The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 8: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2011

J. Sophie Whelan

To: [email protected]

Sent: Wednesday, December 7, 2011, 6:45 AM

Subject: Hi



Hi Will,



I heard that you called the other day. It’s been too long! How are you? Would love to get together next time you are passing through town.



Sophie



William R. Shannon

To: [email protected]

Sent: Wednesday, December 7, 2011, 7:03 AM

Subject: Re: Hi



Hey Sophie. Thanks for the Christmas card. Glad to hear that the family is doing well. I’m coming into town later today and wanted to see you. Are you around? WRS



J. Sophie Whelan

To: [email protected]

Sent: Wednesday, December 7, 2011, 7:06 AM

Subject: Re: Re: Hi



Definitely around. Let me know what works. Looking forward to seeing you!



I’m checking my BlackBerry every five seconds as I stand in line at Nigel’s station, but there’s nothing from Will. There are, however, a series of increasingly hysterical messages from Erica, with little red exclamation marks and subject lines that read “Call me!” and “Where are you????” Willfully, and a little bit maliciously, I ignore them.

This is because virtually everything I do is the result of a complex calculation that I call the Requirement Of Action Rating, or ROAR. The ROAR is a number that is produced by adding the Desire To Perform Activity, the Guilt Factor Associated With Failure to Perform Activity, and the Need to Behave Like a Grown-Up and then subtracting Allowable Selfishness: DPA + GF + NBLG – AS = ROAR. Although the temptation is often to allocate a negative number to the Desire to Perform Activity, or DPA, the available range is zero to ten. Allowable Selfishness is generally in the range of one to five, except when it is your birthday (eight), you are in labor (nine), in the hospital in critical condition (nine point five) or in a coma (ten). In this case, my desire to coddle Erica with reassuring messages about my impending arrival in the office is zero, and any reasonable guilt that I might otherwise have felt is tempered by my conviction that Erica and the rest of her helicopter-parented, praise-craving, sacrifice-allergic generation need some tough love. My GF is therefore a meager one. My NBLG is arguably satisfied by refusing to give into Erica’s neediness, so I allocate a neutral score of five, and award myself an AS of three due to the fact that I cannot seem to get rid of my runny nose and cough and feel moderately horrible, and also because I am pretty distracted by the whole Will Shannon situation. So that’s zero plus one plus five minus three equals three. Math has never been my strong suit, which is why I’ve ended up as a Communications Director and not a doctor, but anything in the dull ROAR range of one to five can be safely ignored.

The line is moving very slowly this morning; Nigel has his hands full interrogating some anemic-looking supplicant who has had the misfortune to cough within earshot of his desk. I check my BlackBerry again.

William R. Shannon

To: [email protected]

Sent: Wednesday, December 7, 2011, 9:08 AM

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Hi



Am just about to board a flight. Can you call me in the next 10 minutes? WRS



Nigel summons me to the desk.

I hold up my BlackBerry. “Sorry, but I’m in a rush. I’m due on a call,” I say.

Nigel looks unimpressed. “No exceptions. Hospital policy,” he says, pulling out his survey.

I look at my watch. It’s nine-fifteen. I’m going to miss Will if I don’t get out of this line now. “I’ll take a mask,” I say, pointing at the box of surgical masks beside the desk.

Nigel looks surprised and more than a little disappointed. Failing hospital employees on the survey and forcing them to wear a surgical mask all day is the only fun his job has to offer. “I think we’d better complete the questions first,” he says. “For our records.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t have time.”

Nigel puffs out his chest. “I understand that not everyone thinks this process is important, but I would appreciate a little respect.”

“I have three, no, two minutes to get on this call. Give me the mask, please.”

“Not until you answer the questions.”

“Give me the f*cking mask!” I screech, and Nigel hands it over as I punch in the numbers.

“Will Shannon.”

“Will, I’m so glad I caught you! It’s Sophie,” I say.

“Hey, Soph,” he says. “I’ve just got a second here. I can swing by your office around two. Is that good?”

“Very good,” I say.

When I arrive on the fourteenth floor, Erica is waiting. She looks wild-eyed and pale. “Sophie, thank god. It’s crazy here. I’ve got media calls from sixty news outlets already and they keep coming. Apparently one of our researchers has found a definitive link between hours of television and ADHD. Someone leaked a preliminary report onto an international news feed, and it went viral.”

