Chapter 10
Carlos
Zurich is, in my opinion, one of the most underrated cities in Europe.
In my youth my wife and I came here once to hike the Stoos trail before it became a popular tourist destination, and I’ll never forget the views looking down on the lakes, the boats tiny toys floating on the water, the splashes of colors along the path of the cornflowers and arnicas in bloom, or the accompanying cacophony of the cowbells providing a soundtrack for the entire hike.
Sadly, this time I won’t get out to hike, as our presentation is in the morning, but I’ll get to do my favorite summer activity in the afternoon.
But first, I have to find Jade. She disappeared, leaving me to ensure her presentation is set up.
Last night, she texted me asking if I had a spare cord for her phone—she’d forgotten hers—and I delivered it to her at the hotel bar last night.
I wonder how much she drank. People are taking their seats, and already the room buzzes.
I hope she took the weekend to practice. While her presentation in Vienna was better than Berlin, there’s so much more potential.
On the suspicion of a hangover I check the women’s bathroom and there she is, holding a paper towel against the back of her neck. She’s leaning against the wall, her eyes closed, but at my entrance they flash open and then she straightens.
“Carlos, what are you doing in here?”
“Looking for you.” I eye her. She’s pale, her normally tanned skin taking on a gray pallor and the corners of her mouth are tight. “Do you need a Paracetamol? A hangover cure, perhaps?”
She glares at me. “I’m not hungover,” she snaps.
I school my face not to show my doubts. Every night I’ve spent with her so far, I’ve seen Jade with a glass of wine. She’s always out later than I am—not that that is saying much—and she’s definitely not the same person I know from our office.
In my career, I’ve seen many colleagues “loosen up” while on work trips. I’ve been the butt of many jokes, people thinking that getting me drunk will solve my social problems.
“What about something to eat?” I offer as a compromise.
Jade’s hand covers her stomach and she blows out a hard breath. “No.” Her word is firm and final.
She turns, running the tap to dampen the paper towels again before placing them on the back of her neck. Her shirt is black, so it mostly hides the moisture.
She gathers her things from the counter and stuffs them back into her purse—lip gloss, her phone, and . . . is that a Polaroid? Then she mutters, and I almost ask her to repeat herself but then she says something loud enough for me to hear. “You can do this. Number three. Nine more to go.”
Jade’s giving herself a pep talk.
“Are you . . .”
Her eyes dart up to mine in the mirror.
“Do you have stage fright?” The words come out before I can modulate my tone and Jade’s gaze crackles.
“So?” Her words have a defensive edge.
“It’s just . . . you are so confident normally. And talkative. How is it that you have this fear?”
Jade peels the paper off her skin and wads it up, tossing it into the waiting bin. “What, do you think extroverts aren’t allowed to have social anxieties?”
Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. I’m one of the most antisocial people I know, but that doesn’t mean that I have problems standing up in front of a crowd.
“Forget it. Let’s get this over with,” Jade says, not waiting for me to walk out, so I am left alone in the women’s bathroom, feeling like I’ve inadvertently pressed my thumb into a tender bruise.
I return to the presentation room, my mind still processing what just happened. Stage fright. Jade has stage fright.
The pieces start clicking together. Her pallor. The paper towel on her neck—cooling herself down. The pep talk. “Number three. Nine more to go.”
Not hungover. Panicking.
I check my watch. Two minutes until we start. I head to the side of the stage where I wait during presentations, pulling out my tablet to review my notes even though I don’t need to. I’ve done this presentation in German so many times I could recite it in my sleep.
Jade appears from the hallway, walking toward the stage with her purse. Her color is slightly better, but her jaw is set in that way I’ve come to recognize means she’s forcing herself forward through sheer willpower.
She climbs the steps without looking at me, stashing her purse and picking up the clicker. The opening slide is already on the screen behind her.
The room has filled while I was gone. A smaller crowd than before. Two hundred people, maybe a few more. All waiting.
Jade takes her position at the podium. From where I stand at the side of the stage, I can see her profile. She grips the edges of the podium, her knuckles white.
It’s time.
“Good morning,” Jade begins, and her voice is steady. Professional. “Thank you all for attending today’s presentation on advances in hair loss prevention for oncology patients.”
I step forward and begin translating, but my attention is divided. I’m watching her in a way I haven’t before.
Now that I know what to look for, I can’t unsee it.
The way she swallows hard before clicking to the next slide. The death grip on the podium that she never releases. The careful, measured breaths between sentences—not pauses for effect, but deliberate attempts to stay calm.
