Chapter 19
Chapter
The next morning, I wake up flooded with adrenaline and dread, wondering if Mom will still be in Slack, or if something I’ve done has already freed her.
I haven’t figured out how to tell her about Mark Winterson. Will he even want to talk to me again? Not exactly my finest moment, in retrospect—asking him a series of bizarre questions, shouting down his idea, and hacking my lungs out in front of him.
But maybe Mom’s seen how I’m working hard? I’ve been messaging Erica questions about the deck.
I have to check somehow, so I write:
ruby.ocampo:
Good morning, Mom!
I feel so torn, lying there, hoping she won’t write back, wanting her to pass on, roiling in guilt that I’m rooting for her to be gone forever.
Blaming myself for not making more of the chance I have to talk to her, while I can—but every time I think about it, I run into the same mental walls that I did when she was alive.
sampaguita72:
Good morning, Roobs
How did you sleep?
We make some small talk as I get ready for work. I pick up the phone every few minutes, between washing my face, putting on makeup, brushing my teeth. We don’t say anything real, like always. But it does feel like she’s still here.
I’m so spacey, driving to work. I feel a bit miserable and weirdly more alive at the same time—all colors more vibrant, senses sharpened—as I walk through the lobby and swipe in with the pass that dangles around my neck.
In the office, my ears perk up at the sound of whispering.
Somehow it’s always caught my attention, the pspsps that signals someone’s telling a secret—going back to when I was a kid, and Mom and Tita Wendy would lower their voices, hovering in a doorway while they thought Greg and I were distracted watching TV.
Sarah’s standing by Morgan’s cubicle, leaning in, slightly on tiptoe in her blocky beige heels. She’s wearing a pink silk blouse that ties at the neck with a long bow, tucked into a perfectly fitted gray pencil skirt. And when she glances over and sees me, she suddenly stops talking.
Morgan’s also looking at me—gone silent, unusual for her.
Are they talking about me? Judging me, maybe? For flirting with the new executive?
An image of Mom wrapping tiny boxes of chocolates to give her co-workers around Christmastime floats into my mind. You have to do this to build goodwill!
My face burns, and I hurry over to my cubicle to hide.
The next list item—BE WARM AND PLEASANT AND MAKE PEOPLE LIKE YOU AT WORK—isn’t going so well.
I’ll have to bank on impressing Erica with that presentation.
Maybe she’ll say something in Slack about how I show initiative and have a bright future. Maybe that will be enough for Mom.
The afternoon passes formlessly as I’m hopping between tasks, brain turning into a paste the longer I stare at the screen.
I’m working through Erica’s comments on the copy I’m supposed to turn around today. And one of her notes cuts deep, like when an envelope I’m opening unexpectedly slices the meat of my thumb.
Did you forget we’re trying to convince people to buy something?
Sometimes when I get discouraged, I think to myself: I’m constitutionally incapable of convincing anyone of anything. Even at my old job, my boss would say my copy lacked a certain something, and my ideas for campaigns would fall flat.
But you did convince Mark Winterson not to switch to Microsoft Teams!
There’s a twinge of warmth in my chest, and I smile to myself.
Then a message from Erica pops up, saying she wants me to jump on a Zoom even though we’re both sitting at our desks a few yards apart.
I start to sweat, wondering if she has questions about how the presentation is going, when I’ve barely even started on it.
Erica’s face appears, and she sighs wearily.
“Sarah, I thought I asked—”
“I’m not Sarah,” I say.
She looks annoyed, and the nerves hit me a few seconds late. It’s all I can do not to clap a hand over my mouth.
Maybe I’m just so on edge already, with everything that’s been going on.
Erica gives me a thin smile. “I said Ruby, didn’t I?”
I shouldn’t have said anything. Mom taught me that the world is never going to bend for you. That you have to grit down and try harder, make yourself as bendable as you can.
“Maybe I misheard you,” I say through my teeth.
“That’s all right,” Erica says, and launches into a speech about compound modifiers like nothing happened.
Mom would never take my side when I complained about anything. You’re too sensitive, she’d say. How are you going to make it out there? If I told her about Erica confusing me and Sarah, I know exactly what she’d say: That’s par for the course.
