Chapter 6
On Monday, after three hours of sleep, I walked into my office in a trance. I’d only finished one of the two contracts for Carl last night. The godforsaken Brower tech company deal was supposed to sign this week, but I wasn’t sure I could make it to Friday. I headed toward Mallory’s office.
“Val, come in!” she said after I knocked on the threshold of her open office door, putting down the printed contract she’d been reading.
Apart from the bags under her eyes, Mallory looked like her typical sunny, put-together self in a black, cap-sleeve business casual dress and leopard print high heels.
Meanwhile, I was in my usual T-shirt and blazer combo, looking as defeated as I felt.
“Can I close the door?”
“Of course.”
I removed the tasteful throw pillow and sat down in the chair across from her desk.
“How are things going? Any better since last week?”
I opened my mouth to answer but my eyes filled with tears. Instead of speaking, I shook my head.
“I knew it was bad. You haven’t caught a break in weeks. I assume this weekend wasn’t any better?”
I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “Nope.”
“How can I help? Maybe we can get one of your peers to tag into that deal, so you can take a few days to recoup.”
“I think I need more than a few days.” I refused to close my eyes and let tears roll down my cheeks. My hoarse voice was telling enough.
“Do you need a leave?”
“If I’m being honest, I think I need to quit. I’ve hit the wall. I’m miserable, I’m not me anymore.” My lungs drew in an unsteady breath.
“I’m sorry, Val. I didn’t realize it had gotten to this point.”
“I haven’t exactly been telling people. I reached my breaking point this weekend.”
She nodded, her look sympathetic. “But don’t quit, okay?”
I bristled. Please don’t try to convince me to stay. I can’t.
“Take a medical leave,” she said. “Get a doctor’s note saying you’re suffering with mental health issues and need a leave from work to recover.
Take a couple months off, fully paid, and then decide what you want to do with a clearer head.
I don’t want you to have to worry about money while you’re going through so much already, okay? ”
I nodded, not sure what to say. I’d heard of a person here and there taking a medical leave of absence from Peters second, talk to the firm’s insurance company; and third, go see my doctor and have them put a mental health diagnosis code, a medical leave start date, and proposed return-to-work date into a form for the insurance company, and sign it.
“And legally, your job is protected. It will be waiting for you at the end of the leave, okay?”
“Thank you, Mallory. Seriously.”
“Of course. You’re smart and talented, Val. But you’re also human. Take care of yourself.”
I smiled at her on my way out and kept my head down until I reached the privacy of my office. I emailed HR immediately.
By Friday morning, I had transitioned all of my deals to colleagues and submitted glowing performance reviews for my junior associates, and HR had informed all of the partners I’d be on a leave of absence effective Saturday.
The guilt I felt for saddling other associates with my work was suffocating, but I couldn’t change my mind.
I thought maybe John would reach out after HR notified him, but he didn’t. It was a relief, I supposed.
On Friday afternoon, I set up an auto-reply message to send every time I got an email and packed up every personal item from my office to take home with me, even though I told myself it wasn’t necessary.
I’d be back here after I got my strength back.
And thanks to the anxiety diagnosis from my doctor and the paperwork she filled out, I had three and a half months to do just that.
Later that evening, I walked to my apartment with a backpack and three tote bags hanging from my body and cortisol coursing through my veins, feeling like a complete failure.
That night I crawled into bed at 8:00 and didn’t stir until 8:00 the next morning. The next few nights were the same: twelve or thirteen hours of sleep and still it wasn’t enough to combat the bone-deep exhaustion.
By Monday, I mustered enough energy to leave my apartment. After I put in a load of laundry, I went to the grocery store and bought produce instead of frozen meals.
What did I do? I asked myself when I got home from the store, bracing on the kitchen counter. Did I throw it all away? All those years of hard work. My arms tingled and my heart rate quickened.
Deep breaths.
It’s okay.
This is only a blip.
You just needed a break.
Your job is protected.
You’ll get back on track.
I slumped to the tile floor, leaning against the lower kitchen cabinets, glad I didn’t check the time before I did it, so I wouldn’t know how long I sat there like that.
“I know you’re a grown woman in your thirties and coming home to your parents’ house in suburban New Hampshire is not very appealing, but I think you need a change of scenery. We can go for walks, and I’ll cook healthy meals, and you can read and relax and get away from it all.”
I lay on my back on my bed, phone pressed against my ear. The streetlights cast my room in a bluish glow.
My mother was right, of course. I’d never lived in NYC and been anything besides a Peters & Dowling associate.
In the last week I’d started going to the gym in my building and cooking and sleeping more, but I didn’t know what to do with myself here anymore.
My desk, my couch, even my coffee machine reminded me of work.
“Okay,” I replied.
“Okay?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. I’m thrilled, but I’m surprised. You’ve never once taken me up on moving home and taking a break. Not since you left for college.”
“I know.” Because it would have felt like admitting defeat.
After we hung up, I placed my phone on the nightstand, stood, and spun in a circle, unsure where to start.
I dropped to the floor next to my bed, slid a plastic bin out from under it, and popped the top off.
It was filled with an array of summer clothing—a few sundresses and pairs of shorts, some open-toed shoes.
I removed the contents and stuffed them into a duffel bag.
It would be mid-July before I went back to work, so I’d need them.
Next I pulled out a smaller plastic bin. This one was coated in a thick layer of dust and it took me a moment to remember what it was.
My notebooks!
I ripped off the cover. My fingers ran across the notebooks, journals, papers, and folders of different colors before picking up a yellow spiral notebook with a worn, cracked cover.
I opened it to the first page and discovered the story of two college students that fall in love while co-starring in a student play.
They’re friends, but they’re both dating other people.
Drama ensues. A smile spread on my face as I flipped the pages.
It wasn’t bad. After ten pages of notes, it ended. An idea that never got off the ground.
I picked up another journal and opened it.
And then another. They were all the same: an idea for a novel or a movie, some bullets, and then nothing but empty pages waiting to be filled.
I sat on my floor until I’d read through them all.
The smile that widened on my face with each new idea felt foreign to my cheeks.
The notebooks spread around me on the floor reminded me that something I loved before work took over was books. The first love of my life was reading, and the second was coming up with stories in my head.
During college, I’d looked into creative writing courses almost every semester before dismissing them as impractical.
After briefly entertaining the dream, I would always go back to Plan A: social studies degree with high honors, law school bound.
Despite my interest, being a writer had little chance of resulting in the success I craved.
But now I let that pull to do something different than practicing corporate law—something I might love—take hold.
Even if I could only do it for a few months, the idea stirred some long-latent excitement in my body.
I removed all the notebooks and packed them in a bag to take with me to my parents’ house, feeling like it was some sort of kismet that I opened this box before it ended up in storage.
I paid the hefty fee to terminate my lease, put my furniture in storage, and packed the rest of my belongings into bags and boxes that would fit into my dad’s SUV.
Two days after my mom first suggested it, I waited for my dad in the lobby of my building, self-consciousness gnawing at me.
I thought about how I would describe this scene in a screenplay: A thirty-one-year-old woman waits in the sleek, marble lobby of a high-end apartment building surrounded by mismatched luggage and plastic bins.
Other tenants scrutinize her on their way to and from the elevator bank.
She looks like she’d like to disappear into the folds of her baggy sweatsuit.
I didn’t have a clue what the next scene would look like.