Sixteen
I try not to think about my father. Denial has long been a comfortable place for me to live, and there is too much for me
to do to give in to the depression and fear that are hovering around me, waiting for me to weaken. I push my worries aside
in daylight hours, saving my anxiety about my father’s future for the long nights. I don’t sleep much. When I do, the first
thought I have on waking up, as I am waking up, is my father.
Coffee helps. Lucy very generously offered me her Adderall, but I always pass. She saves it for parties when she needs to
stay awake, and has hoarded an enormous stash, which is hidden in her extralong, extra skinny El Gringo cowboy boots. She
had tipped the boots upside down, and over a dozen bottles rattled their way onto the floor. Adderall, Ambien, Xanax. I always
wondered how she managed to stay up all night. Now I know. I don’t need more than coffee to keep me awake. Coffee, and anxiety.
The studying also helps. Plowing through files, bringing myself up to speed on all that ipryy has done, all that ipryy is planning, is like being back at Harvard.
Exams were always my favorite. I loved walking up the vast steps of the Widener Library, crossing under the columns and finding a quiet spot under the great carved, curved ceiling, studying for hours, the only sound that of pages turning, the odd whispering back and forth.
I loved staying up all night in my tiny dorm room in Hurlbut that felt cozy, even though the ceiling was bubbled and yellowed with stains way older than me.
When my father first saw my freshman dorm, he shuddered in horror.
He was a regular at Stanford, was used to new, shiny, bright, pristine.
I loved the soul and history that was contained within every old building in Cambridge.
I loved our dorm room, with its layers and layers of yellowing paint, its heavy wooden desk where I would sit night after night, reading until I had to physically prop my eyes open with my fingers, eventually grabbing a few hours of sleep before getting up and doing it all over again.
The past few weeks have been filled with reading. On Clara’s advice, I have moved into my father’s office. I’m still not sure
if that is the right decision, but it means I am close to Clara, to Jerome, to the people Clara jokingly calls my “very own
personal board of directors.” Clara and Jerome are the people I trust most in the world, and have left their doors open, both
metaphorically and physically, if I need anything at all.
There is a sharp, quick knock. I look up to see Clara popping her head round the door, walking in when she sees I am alone.
“Hello, you.” She pauses, looking around the office. “I still can’t get over seeing you in here. It’s so strange.”
“I know. I feel the same way every minute of every day. I wish it wasn’t the case.”
“Me neither. Although I don’t miss your father’s mood swings.” She raises an eyebrow.
I think of my father calling me a fucking idiot. However much I hate it, I hope to God he gets a chance to do it again.
“You really ought to pretty this up,” says Clara. “Make it yours while you’re here.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”
“Not only can you, you must. Don’t worry . . .” She sits in one of the Mies van eer Rohe chairs by the sofa, and beckons me to come over and make myself
comfortable. “It won’t mean your father isn’t coming back.”
“How did you know that’s what I was thinking?”
“Because I’ve known you for years. You need to have a comfortable working environment, and you’ve always had lovely feminine
taste. Turn this man cave into a female domain!” She nods her head toward the black suede sectional. “You don’t have to change the furniture—” she pauses “—but it would be lovely if you did.” We both laugh, despite ourselves.
I am grateful for the permission, and she is right. I hate the black suede sectional, however comfortable it may be. I will
be more comfortable in an environment that is more me. I determine to have my assistant fetch my artwork, my pillows, and
throws from my office.
“You’re ready for our two thirty with the people at Google?”
I frown, unsure what she is referring to. “Two thirty with Google?”
Clara’s smile now looks forced. “Yes. They’re coming here to look at ways in which we can work together for the new iteration
of ipryy, specifically ipryy home.”
I stare at her blankly.
“It’s been in the books for weeks.”
I open up my schedule on the computer and see nothing for this afternoon.
“I wasn’t told.” I feel so lame saying this, but it is true.