There was one time, a few months into my job in New York, when I broke down and told her I felt like I was failing all the time, like I was always behind. And she nodded and said, Good, you need something to keep you in check.
Of course, Mom chooses this moment to weigh in.
sampaguita72:
Why don’t you wear a more colorful top? Maybe put some flowers in your cubicle so they show up in your background?
I focus on keeping my smile fixed in place as Erica is talking.
sampaguita72:
You look so tired. Are you eating well? Are you getting enough sun?
I type a few things, delete them, type again.
ruby.ocampo:
I’m just working hard, Mom, like you taught me. Keeping my head down. Persevering, like you said.
sampaguita72:
You know it was hard for me, breaking into corporate life
People didn’t exactly treat me with respect
ruby.ocampo:
I know, Mom
sampaguita72:
Oh all right, well I guess you know everything
I minimize Slack and smile wider, showing some teeth. “Okay, sounds good! And I’ll also have that presentation ready for you bright and early tomorrow!”
Erica visibly relaxes. “Oh yes, thank you for that. All right then! Buh-bye!”
Once she ends the call, I slump across my keyboard and exhale all the air I’d been hoarding in my lungs, like I was in danger of running out.
The afternoon wears on, and eventually I look up from my desk and notice that the office lights have dimmed on a timer, and the sky outside is dark.
It’s late, and Morgan has gone home to her kids, but Sarah is typing away at her desk, and Al is in his cubicle, a lamp he brought from home glowing inside it.
I get up and drift over, and he’s chuckling at something on his phone. As I get closer, I realize he’s…scrolling on TikTok with headphones in?
He’s cleared out some of the mounds Erica disliked so much.
There are a few framed photos on his desk—one of Al posing with a marching band that looks like it was taken when he was in college, and a family photo with his smiling parents in front of a suburban house, the vivid blue sky taking on an amber sheen from age.
Al’s dad is dressed in a military uniform, one hand on little Al’s shoulder.
And there’s another photo in front of a different house that seems to be an homage—grown Al, standing the way his dad did, his wife next to him, hand on his little son’s shoulder, two daughters on either side.
The photo looks old enough that the kids must be adults themselves now.
My heart squeezes, seeing these bits of his past, and I feel sad that I haven’t asked him more about his life. I associate him so much with my mom, it scares me off from getting too close.
I almost want to add it to the collection of Post-it note reminders on my desk: Talk to Al more.
Al senses me hovering and slides down his headphones. “Erica told me the voice in my copy sounds dated.” He tilts the screen my way. “Gotta keep up to stay relevant.”
On his desk are a few printed-out articles about Skibidi Toilet and how LOL is dead and IJBOL is in.
A wave of melancholy washes over me. “You could do this at home?” I offer feebly.
“I hate bringing work home,” he says, running a hand over his head.
“I’m old—I still remember when working here felt like You’ve made it!
Before all this do more with less bullshit.
When there was time for a real lunch every day, and you never had to log back in from home just to”—he pitches his voice higher to imitate Erica and wiggles his fingers—“handle a few more notes real quick.”
That makes me laugh. “Can I do anything to help?”
Al shakes his head. “I’m fine, Ruby. You should head out.”
So I go back to my desk, and every now and then, the silence is punctured by the sound of Al laughing—such genuine enjoyment every time he comes across a funny TikTok. “Kids these days,” Al mutters under his breath. “They’re all marketing geniuses.”
At one point he lets out such a hearty guffaw that Sarah and I start laughing from our individual cubicles, little satellites in the dimly lit space.
sarah.ng:
lol al!
ruby.ocampo:
He’s the best
sarah.ng:
undisputed
The office is empty, but it feels like we’re all in this warm bubble together. I want to keep talking—I don’t want the bubble to pop.
Plus, if Sarah is dating Greg, isn’t it better that we’re friends?
ruby.ocampo:
So erica keeps confusing us, huh?
sarah.ng:
ugh god
we don’t even look alike?
