6. Helen
My earliest memory is actually fairly clear. I’m not sure exactly how old I was, but somewhere around three years old, because of, well. What I heard.
My parents were arguing, and my mom, who was usually quite reasonable, was being so shrill that it woke me up. I dragged my blanket into the hall and was about to walk into the kitchen to ask them what was wrong, but something Mom said made me stop.
“I didn’t even want Helen, but you insisted that I would change my mind.”
She didn’t want me? Want me to what?
“Well, I never did. You were wrong. And now you’ve done it again. You’re going to wreck my chances at getting tenure, all because you can’t seem to keep your hands off me.”
“We’re married,” my dad said softly. “And you may not be glad you had Helen, but I’m happy we have her. She’s a very smart little girl, just like her mother. And in a few years, when we’re older, we’ll be glad we had a child. It’s an investment in our future happiness.”
“Oh? And when’s the last time an investment in our future made you throw up in the middle of a faculty meeting? When’s the last time you got passed over for a promotion because you were having a baby?” Mom stood. “Never. Which is so unfair. I hated being pregnant the first time, and this time, I’m doing something about it.”
“I’m not saying you can’t,” Dad said. “I’m just saying that we should wait and think about it for a week.”
Mom shoved Dad. “You wait.”
“People say having two dogs makes the whole thing easier. Kids might be like that,” Dad said. “Maybe having another one will make Helen easier to deal with. Another child could help level out her tantrums and mood swings.”
“I can’t believe I thought you were smart when we got married.” Mom’s eyes flashed. “But the good news is that it doesn’t matter what you say. In California, I can do what I want, and what I want is to terminate this pregnancy.”
Terminate. It meant to end. I knew that much.
It hit me then, what was happening. A boy at my preschool just had a little sister. They named her Olive. It was a bad name, because olives were gross. But my desire for a sister, which I had previously never realized I had, exploded inside of me.
“No!” I lurched into the kitchen, dropping my blanket so Mom couldn’t get angry I was carrying it around. “You can’t terminate my sister.”
“Helen.” Mom’s eyes widened. “You—how long have you been standing there?”
“You can’t kill her.” I realized that tears were streaming down my cheeks. “I want a sister. And I want to name her Abigail. And I want to take her with me to the park. And she can sleep in my room. And I can get up and feed her. Okay? You can work, and Abigail will be my job.”
Dad picked me up and cradled me against his chest. “Oh, Helen, you’re too small to have a baby as your job.”
I shook my head. “I’m not. If you can just have my little sister, she can be my job, and Mom can work, and you can work too, and I’ll take care of her. Okay? Please?”
Mom opened her mouth and closed it again.
Dad just swallowed.
“Please. Please don’t kill my sister.”
“It could be a boy,” Mom said. “We don’t even know. The baby’s just a speck right now.”
But to me, that speck was already my sister. I never let it go. I fought for that speck every single day, hard enough that my mom, who clearly didn’t want to have another baby, kept her. Hard enough that when she was finally born, four years younger than me, I took my job seriously. I helped change her diapers. I cleaned up her dirty laundry. I helped make her bottles.
I never regretted fighting for Abigail’s life.
But I did learn as I grew older that there were some people who should never have kids. My parents were certainly among them. And after I saw Abigail raise her children, I realized that in spite of wanting a sister so badly that it hurt, in spite of knowing that something was missing from my life, I was one of them, too.
Because I’m nothing like Abigail.
I could never give a child what it really needs. In my heart of hearts, I’m my mother’s daughter. I might want to invest in my future happiness. I may wish I could be the kind of person who puts someone else’s needs first. But any child that had me as a mother would suffer for it.
No, the babies of the world deserve Abigails, not Helens.
I can’t help thinking about how natural Abigail is with her children, with little Nate, with all of them. I can see her, whipping them up in the air, cradling their heads naturally, without even thinking. I see her, patiently setting the contract she’s reviewing aside so she can burp a baby. So she can read Gabe a book. So she can direct her kids how to clean up from dinner.
She doesn’t snap.
She doesn’t resent them for ruining her life.
No, she cherishes them. She sees the fleeting moments for what they are: beautiful and transient. She puts everything else behind what really matters, and those kids all know it in their bones. In their DNA. In a way Abigail and I never did, her children know that they’re loved.
Unlike my mother, I’m not willing to be swayed. So if David’s secretly trying to tell me that he knows I don’t want children, but he thinks he can wear me down, he’s sadly mistaken. I will never make the mistake my mother did. I will never bring children into this world only to disappoint and neglect them.
I will always do the thing Helen Fisher is best at doing. That’s why I’m here right now. I’m about to convince one shareholder at a time, including the reticent, shy recluse I’ve tracked down to go ahead and sell me his or her shares so I can take this company over and make it into something great.
And make a lot of money from it. Let’s not forget that part.
That’s what Fishers do best. We take things over. We succeed. We impress. We exceed expectations. But we do not have children and raise them with love and tender care. Abigail managed it, because in her heart of hearts, she’s different than me and Mom and Dad. She’s better. She came through all the madness whole and healthy in a way I can’t even fathom.