Clara frowns. “You were copied in on all the email correspondence.” She gets out her phone to prove the point, scrolling through her emails to show that I was indeed copied.
Except that instead of Missycooke@ the emails have been sent to Mcooke@.
I cannot believe this mistake has been made, given how long I’ve worked here.
I point it out to Clara, who gasps. “I don’t believe it,” she says. “It’s Josephine. My new assistant.” She shakes his head.
“Lovely girl. Not the brightest bulb in the box. Clearly.”
“Can you fill me in quickly now?”
“Absolutely.” She starts to talk, when I realize it is half past one. There is no way she will have time to fully brief me
before this meeting. There are reams of emails I’ve missed, not to mention the accompanying documents.
I sit back. “I’m not ready for this meeting. Is there any chance you can run it and fill me in later? We can do it again next
week and I’ll definitely be there.”
Clara nods and stands up. “Absolutely. And I’m so incredibly sorry about the email glitch. I’ll make sure it won’t happen
again.”
I’m touched by her apology. This is just one of the reasons why I have always loved her. I know when my father is sorry, but
there is nothing like honestly owning your mistakes and admitting them out loud.
Still. I am ashamed at my inexperience, how unprepared I’ve been for this avalanche of responsibility. I determine to do better
from this moment forward.
I leave the office at eight, forwarding all the files I haven’t yet read to my email (the correct email) so I can continue reading that night, but I wonder how much work I will get done when I hear the music emanating from
our apartment.
“Hey, you!” Lucy’s feet are up on the coffee table as she paints her toenails metallic blue.
The music is blaring and her hair is wrapped in a towel, which means she is on her way out.
I start to pour myself a glass of wine, then think better of it.
I put the kettle on instead, and make myself a green tea, turning the music down, and listening to Lucy chat about the party she is hosting tonight, admiring how neatly and carefully she paints her toenails.
There has been a big conference in Palo Alto over the past few days, with the final gathering tonight. Lucy’s hosting an electric
blue party, in line with the company logo, at a warehouse that has been transformed into something that looks like an underground
swimming pool.
“Will you come? Please? You’ve been no fun since you’ve taken over as head honcho, and God knows you need to loosen up and
forget about the stressors for a while.”
The front door opens and Noah walks in.
“Noah!” Lucy commands. “Tell Missy she has to come with tonight.”
“Tonight? What’s tonight?”
“The electric blue party. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. You’re playing!”
His face falls. “Oh shit. I had forgotten. Do you need me to wear something blue?” He gestures down to his faded jeans, the knee ripped and frayed. “These
good?”
Those are great, I think. Couldn’t be better.
“No, no, big bro. You will not be wearing those. Look!” She bounds to her room, returning with a sparkly blue sequined suit.
“Isn’t it fab?”
Noah looks horrified. “It looks too small.”
“Nope. I went through all your clothes and it’s definitely your size. Now we need to find something for Missy to wear.”
No. Definitely not. I shake my head. “I really, really wish I could come, but I’ve got too much to do.” I’m determined to
do my father proud, which means the ins and outs of every deal that ipryy has ever done, every agreement they have ever made
has to be part of my DNA in the way it is part of Clara’s, part of my father’s.
“Okay, okay,” grumbles Lucy, seeing I won’t be persuaded. She disappears into her room, leaving me with Noah, who sits down, looking at the notepad I’ve been scribbling on.
“Big shoes to fill, your father’s. I’d be intimidated as hell.”
I bark with laughter. “I am intimidated as hell. Why do you think I’m working so hard to prove myself to everyone?”
“Why do you need to work so hard to prove yourself? Why do you even have to prove yourself?”
“I should just sit back and let the company fail on my watch?”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, you are clearly brilliant, and you know how the company is run. Why
not trust your instincts and run it your way?”
“Rather than try and emulate my father’s way of doing things?”
“Apparently shouting and belittling people gets great results, if that’s what you’re referring to?”
