot a look over my shoulder and can see Nigel pushing his chair back. I am about to make a break for the stairwell, but Jenny anticipates my move and puts a hand on my arm.

“I’m glad you caught me, actually.” She pauses. “One of the medical researchers says that one of your staff members threatened him with termination. Any idea what happened there?”

I groan. Erica. “Tensions were running a little high yesterday,” I say. “I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”

Jenny furrows her brow. “It sounds to me like your staffer got in over her pay grade,” she says. “And that raises questions for me about how the staff in your office are being managed. I’d feel better if I could see your performance reviews.” She pauses and gives me a frank look. “You seem to be under a lot of pressure these days. I think it might be a good idea for us to get together and chat sometime soon. I’m going to have my assistant set up an appointment.”

Nigel is halfway across the lobby. “Sounds great, perfect, looking forward to it, OK,” I babble, giving Jenny an ill-conceived thumbs-up as I back away. There’s no time to wait for the elevator. I sprint over to the stairwell, duck inside and dash up two flights of stairs. Just as I’m rounding the last corner, I catch my toe on a stair and crash down onto my wrist.

“F*ck!” I shriek at the top of my lungs, and I hear my voice echoing all the way to the top of the building: f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck. My wrist is throbbing and I think I might be sick. I sit down heavily on the staircase and cradle my wrist in my good arm. It’s already starting to swell. But I have to keep moving. Christian Viggars’s press conference is about to start and after my encounter with Jenny, I need to show that I’m in control.

I stagger out of the stairwell and make my way over to the auditorium. Christian Viggars, Marvin and Erica are in a huddle beside the podium and the seats are filling up. I sidle up to the refreshments table, grab a napkin, and then, as subtly as possible, stick my hand into a plastic pitcher of water and extract a handful of ice to make an improvised icepack. The caterer comes up beside me with a look of undisguised disgust, and removes the contaminated pitcher.

Erica spots me and waves me over. “All set?” I ask.

“Everything’s great,” she says. “Marvin is going to do most of the talking. Christian will explain the technical data, but we’re going to limit him to that. Short and sweet.” Her gaze lands on the wet napkin around my wrist and the pooling water at my feet.

“Erica,” I say. “Did you, by any chance, tell Dr. Viggars that you could have him fired?”

“Of course not!” she says. “I don’t have the authority to do that. I told him that you could have him fired. It seemed to really get his attention.”

“Right,” I say. I should absolutely stay in this room and prevent, physically if necessary, anything else from going wrong. But I’m becoming more light-headed by the second. The best I can do is to attempt to neutralize Erica. So I give her a stern look, and say in my most imperious voice: “Let Marvin handle things here. Stay in the background. Understand?” Erica nods. I check the room to make sure Jenny isn’t here. “I’m going to watch the webcast from my office. If anything goes wrong, call me immediately and I’ll come down.”

I am overwhelmed with the need to get as far away from other people as possible and I try not to break into a run as a leave the conference room. I have a distinctly linear set of priorities at this moment:

1) Maintain a veneer of professionalism all the way up in the elevator;

2) Greet Joy with civility;

3) Turn on my computer and link to the web-cast;

4) Take as many Advil as the directions on the packaging permit; and then

5) Lie on the floor of my office.

I barely manage priority one, and decide to skip priorities two through four temporarily. I hear a knock, my door opens, and I open my eyes to see Geoff standing over me, seriously alarmed.

“What are you doing on the floor? Are you hurt?”

“No need for concern,” I say, pulling myself up into my chair and popping several Advil.

“Aren’t you going to the press conference?” he asks.

“I’m going to watch the webcast,” I say. “Do you mind pulling it up for me while I make a call?”

Geoff fiddles with the computer while I call my doctor, who has an office in the medical building down the street. At last, a piece of good luck. Dr. Chen is in the office today and she can fit me in at three-thirty.

