Thirty-Three
I am pacing, in as much as I can pace, in the jet. I’m terrified at the steps I have taken, even though I know it is the right
thing, that ipryy is more at risk by taking part in unethical employment practices than it could ever be from closing down
one factory.
But I realize I’m relieved. Relieved at being on my way home. Suddenly, all I want is to feel comforted and secure. I want
to walk up the stairs to my apartment and hear Gus and Keith pottering around in their apartment downstairs; I want Gus to
open the door and have Cressie run out, knowing I will scoop her up and bury my nose in her soft fur while she tries to lick
my face. I want to pour myself a big glass of wine while Lucy curls up on the sofa with Harvey and a large tequila on ice,
and listen to Cleo Sol while we catch each other up on everything that has happened these past few weeks. I want to open the
door to what is now my office and have it be wood, and black, and glossy, with my father sitting at his old familiar spot
behind his huge desk.
I want to go back to my life and enjoy at least one evening of normality before I start figuring out what to do about the cobalt mine, what to do about the factory in India that is making the batteries for ipryy home that is now closed; what to do about all of it.
But I don’t have the luxury of time. When this is over, I think, then I’ll sit with Lucy, and Noah, and drink our drinks and listen to our music and remember what it is to be carefree, to not feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders, for that is how I feel right now.
Clara was worried I was out of my depth. I snort out loud at the prospect.
Right now, I have never felt more out of depth in my life.
I should be exhausted, but my mind is whirling too much for me to sleep on the plane. Clara emails during the flight to ask
what the hell happened in India. I responded by listing everything that happened, adding that it was inappropriate for her
to use that kind of language with me. Fuck it. I’m too tired and too wired to worry about her hurt feelings. I’m fed up with
being treated like Marty Cooke’s daughter, like a sweet little thing who is largely ineffectual; a trophy CEO, a fraud who
is merely holding space until the real CEO gets back.
She doesn’t respond. No one responds. I send emails throughout the flight, but I don’t hear back from anyone. I think about
calling Preeti, wanting some support. She would understand, but what would her reaction be if I told her about the child labor?
What if it blew up the deal with Inferno? I don’t know what to do, wondering what would be the right thing, wondering if it
is right to withhold information that she has a right to know.
Still, no one emails me. No responses. I wonder if there is something wrong with the Wi-Fi, or our operating system, but when
I get hold of Jerome, he says that’s unlikely.
“Unlikely or impossible?”
“Not impossible.”
“Well then.” I tell him about what happened in India, and am gratified that he is as horrified as I am, that he says he would have done exactly the same thing. It is less the child labor that seems to affect him as it is the potentially bad press.
“You didn’t know?” I ask him.
“About the children? God, no! What a horrific thing, to be using children to mine. My God. I don’t even know what to say.”
He shakes his head. “Not to mention the PR nightmare waiting to happen.”
I let out a deep sigh. The PR problem is the least of my worries given what I now know. “How was New York?” I change the subject.
“How’s your brother?”
“A disaster,” he says. “He thought he was happily married, and came home last week to find his apartment had been emptied,
his wife and kids were gone, and there was a note saying it was over and she was divorcing him.”
“Wow. That’s awful. Does he have any idea why?”
“She said he was dull, and a workaholic. Poor guy. He’s not dull at all, but he is a bit of a workaholic. I’m taking him furniture
shopping. He wanted to go to Crate that every doubt I have ever had about myself is right, that I am
not worthy; my father has lost all faith in me not because I fucked up, but because I am a fuckup. He was right all along.
I have to see him, I think. If he signed that letter, he is home. However much this may hurt, whatever the explanation is,
I have to hear this directly from him. I’m not even going to phone him. I’m too shaken, too angry, too humiliated, too upset.
I take the Uber to his house, imagining him relaxing in the family room, a beer in hand, watching a Warriors game as he builds
his strength back up.
I punch the code in to the gate and drive up to the house. The cars are in the driveway, but it feels deserted. The front door is open—my father hasn’t locked the front door in years—and I walk in, calling out for him, for Scarlett, but my voice echoes in the hallway.
My sneakers pad through the tiled hallway. It feels like months since I was last here, but it has only been a few weeks. It
looks exactly as it always has, Lucite tables on which sit family pictures of my father, Scarlett, Nico, and Paloma. A pair
of sneakers lying by the foot of the stairs, my father’s size.
I walk through to the kitchen calling “hello?”—but despite the detritus of a recently eaten meal—plates in the sink, crusts
of toast, now wet, pooling in the drain, none of the family are there.
I am used to the lights being on, the television playing sports in the background, the children running around, Scarlett getting
food ready for them, but all is eerily silent.
I go upstairs, feeling guilty, as if I don’t belong upstairs, as if I am somehow trespassing, even though this is my father’s
house, and I have been upstairs many, many times. Paloma’s room is spotless, as is Nico’s. I am hopeful that perhaps my father
is in bed, perhaps he is napping, but there is no one there. The bed is made, and there is nothing on the nightstand. No clues.
I walk back downstairs, the silence carrying a foreboding, and once I am in the front hall, I phone Scarlett.
“Scarlett? It’s me. Missy. Where’s my father?”
“Missy! Oh God. I’ve been meaning to call you. We’re at the Stanford Hospital. Your father caught an infection on the way
home from Switzerland. He’s in the ICU here. It was looking okay, they thought they could treat it, but now . . .” She stops,
her voice catching. “You should come straight here.”
How can this possibly be? I saw him last week and he was fine. Thin, but fine. Better than fine, dying to get back to his real life. His markers were all great, the tumors had all but disappeared. How is he in the ICU at Stanford Hospital?
I suppress the urge to throw up as fear courses through me. I call yet another Uber to take me to the hospital and once I
am there, wheel my suitcase—my bloody suitcase—through the sliding glass doors and to the front desk.
“I’m here to see Marty Cooke.”