Her gaze never sweeps the audience the way it should. Instead, she focuses on a spot somewhere in the middle distance, above their heads. Seeing but not seeing them.
“Our clinical trials began in 2019 with a cohort of 247 participants,” she says, and clicks to the data slide.
Her hand trembles slightly. Just a fraction. Most people wouldn’t notice. But I’m standing three meters away, and I see it.
I continue translating, my voice steady even as my understanding shifts.
The robotic delivery I’ve been criticizing—it’s not lack of passion or poor preparation. It’s control. She’s holding herself together with everything she has, and adding emotion, adding personality, would risk the careful balance keeping her panic at bay.
The data-heavy approach I’ve been trying to change—it’s safe. Facts don’t require vulnerability. Numbers don’t require connection. She can recite statistics without falling apart.
Ten minutes in, I see her hand move to her wrist. It’s quick, barely noticeable. She presses her fingers against the inside of her wrist, then returns her hand to the podium.
A grounding technique. She’s grounding herself.
My chest tightens.
I think back through our training sessions. Every time I pushed her to add more emotion, to connect with the audience, to tell personal stories—I was asking her to let go of the only things keeping her from drowning.
“The methodology employed a double-blind randomized controlled design,” Jade continues, and her voice is still steady, still professional.
But I can see the cost now. The tension in her shoulders. The rigid way she holds herself. The careful, controlled breathing.
She’s not boring. She’s terrified.
And I’ve been making it worse.
Fifteen minutes in, a photographer’s flash goes off in the front row. Jade falters—just for a second, mid-word—before recovering. Her grip on the podium tightens.
I elaborate on my translation, buying her a few extra seconds to collect herself.
Forty minutes. She’s almost through. Just five more minutes of slides.
I watch her reach for the clicker, see her hand shake slightly as she advances to the next slide. She’s exhausted. I can see it in the set of her jaw, the tightness around her eyes.
How has she been doing this? Berlin, Vienna, and now Zurich. Three presentations while fighting full-blown panic attacks. Nine more still to come.
The realization hits me like a physical blow: she’s not unprofessional. She’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. She’s also, I realize, probably younger than I’ve been giving her credit for. Younger and carrying more than I assumed.
Finally, mercifully, she reaches the conclusion slide.
“In conclusion, our research demonstrates significant efficacy in preventing chemotherapy-induced hair loss for oncology patients, with a favorable safety profile and high patient satisfaction rates. Thank you for your attention.”
The applause is polite, professional. People begin gathering their things, heading toward the coffee service at the back.
Jade closes her laptop with hands that are almost steady. She doesn’t look at me as she descends the stage steps, heading immediately toward the display tables where she’ll be expected to mingle with attendees, answer questions, and represent the company.
I watch her paste on a smile as a pharmaceutical rep approaches her. Watch her shake hands, engage in conversation, become that confident, talkative person I know from the office.
The woman in the bathroom—pale, panicking, counting down presentations like a prison sentence—disappears behind the professional mask.
I pack up our equipment slowly, my mind churning.
I still have so many questions. But I’ve spent this entire tour criticizing her, judging her, treating her like she’s difficult when really she’s been fighting a battle I didn’t even know existed.
And I was too blind to see what was right in front of me.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of conversations with pharmaceutical reps and industry professionals. I answer their questions, discuss logistics for future presentations, and exchange business cards. All on autopilot.
I keep seeing Jade across the room, talking to patients. She’s good at this part—the one-on-one connections. Her face is animated, genuine. This is where she shines.
If only she could do the presentations this way. But I understand now why she can’t.
By noon, the venue is clearing out. Jade is one of the last to leave the building, and I watch her walk out into the bright Zurich sunlight without a backward glance.
I should go after her. Apologize. Tell her I understand now, that I want to help.
But what would I even say? “I’m sorry I spent weeks making your panic attacks worse”? “I’m sorry I assumed the worst about you”?
I stand in the empty ballroom for a long moment, then pull out my phone and text Fernando.
Carlos
I think I’ve been an asshole.
Fernando
Just figuring that out now?
Carlos
It’s worse than you think.
Fernando
Tell me.
I stare at the screen, trying to figure out how to explain. Finally, I type:
Carlos
Remember when you asked why I didn’t want Jade on this tour? I thought she was unprofessional. Turns out she has severe stage fright and I’ve been criticizing her for symptoms of panic attacks.
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Then:
Fernando
So what are you going to do about it?
I don’t have an answer.