I let out a snort of laughter. My father’s way of doing things has been well-documented, and I am not offended.
“However,” Noah continues, “wouldn’t it be interesting to see if compassion, understanding, and an atmosphere of support might
engender even greater results?”
I narrow my eyes, thinking. “I haven’t even figured out my way of doing things. I’m barely keeping my head above water.”
“Your way of doing things would be to do them with kindness, and clarity. To listen to people, and celebrate them. It’s who
you have always been.”
I shrug and look away, embarrassed.
“Are you sure you can’t come tonight?” he asks, snapping his fingers and twirling a la Michael Jackson, tipping an imaginary
hat at the end. “Miss the opportunity to dance with this?”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m sure,” I say, going back to the computer, back to my work.
At midnight, I yawn and stretch. My shoulders are sore, and I need to get up and walk around. My phone pings. It’s Jerome asking if I’m still awake. Seconds after I respond, his voice fills my ear, warm and reassuring.
“I knew it,” he laughs. “You never do anything by halves. I’m phoning to say I love you, I miss you, and go to sleep!”
“I can’t,” I groan. “Too much work.”
“You’re no good to anyone when you’re tired. You’re better off setting your alarm for five in the morning and working then.”
He’s right.
“You’re right. Thank you for taking care of me.” We blow kisses down the phone and I disconnect, standing up to shake out
my legs as the front door opens. Noah walks in, his guitar in hand, his sequined pants shimmering as he moves.
“Ouch.” I cover my eyes. “Those sequins are painful for tired eyes. How was the party?”
“Busy. Loud. They loved it. Mermaids everywhere.”
I laugh. “And you? Did you love it?”
“I played my set, then grabbed food and came home. I thought you might be hungry.”
I see he’s holding a paper bag, and realize that I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime. I am starving, suddenly.
Noah brings the bag to the coffee table and unpacks crab cakes, smoked salmon in mini bagels, tiny paper cups holding summer
corn salad, and a box of petits fours.
“This is perfect!” I can’t hide the grin as I bend off a piece of crab cake. “Did you eat at the party?”
“I didn’t. Too busy playing.”
“Here.” I slide the food to the middle of the table.
Noah turns and pulls his shirt over his head. My God. His beautiful back.
I stop chewing, gazing at the sinews and muscles, his tanned skin.
He grabs a T-shirt and pulls it on, turning to see me checking him out. I look away quickly, but not quickly enough.
“Are you staring at my naked body?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.
“No!” My response is a little too quick, a little too fervent.
“That’s okay.” He grabs a crab cake and sits down opposite me. “I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours.”
“I’m not getting naked in front of you!” I start to laugh.
“That’s not fair.”
“Okay. Here.” I stretch out a foot with unpainted toenails, and move my newly shaved ankle from side to side, showing it off.
“Here’s a sliver of naked ankle. That good enough for you?”
“I’ll take it,” he says. “I see you’ve taken up shaving your legs.”
“Jesus.” I let out a long whistle. “I can’t get anything past you.”
“You never could,” he says.
What does that mean? I think. Did you know I loved you? I want to ask. Did you know that I went to bed for years dreaming
of growing up and marrying you?
I say nothing. I eat the crab cakes and let Noah clean everything up.
In the morning, I tiptoe past Noah, asleep on the sofa, and open the fridge to find a brown paper bag with my name Sharpie’d
onto it, with a passable cartoon of me, on the sofa, surgically attached to my computer.
I open the bag to find it contains two of the mini bagels from last night, a yogurt, and an apple. There is a note scribbled
on a Post-it.
“This is your packed lunch,” it says. “If you can’t look after yourself, someone else has to. Also, I’m cooking dinner tonight. Be home by 7!”
I smile as I grab the brown paper bag, head to Celeste, and make my way to the office, park in my father’s spot, walk into
the building, pass the security guards, and head into my father’s office. The smile stays on my face all day.