by Joan Cohen
Jeanne handed the menus back to the maître d’ before he could finish saying their server would be with them in a moment. “It’s drafty by the window.” She crossed her arms and rubbed them for warmth. “Would you mind seating us elsewhere in the interior of the restaurant?”
Moments later, they were offered a table twenty feet from Vince with noisy diners in between. Jeanne would have preferred having Vince out of her line of sight, but out of earshot was acceptable. She wished she could order a double tequila to help her regain the sense of festive anticipation Vince had quashed. Maggie didn’t wait for her sauvignon blanc and Jeanne’s ginger ale to arrive before insisting on knowing what was going on.
“Don’t turn your head, but that guy with the hot brunette, over by the window, is Vince.”
“Aren’t you—?”
“I didn’t want to tell you, because I haven’t done the paternity test yet. Remember our lunch at the Cheesecake Parlor? You beat me up because I was worried about the career implications of letting everyone know who the father was. Vince came over later. We spent the loveliest evening cozied up together until I told him my sperm donor cover story at work. He was insulted, to say the least, that I hadn’t acknowledged him. Thought my career concerns were bogus and stormed out.”
“I’m so sorry; not surprised, but sorry.”
Jeanne lowered her eyes. “I never thought I was more driven or calculating than anyone else in my business. Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“I’m guessing you haven’t had many occasions to question yourself. You’re so accomplished, Jeanne. You obviously make smart professional decisions. Only you can answer the question you’re asking me. Are your priorities working for you?”
“Am I supposed to go on some kind of retreat and meditate on that question?”
Maggie laughed. “I can see you in a long robe sitting cross-legged in front of a cave in India—actually, I can’t envision that at all. Introspection doesn’t require a trip, except inside your head.”
Jeanne raised her glass. “Here’s to the inside of my head, whatever I may find lurking there.”
She glanced sideways at Vince’s date. She’s in a slinky dress and fuck-me stilettos, and I’ve got a protruding belly and sensible shoes. When Jeanne saw Vince’s eyes on her, she turned back to Maggie. “Let’s order.”
The meal was excellent. Jeanne ate with embarrassing gusto, but Maggie buried some of her veal under the garlic mashed potatoes she hardly touched. It seemed like the right moment to initiate a conversation about Maggie’s freefall weight loss, but before she could begin, Vince appeared beside her. His companion wasn’t with him or at their table, so he must have waited till she went to the ladies’ room.
“Jeanne, you’re looking well.” So formal, and he wore his business face, pleasant and hard to read. When Jeanne introduced Maggie, he found his smile.
She looked at him with interest. “I’m told you’re the person I call when I need venture capital to start my own business.”
“Happy to help, Maggie.” He handed her his card, which she stowed in her purse. Turning to Jeanne, he was all business again. “I have something I need to discuss with you. Will you be in tomorrow night around eight?”
Jeanne nodded, and Vince moved out of the path of a busboy with a tray. His mouth opened as though he had more to say, but he turned instead and walked out. “So,” Maggie asked, “what do you make of that?” Jeanne shrugged and rubbed her forehead. When their server appeared, dessert menus in hand, Maggie shook her head and requested the check.
As soon as they left the restaurant through the exit leading to the mall, Maggie put her arms around Jeanne and gave her a quick hug. “Don’t let him get to you. You’re strong enough to go through this without him.” With wet eyes, Jeanne fished out a tissue and tried to smile. “Let’s walk around and burn off some calories,” Maggie urged.
Jeanne had intended to talk to Maggie about her intense dieting, but the right moment had passed. Maggie seemed buoyed by the lights in the store windows dramatizing the posed mannequins in their sophisticated garments. “I can’t remember the last time I was here. It was certainly before they added this wing.”
Jeanne seized the opportunity to steer Maggie to a couple of her favorites, where the displays were particularly luscious. Most of the clothing stores were showing cocktail outfits for holiday parties amid Christmas greenery and tinsel. “Wow! Geez!” Maggie had an exclamation for each window they passed.