I do like to think I had some small part in that, but I often wonder whether it’s true. Yes, I was a little kinder and gentler than my mom, but I was never there for her the way a person really needs. I never offered her what she has shown to her children—comfort, stability, and acceptance. Sacrifice and understanding. Those just aren’t things Fishers are great at providing.
When I walk into the boardroom of the hotel this bizarre McFarland person insisted on meeting me at, I square my shoulders and run through my arguments one last time. Instead of one man sitting at the table, McFarland, or possibly two, McFarland and his lawyer, there are more than six people waiting for me.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I may be in the wrong room. I’m looking for a Mister or Missus McFarland. Pratt McFarland.”
The men and women stand, but the one who speaks is a tall, handsome man at the front. “We named our group Pratt McFarland in the hopes that people would assume we were a single man.” The man grins, and I realize that I know him.
It’s Oliver, my business school boyfriend.
My very first boyfriend.
The one who stole my idea.
I was hoping that if I ever saw him again, he’d be fat and bald. If he also had bushy nose hair and a unibrow, well, that would not upset me. Unfortunately, he looks just fine. He also doesn’t appear to be the least bit surprised that I’m here, so I assume that he’s kept up with where I am and what I’ve been doing. He knows he’d have been better off helping me with my idea than he was stealing it and giving it to his dad. That gives me at least a small twinge of satisfaction.
I modify my presentation to address the fact that it’s not a single person but a group, not letting on that I recognize Oliver or even know who he is. By the end of the meeting, they still won’t sell me their shares, but they’ve at least agreed to vote with me when the time comes.
“It’s been disappointing, really,” a woman named Alexa Pratt says. “This company had so much promise, but Gonzago’s imploding.”
“It’s time we do something about that,” I say.
“I think we all heartily agree,” Oliver says.
I don’t leave anything to chance, of course, so I pull out the documents I prepared for this contingency. Once I have the proper signatures in place for their proxy, I stand. “It’s been a pleasure, Mister McFarland.” I’m smiling as I turn to leave.
“Helen, wait.” Oliver jogs to catch up with me just before I walk out the door.
I turn around, glad I wore my four-inch heels so he’s barely taller than me, and look him over as if I’m trying very hard to place him. “Yes?”
“It’s me,” he says. “Oliver—from Harvard.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right. Business School.” I nod. “I knew you looked familiar.”
He frowns. “Surely you remember?—”
“I’m kidding, Oliver. Of course I know who you are.” He was my boyfriend for nearly two years. He was the first person I thought I loved. I didn’t really know what love meant, but losing him still really hurt. “What did you want?”
“Do you have time to go to dinner? I thought we could catch up.”
“Catch up?” I lift my eyebrows.
He sighs, finally having the decency to look a little embarrassed. “I could apologize if you’ll hear me out.”
I purse my lips. “You could apologize for dumping me and then shamelessly stealing my idea, but I’m not sure what good it would do.”
“I’ll pay for dinner—anywhere you choose.”
“Anywhere?” I arch one eyebrow.
He shrugs.
“Citrine and Mélisse,” I say. “I loved Citrine, and I hear it’s still excellent now that they’ve moved and joined forces.”
He cringes a little, and that makes it worth it. For a split second, I wonder whether I ought to ask David whether it will bother him—me going to dinner with my ex. But then I think about the idea of a grown woman having to ask permission from someone to do something, and I want to burn this hotel down.
It’ll be fine.
I’m only going with him in order to extract an ounce of flesh from someone who wronged me. Which is why, when I reach the restaurant in my own car and toss the key to the valet, I breeze past Oliver. “I’m not doing the tasting menu.” I can’t help my tiny smirk. “Prepare to pay through the nose.”
“I expected nothing less,” he says.
About five hundred dollars in appetizer and dinner selections and a thousand-dollar bottle of wine later, I’m ready for him to grovel.
“You know, I could have squashed your family’s little bank into the ground.” I fold my arms. “You should really be thanking me instead of apologizing. If I were a vengeful person, you’d be eating at McDonald’s right now.”
He laughs. “You’re pretty impressive, but you’re not God.”
I whip out my phone. “Just for that, I’m calling Haverly and telling him?—”
He grabs my wrist. “Fine. You are god, and my family and I are both very sorry and very grateful for your condescension. Happy?”
I put my phone away. “Is that it? That’s the whole apology?”
“You were always a lot for me to handle,” he says. “I knew you were glorious, but I was also a little jealous. So when I started telling my dad about your idea, and he thought it was mine. . .” He squirms. “I’m sorry. If I were a better person, I’d have told him the truth, but in that moment, all I could think about was the fact that my dad was finally proud of something I did.”
“But he wasn’t,” I say. “It was never yours to be proud of.”
“You can’t own an idea,” he says.
“You do like to think you can trust your boyfriend not to steal yours and then dump you.” Coming here was a mistake. It’s been a long time, but I’m still angry.
