“Late night celebrating?” I asked, teasing. “I hope it was with a boy.”
I expected her to laugh and confess all, as she sometimes told me tales of her online dating escapades, but instead her eyes filled with tears. She rose from her chair, murmuring a tearful apology, and ran toward the restroom. What could be wrong? Charlotte was solid, unflappable. Was there trouble with a boyfriend? I didn’t think she had one, but she had mentioned she’d been on a string of first dates she met online. That’s it, I thought, she must have gone out with a jerk from one of those sites. All online dating sites should have the tagline “Guaranteed to Make Grown Girls Cry.”
I glanced at my calendar that Charlotte had up on her screen. All it said was “conference room,” with no mention of whom I would be meeting with. Charlotte hadn’t returned, so I decided to head there anyway. I was surprised to find the head of the board, Eli Winn, and our HR Director, Rachel Fallow, sitting at the end of the long, oval table. I stepped inside. “Hey, guys. Are you expecting me?”
“Yes, come on in. Close the door, please,” said Rachel.
Eli nodded his head in greeting as I shut the door and took a seat.
“What’s going on? Do we have trouble with an employee?”
Rachel wouldn’t look at me. Something wasn’t right. The hair on my arms stood up. Then it occurred to me: I was about to be fired. I’d been on the other side of this table with Rachel enough times to know what was about to happen. My heart started to pound. Scalp tingling. Damp palms.
Before they had the chance to say the words I knew were coming, I asked, “Why?”
Eli shook his head, almost shamefully. “Ralph wants to run things without your influence. He thinks you degrade his authority.”
Rachel put a hand on his arm. He wasn’t supposed to say anything revealing and truthful, and he’d already said too much. She spoke next, her voice devoid of any inflection. “Ralph believes he’s the right leader to take the company forward. He wants to be more of a public presence both here at the office and with our consumers.”
“He’ll have to answer to shareholders and the board now. It’s not just him in his basement. Does he realize that, Eli?”
Eli’s usual olive complexion had a green tinge this morning. An image of the Grinch flashed through my mind. The bags under his eyes indicated he hadn’t slept much. Strangely, I felt compassion for him, despite the fact that he was in the process of firing me. This was business, where at any given moment a decision could be made that obliterated any future success. He knew getting rid of me was a mistake, but there was nothing he could do. As if he knew my thoughts, Eli nodded. “He owns a majority of the stock, Bliss. He can still call the shots. And the board supports the decision.”
That stung. “Right. I understand.” No reason to act emotional. If Ralph wanted me out, there was nothing I could do. Never let them see you sweat, I told myself, borrowing the marketing phrase from the eighties deodorant commercial—my mantra through many stressful situations. I was cool on the outside while inside my stomach felt like I’d just taken a large and unexpected dip on a roller coaster. I’ve always hated roller coasters.
“We have a package for you,” said Rachel. “It’s generous, in exchange for your signature of release.”
“Yeah, right. I know the drill.”
She hadn’t lied. The terms were generous. I kept all my stock, which if things continued to go well, could be worth millions, and a year’s salary plus benefits. But it wasn’t the money. It hadn’t been about the money for at least three companies now. I’d set out to have enough money in savings and stocks by age fifty that I could retire if I wanted to. I’d made that goal by thirty-five, the result of equal parts living frugally and choosing several companies that did well on the public market. I always took stock over salary, and it had paid off several times. I was rich. Rich enough for me, anyway. But this hurt, regardless. Ejected without warning from something I felt I had built with eighty-hour workweeks for the last two years, not to mention the employees I’d had a hand in hiring and mentoring. As was the case with all my positions, this wasn’t just a job for me. This was my life.
“You have seven days to decide,” said Rachel.
I gave her what I hoped was a withering stare. “I’m quite aware of how this works.” I flipped to the last page, where I was to agree they’d done nothing wrong and that I wouldn’t turn around and sue them. I signed and slid it back across the table. “Well, now I know why Charlotte was crying.”
“You’ll be missed by the staff,” said Eli.
“We’ll pack up your things and have them sent to you via messenger,” said Rachel.
The old “you can’t even pack up your own things because you’re a threat to the company” routine. What did they think? That I’d be foolish enough to harm my reputation by sending some kind of angry message out to the employees? Suddenly I was surprised they didn’t have security waiting to walk me to my car. “My laptop is in my office.” I slid my work phone across the table. “You’ll want this too, I suppose.” At least I’d been meticulous about keeping my personal business on my personal phone. Not that I had much personal business. Actually I had no personal business, except for emails from Blythe and my nieces. Blythe and the girls. What was I going to tell them? Aunt Bliss has been canned, given the old sack, fired. I stumbled toward the elevator, a ringing in my ears.