When they reached the Ferragamo store, Maggie came to an abrupt halt. An elegantly tailored red leather handbag sat under a spotlight behind the glass. The leather looked butter-soft, the hardware tasteful. “Would you look at that. Hundreds of dollars for sure,” she added wistfully.
Jeanne felt a swell of affection for her friend. She wondered if sisters had that kind of bond, a warmth from within, and if Maggie felt the same way. An idea leaped into Jeanne’s mind. Crazy, but maybe . . .
“Maggie, let’s sit down for a minute. I want to ask you something.” When they were seated on one of the wooden benches under a cluster of artificial birch trees, Jeanne turned to her. “I know this is going to kind of come out of left field, but would you be willing—do you think you could consider—”
“Jeanne, just ask already.”
“You’re younger than I am. If something happens to me, Alzheimer’s, I mean, would you be willing to take care of my child?” The smile faded from Maggie’s lips. She turned her face away and fell silent.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you. If you want to think about it, I completely understand.”
When she returned Jeanne’s gaze, a deep crease had formed between her brows, and her mouth was taut. “I thought we were friends—friends who wanted happiness for each other. Instead you’re still focused on yourself. Do you think poor Maggie is so fat, she could never find a man to love her? Do you think I don’t want children of my own?” Her voice rose. “Do you think Nurse Maggie lives only to help others?”
“That’s not at all what I . . .” Maggie gathered her coat and bag and vanished around a corner, leaving Jeanne shocked and staring after her. She curled forward, face buried in her hands. All she could do was fervently wish the last ten minutes would roll themselves back. She’d struck a nerve with Maggie. No wonder I have no friends. Don’t have the gene for it. Hopeless.
As the mall emptied out, she remained on the bench, bereft, wondering why she’d always thought the worst loss one could experience in life was financial—a bankruptcy, a failed company. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider the more painful feelings that accompanied personal loss. Even her mother’s death had left her strangely cut off from grief. She groped for tissues from her bag to sop up the tears. She had no mother, no friend, and no father for her child. She was a sister to the mannequins around her, perfectly posed and poised, well-dressed and pretending to be human.
When Jeanne opened her door at eight the next evening, Vince hesitated at the threshold. How different this entrance was from his past confident strides through her doorway. He grasped a manila folder in front of him with both gloved hands. He didn’t smile, nor did Jeanne. “I’ve brought some paperwork I’d like to review with you.”
She gestured toward the living room, but Vince had trouble moving from the foyer with Bricklin blocking his path. The dog insisted on Vince’s usual affectionate greeting before retreating. “I understand, boy,” Vince said, ruffling Bricklin’s fur. “It’s been a while.” Jeanne didn’t offer to take Vince’s coat, a signal she hoped he’d pick up on and keep his visit brief. He made no move to remove it. She’d spent the day tied up in knots over her rift with Maggie, replaying the sickening scene in her mind.
Vince sat on the edge of the couch. Jeanne took one of the facing club chairs, while Bricklin sat on the floor close to Vince and placed his one front paw on his knee. “Off,” Jeanne ordered, and Bricklin complied. He lay down beside Vince but kept his eyes on Vince’s face.
“I’ve had legal papers drawn up that provide for a monthly contribution toward child support. The payment will come directly from my bank. I’m relinquishing, however, all my parental rights, now and in the future.”
He laid the folder on the coffee table. “I think when you go through these, you’ll see I’ve been more than fair. The contract prohibits us from revealing to the child or anyone else that I’m the biological father. That should fit nicely with your sperm donor story.”
Jeanne stared at the folder with dull eyes. In her lifetime, she would see no end to the secrets. Her child would grow up knowing even less about his father than she had about hers, wondering, always wondering, why so little could be told. Imagining what her father was like, Jeanne had come up with an entire history for him. Never had it crossed her mind to include early-onset Alzheimer’s.