ADHD. My shoulders crunch upwards with anticipatory stress. “Breathe, Erica,” I say. “Have you actually seen the report?”

“No.”

“Who’s the researcher?”

“Someone named Christian Viggars. I’ve never heard of him.” She pauses. “What’s with the mask?”

I ignore her. “Let’s call Marvin Shapiro and sort this out.”

I sit down at my desk and shove the mask up to the middle of my forehead as I pick up the phone. Dr. Marvin Shapiro is the Director of Medical Research at the Baxter, and he is so lovely and respectful and gentlemanly that I try to be on my very best behavior whenever we speak. “Good morning, Marvin,” I say, as he answers.

“Ah, Sophie. I thought I might hear from you today.”

“Do we have someone named Christian Viggars doing research in our hospital?” I ask.

“Indeed we do,” says Marvin.

“Well, Marvin,” I say, “Every news outlet in North America wants to talk to him this morning about how television causes ADD.”

“I see.”

“Do you know anything about this report?”

There is a pause. “Possibly. I think it would be best if I spoke to Dr. Viggars before you meet with him.”

“That’s fine. We’ll need to speak to him today, though, so that we can figure out our media strategy.”

“Undoubtedly a good idea,” says Marvin. “It might also be a good idea for me to attend. Dr. Viggars is brilliant, but somewhat – what’s the word I’m looking for? – disconnected from the concerns that animate your work. Do you understand what I mean?”

I don’t really, since virtually every researcher in the hospital, with the exception of Marvin himself, would fit this description, so I say “Thanks, Marvin,” and leave it at that.

I hang up the phone and see Joy in the doorway with a sheaf of pink messages in her hand. “You’re late for the search committee meeting,” she says. “And Janelle Moss has phoned three times this morning,” she says sourly. “Are you planning to call her back?”

“Eventually,” I say. “I have a couple of other things to deal with today that are more pressing than the theme for the Gala. If she calls again, please tell her that there is a very urgent problem that needs my attention this morning and I will call her at my earliest convenience, which will not be before this afternoon.”

I sprint downstairs to the meeting room. From the far end of the corridor, I can see Jenny Dixon waiting patiently outside the door, and I murmur I am a competent professional over and over again like a mantra until I’m standing in front of her.

“What was that you said?” she asks.

“Nothing. I think we’re late, Jenny,” I say. “We should get inside.”

“In a second,” she says. “I just need to have a quick word with you, Sophie. I’m sorry to tell you this, but there’s been an HR complaint about you.”

My mind races. Surely I haven’t been so neglectful of my staff that they’ve complained to the HR department? “Who was it?” I ask.

Jenny looks uncomfortable. “The identity of the complainant is confidential, but he claims that you abused him in the course of his duties this morning and used an obscenity.”

I’m almost giddy with relief to know that I’ve been betrayed by Nigel and not by one of my own, and it makes me less measured than the circumstances call for. “I thought I was pretty restrained in the circumstances,” I say.

Jenny smothers a smile. “That’s not quite the response I was looking for,” she says. This particular complainant is known to the authorities, shall we say, and not all of his grievances are as well-founded as this one.”

“I admit that I may have been less than polite. Perhaps we could agree that there was a misunderstanding?”

“Perhaps,” she says. “I’ll tell the complainant’s supervisor that you regret your choice of words. It would be ideal if you would apologize to him. Do you think you could do that?”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, ungraciously.

“Do that,” she says. “Shall we?” She reaches for the door. “Nice mask. I understand it may be more effective if you take it off your forehead and put it on your face, though.”

The meeting is in full swing as we enter. The agenda, which Barry flings down the table at us, indicates that we are reviewing the reference checks and deciding on the set list of questions to be asked to each candidate in the interviews. I feel strangely lightheaded in my mask, a symptom that is probably psychosomatic, but I seem to have to concentrate harder than usual on breathing without hyperventilating. As a result, I am only partly listening to the discussion; in any event, it’s more of a monologue, as Barry describes the comments of the references at length. With Barry’s voice rising and falling in the background, I look around the table at the rest of the committee. There are the three Board members hanging off Barry’s every word, nodding along with the cadence of his voice. As for the others, Marvin seems intent on a document in the binder in front of him. Carolyn Waldron is sending email surreptitiously under the table. Anusha Dhaliwal is doodling on the back of the agenda. Patti and Jenny are writing notes to each other, which they scratch out violently as soon as they are read. And then there’s Lil, still wearing the fox stole, eyes closed and head lolling slightly to one side.