Chapter 2
I DON’T REMEMBER how I got there, but suddenly I was outside, the bright light blinding me momentarily as I fumbled for my sunglasses. Fired? Had I really just been let go three days before Thanksgiving? I had my stock and more than enough money, I told myself, pulling my jacket tighter. It was freezing. Had the wind picked up since I’d been inside, or was it the frigid air meeting my sweaty body that made it seem colder? Getting fired makes you sweat, even if no one sees it. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, I took two big breaths, in and out. There’s no reason I couldn’t fully recover from this, I told myself. CEOs were asked to step down all the time after a public offering. Only that was usually when the stock wasn’t performing well.
I started down the street toward home. Maybe I’d stop for a drink at the bar a block from my building. A drink sounded about right after you get the big ax. I never usually had time to stop because I had work waiting. But now I had no work. I could get a drink if I wanted. Maybe two. I glanced at my watch. Not yet nine a.m. Probably too early for a drink. The holiday was coming. I’d planned on working through it, but now? Tonight I could order Chinese takeout and binge watch old movies, but what about the rest of the long weekend? The days loomed before me with nothing but my empty condo and no more Breaking Bad episodes. Why couldn’t they make decent movies or television for intelligent people who had no friends? Was that too much to ask?
No job? It didn’t seem possible. I’d never been without one, not since I turned fifteen. Even in college I had a job as part of my scholarship package, working at the library. I’d loved that job, scanning books for checkout and shelving returns. Who was I without a job? That was my last thought as my feet slid out from under me and I fell backward like someone on a comedy show slipping on a banana. My head smashed onto the hard cement. Instantaneous, blinding pain shot through the right side of my head. I blinked as if that might lessen the throbbing, and looked up at the white sky. A small crowd gathered around me. A dog barked and then Sweetheart was next to me, her tongue licking my hand. Through black bubbles that floated in front of my eyes, Sam appeared, his face scrunched up in concern, the corners of his eyes wet. A young woman came to stand next to him. Dressed in pink scrubs, she held up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?” I opened my mouth to answer, getting nothing but a weak moan came out for my efforts. Then everything went black.
* * *
I regained consciousness in the interior of an ambulance. Two EMTs, both of whom looked like soap opera actors, at least in my
blurry vision, hovered about. I was vaguely aware of tubes and a needle poking my arm and the pain lessening slightly and then feeling sleepy. Before I closed my eyes again, succumbing to the blackness, I heard one of the EMTs say to other. “Did you see that? The homeless dude and his dog chased us for like six blocks.”
I awakened next in a hospital room. Stark white and gleaming, it smelled of bleach and the chemical components of medicines. My eyes darted around the room—empty of people or even a hint that any living thing existed. I felt a surge of panic. What had happened? What hospital was I in? Had they called Charlotte? God forbid anyone had called Blythe and worried her and my nieces, Lola and Clementine Then I remembered. They wouldn’t call Charlotte. No one would ever call Charlotte on my behalf again, because I had no assistant. I had no job. And now I was in the hospital. This day could not get any worse.
I tried to move to look for some kind of call button like I’d seen in the movies but the searing pain on the right side of my head stopped me. A small moan of pain escaped. I licked my dry and scaly lips. How long had I been here? Just then a nurse shuffled into the room and came to stand over my bed. Tall, with the body of a twelve-year-old boy—no breasts and shiny, pink skin that looked like a freshly scrubbed baby’s bottom. She wore pink scrubs that matched the hue of her cheeks, and a touch of lip gloss. Her hair hung in two braids. Probably had organic yogurt and granola for breakfast. Her nametag read Kelly Smith. Suddenly I remembered the nurse who had hovered over me on the sidewalk. Had she called the ambulance? Was this her hospital?
Kelly smiled and arrived at my bedside in two strides of those twig-like legs. “How’re you feeling?”
I glanced down at her feet. White Birkenstocks and socks to match. I knew it. “Like a truck ran over me.”
She picked up my right arm and took my pulse, staring at the floor in that way nurses do when they’re taking your vitals. With an unreadable expression, she let go of my arm, tucking the blanket between my side and arm. “Do you know what year it is?”
What was it with nurses asking obvious questions? “2015.”
“Do you know who the president is?”
“Of the United States?” Had I heard her wrong?
“Yes.” She nodded, her eyes focused on my face.
“Obama.” I paused. “Unfortunately.”
This caused a slight smile. “You sound like my father. Not a popular viewpoint here in Portland.”
“I know. Liberals. They’re everywhere. What happened to good old-fashioned free enterprise?”