Vince rose. She’d be alone in a minute. Surely, she could hold herself together for that long. She put hands over her face but could stop neither the tears leaking through her fingers nor the wrenching sobs that shook her body. A minute went by with Vince immobilized, although Bricklin was instantly at Jeanne’s side, pushing his nose between her cheek and fingers.
“I don’t understand. I thought you’d be happy with this arrangement—my anonymity, the money. What’s wrong?”
“Alzheimer’s” was her muffled reply.
“What?”
Jeanne dropped her hands, compelled to share her fear and feeling a perverse desire to make Vince as miserable as she was. “Alzheimer’s disease—I may have the early-onset gene. Even the baby might have it.”
“But . . . I don’t understand. Early-onset? You mean, like, now?” She nodded. “You’re already—what—forty-seven or eight? How old are people who get early-onset Alzheimer’s?
“By sixty or sixty-five.”
“So, if you got it in the next few years, that baby”—he pointed at her belly—“might have no mother.” He looked at the ceiling, then shook his head. “That settles it. You have to get an abortion. Anything else would be nuts. You know that, don’t you?”
No one wanted to be responsible for her child, not Maggie, not Vince. Regardless of her level of risk for Alzheimer’s, the consequences of being on the wrong side of that calculation were dire, especially for her. She was alone. Not just alone but rejected.
She watched Vince walk to the door but didn’t rise from her chair. “You can toss those papers,” he said and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 11
The Salientific lobby was strung with plastic evergreen garlands. An artificial tree, adorned with tinsel and colored balls, stood in the corner, illuminated by less-than-celestial fluorescent lights. Christmas aroused no sense of anticipation in Jeanne, who could scarcely muster a smile in response to Eduardo’s cheerful greeting. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with Jake this week.
When she reached her office and checked email, she found an elated message from Bart to the management team reporting that his sales force would end the year beating its quota. Bart’s quota was an aggregate of his reps’, and though two reps were still struggling to hit their number before the fiscal year ended on December 31, a few had blown theirs away.
The holidays were a tough time to get customers focused on buying software. Hungry reps found a way, though, occasionally by booking orders they knew might be canceled after year end. If orders had to be taken down, Parker would be all over Bart, but successful sales VPs were pretty much a protected species.
January’s sales meeting would be as much a celebration of the year just ended as a kickoff for the new fiscal year. Feeling guilty about her lack of involvement, Jeanne emailed Mariana, requesting an update on the status of sales meeting plans. Mariana appeared on the dot of ten. After settling herself at Jeanne’s table, she laid her pen parallel to the top of her folder and handed Jeanne an agenda before commencing her update. Every detail of the sales meeting logistics had been worked out. “Are there any remaining obstacles, Mariana? Seems to me you’ve thought of everything.”
“Getting responses from Jake has been a challenge for me.” She bit her lip. “I mean—he’s probably very busy.”
“Yes,” Jeanne said wryly, “very. I think you’ll find him more focused when he returns from his vacation. You seem to be working well with Bart.”
“He’s demanding, like all the sales people. They expect marketing to be waiting by the phone in case they need help. Bart has good ideas, though, and he’s never late with anything he promises me.”
Jeanne rose from the table. “Excellent. Don’t hesitate to ask for my help.”
Mariana didn’t get up. “There is one thing.” She blushed, and Jeanne lowered herself into her chair. “Bart’s a really . . . friendly guy, and like friendly people do, he touches kind of a lot. At first it was just his hand on my elbow or shoulder. Now when he compliments me on some task I’ve handled, he puts his hand over mine. When I leave his office, he walks me out with his arm around me. I mean, it’s probably nothing, right? He’s a vice president.”
Jeanne rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. She was sure the undeniably hot Mariana knew the difference between Bart’s being friendly versus coming on to her. She was being deferential.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I mentioned it to HR, just so someone could coach him a little. I thought you should know. Doesn’t management get training on harassment?”