“I fell on my wrist,” I tell Geoff, who still has a wrinkle of concern above the bridge of his nose. “I was feeling dizzy. But I’m fine now.”

Geoff comes around the desk and reaches for my arm. “Oh, Sophie, look how swollen it is! Let me take you to emergency.”

I wave him off. “It’s probably a sprain,” I say. “I just made an appointment with my doctor. Really, I’m fine. Do you want to watch the press conference with me?”

On my screen, I can see Marvin Shapiro striding up to the podium. He introduces himself and talks for a few minutes about the research program at Baxter. He is perfectly scripted. Then he turns the microphone over to Christian, who begins describing his research methods in great detail, with reference to several slides of charts, which are projected on a screen behind him.

Geoff nods his approval. “Erica did a nice job on this,” he says.

“Her diplomatic skills need some honing,” I say. “But that’s another story. You’ve been trying to grab me all day. What’s up?”

“We need to go over the plan for the holiday appeal. But now probably isn’t a good time.”

“I’m a captive audience,” I say. “I’d go for it, if I were you.”

“If you’re sure,” he says, and walks me through the script that he’s worked out with Claudio. It’s shaping up beautifully. Claudio has already filmed some sweeping introductory shots of the atrium, the playroom and the oncology ward. Geoff has secured permission from a local pop star to play her hit song “The Power of Dreams” in the background; it is a truly god-awful piece of music, which has exactly the right blend of manipulative sentiment and fake inspiration that never fails to make people want to open their wallets. And best of all, we have confirmed our “cast”; Carolyn Waldron has agreed to participate and has recruited one of her teenage cancer patients.

“Carolyn says the patient’s name is Taylor and she’s fifteen,” I say. “Can you swing by the ward this afternoon and do a preliminary interview with her? I want to get her responses to some general questions – What was it like when you first came to Baxter? What will you remember about your time here? What are your plans now that you are going home? This will help build a narrative around her own words, as much as possible. We’re really close. I think we’ll be able to finalize the script tomorrow morning. Can you let Claudio know that we’ll go ahead with the shoot on Saturday?” Despite the pain in my wrist, I feel pretty jazzed. I can’t believe we’re going to pull this off.

“You are a superhero,” I tell Geoff. “I have no idea what I would do without you.”

Geoff looks down at the desk, and I see a faint blush rising in his face. “Take credit where credit is due,” I tell him. “You totally saved the day on this one. I’m not throwing away a compliment, believe me.”

In the background, Marvin has started to take questions from the media. I note with approval that Marvin is answering most of the questions personally, and that Christian’s answers are very short and to the point. Relieved, I turn away from my computer screen, only to be struck by how tired and anxious Geoff looks, completely at odds with his usual collected demeanor. But the pressure of Barry’s totally unreasonable deadline must be getting to him. “The holiday ad will be fantastic,” I tell him. “Don’t worry.”

Geoff opens his mouth as if he is going to say something, but thinks better of it. “What is it?” I ask. “Tell me.” Chagrined, I realize that I’ve been putting far too much pressure on him. He never complains and I always assume that he welcomes the additional responsibility. But now I see that he is burning out, and I know that it’s my fault. “Geoff,” I say, “I’m sorry it’s been so crazy lately. I’m sorry I’ve been so crazy. I need to try not to lean on you so heavily. It’s not fair to you.”

Geoff’s head jerks up. “No, Sophie,” he says. “Never say that!” He pauses and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “This is awkward,” he says. “I’m not sure how to tell you this.”

Oh my god, I think. He’s quitting. I am so screwed. I manage to keep an expression of polite interest on my face, but I feel my stomach churning.

“The thing is, Sophie,” he says, “I think you’re an amazing person.” He pauses and looks at me expectantly.

“Thanks,” I say. I’m still waiting for him to tell me that he is quitting, but I’m not going to make it easier for him. He’s going to have to come out and say it.

He seems to steel himself to continue. “You know how much I enjoy the time we spend working together,” he says.