Reading between the lines, it seems that Stephen Paul has had a distinguished career running a large public company, that he is regarded as a strong business strategist, that he is at his best when engaged in high-profile deal-making, and that his exposure to philanthropy is through his corporate foundation, which operates under the direction of an advisory board, distributing money to worthy community projects and reporting to Mr. Paul on a quarterly basis.

“Fantastic references,” Barry enthuses, although to my ears, the candidate’s manifold talents sound only tangentially related to the position that we are trying to fill. Karim Assaf is next, and he too is deemed by Barry to be “a serious guy”, having made frequent appearances in the society pages as the stylish, metrosexual Director of the City Arts Center. His references speak glowingly of his charisma, energy and vision in relation to large-scale events, but there are also some oblique references to negative revenues, which Barry is not inclined to elaborate upon. Margaret Anderson is last. She is a former nurse turned administrator, who is now the Executive Director of a national organization that provides support services for cancer patients. She is described as collaborative, hard-working, strategic and dedicated. “A good third choice,” says Barry. “Not the most exciting candidate, obviously, but clearly worth seeing. Although, in confidence, I understand that she is a single mother, so she will have considerable difficulty fulfilling the responsibilities of this position.”

From the way that the Board members nod in unison, it is apparent that Margaret Anderson’s family status has been a live topic of discussion in some quarters. I raise my hand. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not totally clear on the problem with Margaret being a single mother. How is that going to affect her work?”

Irritation flashes across Barry’s face, but he quickly masks it with an expression of indulgent and exaggerated patience. “I’m sorry, Sophie,” he says. “It’s difficult to understand you in that mask. Could you repeat your comment?”

I raise my mask back up to the center of my forehead and try again.

“Fundraising is not a nine-to-five job, Sophie,” says Barry. “Whoever takes this job will be expected to attend a lot of evening events, regardless of family commitments.”

“Again, I’m sorry to have come into the debate late,” I say, “but has she said that she can’t attend events after hours?”

“No. That would have disqualified her from the outset.”

“Are you going to ask her directly whether being a single mother is going to prevent her from fulfilling her responsibilities?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Barry snaps. “That would be completely inappropriate!”

Jenny rolls her eyes at the end of the table. Everyone else is looking down; I’m on my own here.

I remind myself that I am a person who once Cared About Issues exactly like this one, and am gratified to feel a tiny little flame of rage ignite in the recesses of my brain – likely in the part that stores nostalgic recollections of the person I once believed I could become, a person who is certainly not someone who swears at minimum-wage employees at the check-in desk and lies to her assistant about where she goes at lunch and knees her husband in the groin accidentally on purpose. “I think it would be fair to give her an opportunity to respond to your concerns if they are serious enough to make you think that she can’t do the job,” I say.

“Absolutely not,” says Barry, coldly. “All candidates will be asked the same questions. We are not going to give this lady a reason to say that our process was sexist or some other garbage. Margaret Anderson is the weakest candidate in the group and that’s why she’s not going to get this job. You need to eat a reality sandwich here, Sophie. Smarten up.”

I lower my mask and sit back in my chair, agreeing with Barry for perhaps the first time in our entire unfortunate acquaintance. I definitely need to smarten up.

Barry runs through the list of questions, which are all standard chestnuts designed to elicit platitudes and generalities: What three strengths do you possess that would ensure your success in this job? What would your goals be for your first hundred days in the job? How would your employees describe you? How has your experience prepared you to lead the Baxter Foundation? At least Barry hasn’t insisted that we ask the candidates what animal they would be, although it’s not clear that the questions we have selected would be much more illuminating. The meeting finally ends, and as I prepare to leave, I notice a flurry of activity at the end of the table.

Lil is awake and rising with difficulty from her chair; Patti and Jenny flutter at her side. I join them. “Oh, dear,” she says in a quavering voice, “I’m sorry to be such a bother! I wonder if I could impose....” Her hand locks onto my arm. “Would you mind helping me down to my car, dearie?”

“I’d be happy to,” I say, and Lil beams. She says nothing as we head out of the room and down the hall, leaning heavily on my arm. But as soon as the elevator doors close, and we find ourselves alone, she straightens up and grins at me. “Hello Sophie,” she says. “How excellent to see you! What are you doing for lunch?”