And she’s right, of course—but it stings for a second, like maybe I offend her aesthetically.
sarah.ng:
i mean, flattering and everything! you are taller
A strained laugh escapes from me.
ruby.ocampo:
I’m the flattered one! wish i had your fashion sense
sarah.ng:
omg that’s so sweet
There’s a pause, but I can see she’s typing, then stopping, then typing again.
sarah.ng:
we didn’t have a lot of money growing up, so my favorite thing was recreating celebrity outfits at thrift stores
it’s nice to have this job now. not have to worry so much
and i can help my mom out a bit
A surge of some tangled emotion runs through me—guilt, shame, admiration, chased with the clogged spine-tight feeling of holding back tears. She deserves Greg more than me.
ruby.ocampo:
That’s amazing
Al stands and groans as he stretches. “You two should get out of here!” he exclaims, standing in the aisle between the cubes. “Not good for you, working too hard.”
“I’m almost done!” I say brightly as Sarah stands to join him.
Al drifts over to my cubicle, briefcase in hand. “So a little bird told me…” He leans in and whispers conspiratorially: “What’s happening with you and that new executive?”
I picture a bird with Morgan’s blond hair and imp-emoji expression, beak tilted in a menacing grin.
“Am I going to have to step in for your mom here? Give him a threatening speech?”
My heart feels swollen, too big for my chest.
“Oh…I don’t think enough is even…going on, for a speech?” I manage to get out with a shaky smile. “But thank you for offering.”
“Hey, it’s my duty!” Al says. “It’s like the presidential line of succession.”
I burst out laughing, tears squeezing out of the corners of my eyes. “Is it?”
Sarah comes up behind him, drinking water from the pink travel cup she carries around. (This next generation is so hydrated, Erica remarked dryly in one meeting.)
“Watch out for yourself,” Al adds, tapping the side of his head. “The man seems like a real rizzler.”
Sarah laughs so hard she almost spits out her water.
“Isn’t that how you use it in a sentence?” he protests.
She shakes her head, fanning herself with one hand.
“Damn, thought I had that one. All right!” He pats the cubicle wall one more time. “You get out of here soon, okay?”
Al waves as he and Sarah head for the elevators.
I was lying, though—I’m not even close to done. But I have to show Mom I’m taking this job seriously. Giving it everything I’ve got.
What if Erica thinks Sarah prepared the deck for her? a voice in the back of my mind asks.
Then there’s some movement by the elevators, and I stand to get a better look, feeling vulnerable as the last one left on this floor.
It’s someone pacing. A guy in a suit.
I get up and venture in that direction—and Mark Winterson is walking slowly away from me down the hall, phone to his ear.
He stops, gazing out the window into the dark courtyard of the office park, gesturing with his free hand.
Even under the harsh overhead lights, he’s sickeningly handsome: trim figure, luxuriant hair, striking profile.
It sinks in slowly that he’s not speaking English. It sounds like…Chinese? And he seems pretty comfortable—more comfortable than I am speaking my native language in meetings, most days.
My first thought, regrettably, is that it’s kind of hot.
Then my second thought hits like a tiny meteor, a burst of shame, mysterious anger, and resentment. Because I never learned Tagalog, and Mom always seemed to vaguely hold it against me, even though she also said it would be a waste of time.
And I’m standing there like an idiot, mouth agape, when he starts pacing back this way, looks up, and sees me.
“Xièxie dàjiā! Zàijiàn!” he exclaims into the phone, holding eye contact with me as he ends the call.
“You speak Chinese?” I ask.
“Yeah, did a semester at Beijing Daxue,” he says with a casual little shrug. He points at me. “Do you speak…?”
He’s clearly waiting for me to fill in the blank so he doesn’t have to guess what I am.
“Tagalog.” I try my best to say it like Mom did, at least. Tuck in my t, make the g sharp, lean into the log.
And I don’t want to actually answer his question, so instead I mumble “nakakainis” under my breath. One of the few words I do know: Annoying!
Mark Winterson doesn’t ask me what that means. He just stares at me a few seconds too long.
“How’s, um—” He waves a hand vaguely around the area of his neck. “Your throat now?”
“Fine.” I crack a smile. “Boba-free.”
He laughs and looks at the floor, a bashful grin stretching his face.
His eyes flick back up to meet mine. “You ever seen the roof here before?”