“As do I,” I agree cautiously. I’m losing the thread of this conversation, and it’s making me strangely nervous.

He takes a deep breath. “Sophie,” he says finally. “I have feelings for you, unprofessional feelings.” He pauses, and then presses on, speaking quickly and not making eye contact. “I’m sorry to do this. I know that you aren’t free. But I can see that you’re not happy. And I would give just about anything to be able to make you happy. I swear this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, but I needed to say it.” He stops.

I feel an almost clinical sense of detachment, as several thoughts erupt in my mind at once. My gaydar really sucks, for one. Could this day get any worse? for another. And, in addition: How am I going to get out of here? And lastly: This isn’t my fault, is it? I recognize these thoughts as being significantly less than admirable, and remind myself that until a brief, highly unfortunate moment ago, Geoff was a trusted colleague and work friend, if not a friend-friend. He deserves to be treated with respect and care, and I should appreciate the great compliment that he has paid me. But I don’t. The feelings I have are every bit as inappropriate as the thoughts; the most pronounced are uncomfortably like revulsion.

I will myself not to meet his eyes. “I had no idea that you felt this way,” I say, gingerly. “I think the world of you, but I --.”

Geoff interrupts. “Don’t say anything yet. I know this is a shock for you. You’ve persuaded yourself that I’m unavailable. But I want you to give this some time to sink in before you rationalize your way out of feeling anything for me.”

“I’m the one not available,” I say. “I have a family. I have a husband.” It’s the kindest response I can think of, and I remind myself again that he deserves my kindness, not my scorn. Although, honestly, the suggestion that I would leap at his offer but for my psychological need to rationalize my otherwise natural feelings away seems presumptuous in the extreme.

Doesn’t he understand the basic relationship principle that water sinks to its own level? That your choice of possible partners exists in a range of people who are basically as smart, attractive and accomplished as you are? You might have a special talent, for example, one that elevates you a few levels beyond your actual attractiveness. This explains why successful comedians or math geniuses might find themselves with a swimsuit model on their arms, but otherwise the rules are inviolate. Geoff is an ordinary, nice guy. Doesn’t he see that I’m out of his league?

“I know how important your family is to you,” he says. His nervousness has vanished, and now he’s sitting forward in his chair with unsettling intensity. “But is it enough? I see a smart, funny, beautiful woman who can’t see herself for who she is. And I think that if you were with the right person, you would have a better idea of just how special you are. I’m not going to put any pressure on you. I’ve been living with this for a long time, and I can be patient. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” I watch him stand and walk to the door, speechless. He turns, and delivers one last line, perfectly rehearsed: “Attraction doesn’t happen in a vacuum, Sophie.”

And I think: I used to believe that too.



The nurse calls me into Dr. Chen’s examining room and tells me to have a seat. Within a few minutes I hear the telltale clattering of high heels and Beverley Chen appears, balancing her tiny, perfect frame on a pair of three-inch Louboutin pumps.

“I have no idea how you stand up all day in those,” I say.

“They make me feel young and energetic,” she says. “Mind over matter.” She laughs. “But don’t quote me; it’s not a medical opinion.”

She comes over and stands beside me. “So what have you done here?”

I hold out my wrist. “Something stupid,” I say. “I fell on the stairs. I’m hoping that I didn’t break it.”

She takes my wrist and gently manipulates it. “I don’t think so,” she says. “I suspect it’s just a bad sprain, but I’m going to send you for an x-ray just to be sure. What were you doing on the stairs?”

I tell her about Nigel and my cold and my narrow escape.

“How long have you had this cold?”

“A couple of weeks,” I admit.

Beverley comes over and takes my temperature. Then she presses her fingers into the sides of my neck. “Any pain in your face?” she asks. “Here, or here?” she runs her fingers under my eyes and across my temple.

“Yes,” I say.

Beverley looks exasperated and sits down at her desk. “You have a sinus infection,” she says. She picks up her pen and begins filling out an x-ray requisition form. “I’ll give you a prescription as well.”