“Clearly you kept your best ideas for yourself.” He picks up his hand like he’s going to try and place it on mine, but he thinks better of it, thankfully, so I don’t have to claw his eyes out. “You’ve done really, really well, Helen. Better even than anyone at HBS thought you would.”
Luckily, they bring the wine. If they hadn’t, I might have punctured the top of his foot with my stiletto as I left.
A glass or two later, I’m not nearly as angry.
“Is it true?” he asks, his cheeks a little rosy. I think he’s had even more wine than me. He’s totally the kind of guy who would try to drink more than his half of the bottle since he’s paying and it’s expensive.
Idiot.
“Is what true?” I ask. “About Vitality Plus, you mean?”
He waves his hand through the air dismissively. “No, no. I’m sure you’re totally right about that, and I trust you to make us lots of money. I meant about David.”
I freeze.
“Are you really dating that guy?” He looks at my hand, and more specifically, at the shackle on my ring finger. “Tell me that’s not some kind of bizarre engagement ring.”
“It is,” I say. “Or at least, it’s the ring he had custom designed by Tiffany’s when he proposed and I said yes.”
His mouth dangles open in a very satisfying way.
“Is it really that surprising? He’s handsome, rich, kind, and talented.”
“I’m not surprised you like him,” he says.
My hands ball into fists. “Do you really want to piss me off again?”
“Oh, I don’t mean that. Of course he’d like you. He’s always been into women who are even cooler than he is. His sister and his mom run his company, by all accounts. No, I’m surprised you’ve stayed together, because by all counts, you’re uniquely unsuited for one another.”
“Unsuited?” I sniff. “You’re really not making things better.”
The scallops and truffle egg arrive just in time to keep me from spearing him with my fork. I can’t do something like that right in front of a witness after all, and it’s so good that I calm down slightly. A moment later, the lobster bolognese comes, too, and it’s the best thing I’ve had here yet. Eating always helps me retract my claws—probably a reflex because I have to be polite to the server.
Now that I look less angry, Oliver decides to do some damage control. “All I meant is that, unless you’ve somehow changed your mind, it’s odd that Mister I-Adore-Children proposed to Miss I’ll-Never-Have-Them. That’s all I’m saying.”
“David adores children?” I blink. “Why do you say that?”
Oliver laughs, and then he laughs some more. He actually has to wipe his eyes.
When the truffle risotto comes, I wonder whether we ordered too many dishes with truffles in them, but one bite and I’m a believer. “I feel like I’m missing something,” I say. “I wasn’t making a joke. What’s so funny?”
“You weren’t?” Oliver sets his fork down.
I shake my head. “He’s great with my nieces and nephews, and I know his parents want us to have a kid, but he told me he’s fine with not having any.”
“Oh.” He shrugs. “Well, great. If you’ve talked about it, I’m sure it’s fine. Maybe it’s all just for show.”
But then I think about his parents and how he didn’t tell them we aren’t having kids. He didn’t tell them anything at all. “He knows I’m in my forties,” I say.
“Has he heard of IVF?” Oliver sounds incredulous. “Because I read about an eighty-year-old lady getting pregnant, like, in Africa or somewhere.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m just saying, if he was really worried, he’d be pushing it now. It’s pretty much already too late for me.” Or at least, that’s what I spent most of the night telling myself.
Oliver holds up both hands, palms facing me. “I call a truce. I didn’t mean to pick a fight.”
“But why do you think he loves kids so much?” Did he say something while we were in school? Would it even matter if he did? I mean, it’s not like Oliver might know more than I do about my own boyfriend. Right? Right.
“I mean, I think everyone knows it.” Oliver whips out his phone and starts tapping. He swivels it around. “I figured everyone in the world had seen these.”
The video’s playing on a tiny phone screen, but it’s still quite clearly David Park, my handsome, well-spoken, kind-hearted boyfriend, er, fiancé, talking to the screen. . .while sitting in a room full of children.
“St. Jude?” I look away long enough to stare at Oliver. “You’re saying he’s, what? A spokesperson for St. Jude?”
“He was their largest single donor for the last three years,” Oliver says. “Or, rather, his company was. He does these live fundraiser chats about twice a year, and he always features some of the kids he has met and helped, personally, and then tells people exactly where their money goes.”
I snatch the phone out of his hands, and I’m so busy watching the videos I’ve never even seen that I don’t think to taste the Vermilion Rockfish until it’s cold. When I finally relinquish Oliver’s phone back to him, I feel a little sick.
“Maybe he doesn’t like kids as much as it seems.” He shrugs. “Maybe you two are a perfect match. They always show so many things on television that aren’t reality. It’s hard to tell.”
But the same scene keeps playing on repeat over and over in my head. In one particularly touching moment, a little girl with an adorable unicorn scarf covering her head is laughing, and then she stops. “What about you, Mr. Park?” she asks. “You make all our wishes come true, but what’s your wish?”
“One day,” he says, “one day I hope to have a dozen little children of my very own.” He taps her nose lightly. “And if they’re half as cute as you, I’ll be a very lucky man.”
She sneezes.
And they both laugh.
It’s a magical moment, and it totally ruins the rest of my two thousand dollar meal.