Jeanne’s eyes grew wide. “You told Alberta Bart was hitting on you?” Jeanne didn’t know how many people in the company knew about Alberta’s relationship with Bart, but clearly Mariana was unaware of it.
“I didn’t lodge a formal complaint or anything. I can’t afford to hurt our working relationship.”
“I’m sure Alberta will be . . . discreet.” Jeanne wasn’t sure at all, but why worry Mariana ahead of time. “I think you should lodge a formal complaint, but I won’t force you. There isn’t anything about his friendly guy behavior that’s appropriate. Please let me know if he gets friendly again.” Mariana agreed, and once she had left the office, Jeanne sat back, contemplating what form Alberta’s wrath would take. She almost felt sorry for Bart.
Alberta was a known car nut who drove a vintage Mustang. She’d once told Jeanne her father had taught her and her brothers how to take engines apart and put them back together. A car bomb wasn’t out of the question. Bart adored his slick black BMW. Maybe Alberta would choose a stealth approach, maybe keying the side of it after dark. Interesting to speculate. Mariana, however, was Jeanne’s responsibility. She’d have to get involved—somehow.
She returned to her desk and sent a note to Alberta requesting a meeting on a personnel matter. As she checked her inbox, she saw Parker had copied the management team on his congratulations to Bart for hitting his revenue number. Bart was dedicated to the company’s success—no denying it. She remembered his earnestness when he’d proposed his military theme and his desire to turn the company into a quick response force to chase high-value targets. Yes, Alberta’s blowing up Bart’s BMW, however entertaining to Jeanne, would not be good for Salientific.
If Alberta’s ears were burning, Jeanne couldn’t tell from her next message. The subject of Alberta’s email was not Bart’s roving hands but the Christmas turkey promised to the winner of the photo contest. Alberta was urging everyone to get their entries in by the deadline.
Jeanne accompanied Clara Nordell on three analyst briefings the following day and didn’t pick up Sharon Basko’s call till five o’clock, too late to catch her before she left for the day. All Sharon said in her message was that the results from Jeanne’s initial blood work were back. She didn’t say anything about the outcome or indicate by her tone of voice whether she had good news or not.
Jeanne felt trapped in “pause” by some cosmic DVR, awaiting test results she wasn’t sure she wanted. While her life was on hold, the creature inside her was growing exponentially and kicking so she wouldn’t forget it was there.
Her best s
hot at reaching Sharon was likely to be first thing in the morning. Jeanne made the call from her car to ensure privacy and was relieved to hear Sharon’s live voice.
“I have some great news for you, Jeanne. Your results are back from the fetal cell-free DNA in your blood. Your baby doesn’t have Down syndrome. I’m so relieved for you. I mean, given your age . . . I also have your APOE results.”
Jeanne pulled over to the side of the road and put on her flashers. As Sharon continued, she extracted her notebook and pen from the floor of the back seat. Sharon reminded her that the e4 allele of APOE could increase the risk of late-onset Alzheimer’s but was not deterministic. “You inherit one copy of APOE from your father and one from your mother. Two copies of the e4 allele increase your chance of getting the disease and lower the age when Alzheimer’s symptoms are likely to appear. Jeanne, you have one copy of e4, but only one, which puts you in the same category as a great many others. You may or may not develop late-onset Alzheimer’s. No need to worry.”
Jeanne allowed herself momentary relief. For someone who made it her business to stand out from others, being like “a great many other people” provided a reassuring kind of anonymity. Sharon went on to remind her that they would not know for weeks the results of tests for the genes guaranteeing early-onset Alzheimer’s. “I know how worried you are about the remaining results, but honestly, Jeanne, you’ve had considerable good news so far. Your neuropsych evaluation was normal, and you have only one e4.”
“But my father—I still don’t understand the cause for his condition. He had early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
“There’s no way to know for sure what he had. In spite of the prevalence of Alzheimer’s disease, there are other causes for dementia. Look, this waiting is hard, but try to be patient and keep things in perspective.”