“Am I contagious?”

“Not at all.”

“Could you write me a note that says that so I can get past germ security at work?”

Beverley smiles. “It would be my pleasure. Usually people want me to write the opposite.” She scribbles a note on her medical pad and signs it with a flourish. “Is that it? Anything else falling apart aside from the wrist and the sinuses?”

I hear the words ‘falling apart’ and I am horrified to feel my eyes filling with tears. “Oh, how embarrassing,” I say. “I’m just fine. I have no idea why I’m crying.”

Beverley doesn’t say anything. She just waits and watches me with an expression of deep kindness and concern. She hands me a box of tissues.

“I’ve been a little stressed,” I say as I mop my face, but I hear a little sob in my voice.

“I see,” says Beverley, as if she does, indeed, see very well. “How are you sleeping?”

“Not very well. I have trouble falling asleep, and then if Scotty wakes up I can’t fall back to sleep. I can’t get my brain to turn off.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Work. The kids. Jesse. My mom. Christmas. Everything. How I’m not doing any of it as well as I want to or as well as I should.” I don’t add that my life feels like one long, flailing arc through the air, with no soft landing in sight.

“OK. How about eating? How’s your appetite?”

I’m not sure I like where this is going. “It’s fine.”

“Are you eating a balanced diet?”

“I’m trying to,” I say.

“How about alcohol? How many drinks are you having per week?”

I do a quick calculation and am shocked by the total. Do small glasses of wine count as a whole drink? I immediately revise the figure down. “Maybe seven?” I say.

Beverley makes a note in my chart, but to my relief moves to a new subject. “How often would you say that you feel anxious?”

“Is that a trick question?” Beverley shakes her head. “Pretty much all the time, I guess.”

“If you had to pick one word to describe how you feel most often, what would it be?”

“Totally overwhelmed. Sorry. That was two.”

“Do you cry easily?”

“Lately, yes,” I admit. “Usually a few times a day. It’s mortifying. The strangest things set me off. Like opening my email and realizing that I have fifty new messages. Or thinking about what to get my mother for Christmas. Yesterday, I nearly burst into tears in a staff meeting because I found out that I have to come in on Saturday to work on a project. I could barely concentrate on the meeting because I was so stressed about lining up a babysitter.”

“Have you had trouble concentrating on other things? Or making decisions?”

Now I really don’t like where this is going. “Sophie?” Beverley prompts me.

“Not with concentration, particularly,” I say. “But that last few weeks I’m finding decisions a little challenging.” I think about my email in-box and feel the tears well up again.

“Do you do anything for yourself, Sophie? Do you have any regular social things that you do, fitness classes, anything like that?”

I cast about. There must be something. “I go to yoga with my mother,” I say.

Beverley’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Do you enjoy that?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Not particularly,” I say.

“Let’s try again, then.”

“Book club?” I offer.

“How often do you go?”

“It’s once a month, but I haven’t been in awhile,” I admit.

She looks up. “When is your next book club meeting?”

“Tonight, actually,” I say.

“I want you to go to book club tonight,” says Beverley sternly. “Doctor’s orders. And this is a prescription for Sertraline. It is a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, or SSRI. It is a kind of antidepressant that often works quite well for people with your symptoms. I’m putting you on a fairly low dose for now and I want you to come back and see me in a couple of weeks so I can assess your symptoms again.”

“I’m not depressed,” I say. “I’m just really busy.” Now I’m crying openly. I’m crushed by my own sense of failure.

“Sophie,” says Beverley, “This is your health. And you are headed for a crisis if you don’t start taking care of yourself right now. I want you to take this seriously.”

“OK,” I snuffle.

Beverley comes over and takes my hand. “A prescription is not a failing grade in life management,” she says, gently. “I see five or six people exactly like you every week. I think you’d be surprised how many people you know are in the same boat. Now go get your x-ray, and go see your friends. It will make you feel better.”