I’m almost certain I caught her rolling her eyes before she walked to the end of the bed and picked up a clipboard.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“I slipped on ice. That’s about it. What’s wrong with me?” I felt afraid suddenly. Was it serious?
“You have a traumatic subarachnoid hemorrhage.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you bonked the you-know-what out of your head and have a small amount of bleeding on the brain. The doctor wants to keep you here overnight to monitor you. He always errs on the side of caution. But you should be fine.”
I tried to keep up but it was nearly impossible for me to sort through this information, especially given my aching head. “How long was I unconscious?”
“Five minutes or so. Then you were conscious but somewhat incoherent. You don’t remember anything?”
“Not much. No.”
“The EMTs tried to keep you awake. That’s important with a head injury.”
“Right.” What were the odds? Slipping on the ice right after I got canned?
Kelly bustled over to the sink and filled a pitcher with water. Despite her height, she moved like a cat, quiet and stealthy. At my side again, she poured some water into a cup. After plunging a straw into it, she set it aside and pushed a button that made the top part of the bed rise slightly. “How does that feel?” she asked.
I closed my eyes against the pain. “Awful but I’m dying for water.”
She put her arm around my shoulders and helped me take a sip of the cold, cold water. Nothing had ever tasted as good.
“When can I go home?” I asked, almost cringing at how weak I sounded.
“Depends on what the doctor says. But I’d assume we’ll just keep you overnight unless the bleeding gets worse. Only a precaution; nothing to worry about. But no driving for a while.” She placed the cup of water back on the bedside table that moved in and out like a flat, plastic arm. “I think you’re going to live, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She smiled again, looking mischievous. Everyone’s a comedian. “Do you feel up for a visitor?”
“A visitor?” Who would visit me?
“Charlotte. She says she’s your assistant.”
Charlotte. Good old faithful Charlotte. “Did you guys call her?”
“No, she arrived just as they brought you in.”
“Sure, I feel fine. Would love to see her.” To my disgust I felt like I might cry.
A few minutes later Charlotte came in, holding a small plant, and looking paler and puffier than when I’d last seen her at the office. On most days she was a beauty, dark-skinned with startling eyes just a shade darker than an amber-hued gemstone, and masses of tightly curled brown hair that fell attractively around her face. She started to cry as she put the plant on the bedside table. “Thank God you’re all right. I was worried sick. I’m sorry about this awful plant. It’s all they had. I think it’s a begonia but I don’t really know anything about plants.”
“I do, unfortunately.” My hippie mother and the relentless gardening. “It’s not a begonia. It’s a spider plant.”
“Are you all right? I thought you might be dead.” She shrugged out of her raincoat like she was hot, tossing it onto the chair next to the bed. Charlotte, although short and petite, had a curve to her hips and bottom, which she constantly complained about and dieted over, without any credence given to the fact that men drooled over her on a regular basis.
“I’m going to be fine.” I handed her a box of tissue from the bedside table. The spider plant’s leaves wilted over the sides of its plastic container. That plant was near death, I thought. It needed water, but I wasn’t about to burden poor Charlotte with that information. “How did you know I fell?”
She blew her nose before answering. “I was in the coffee shop at the bottom of the building having a little cry when I saw you fall. I ran out there to help but I couldn’t get to you because of the crowd. Say what you will about Oregonians but they always help their fellow man.”
Charlotte. Always the philosopher.
“Anyway, I saw Sam and Sweetheart.”
I interrupted her. “Wait, you know them?”
“Well, not personally. But I know you give money to them every day.” I lifted my shoulders from the pillow in my best impression of a sit-up but thought better of it when my head started to throb.
“How do you know that?” I asked, weakly.
“I’m your assistant. I know everything.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I was quite aware of how efficient and all-seeing Charlotte was.
“He chased the ambulance for several blocks.”
“Yeah, I heard the EMTs say something about that.” I’d forgotten it until now. Was I truly fine? I felt like something on the bottom of one of nurse Kelly’s Birkenstocks, and clearly I was suffering from short-term memory loss.
“Sam sent this.” Charlotte handed me a piece of paper.
I opened the note.
Miss Heywood, please be all right. I had a head injury once and now I can’t speak. Sam.
Sam. To my surprise, tears came to my eyes. They must be contagious, I thought. I brushed them aside and turned gingerly to the window, body aches from head to foot. Apparently falling on concrete not only bruises your ego but also opens you up
to emotions you didn’t know you had. It was late afternoon, darkness closing in outside the window. Ice, like intricate decoration on a cake, crystalized at the corners of the glass. Where was Sam now? Was he warm enough? How would they eat without my money if I couldn’t get to them tomorrow? I’d have to think about that later. I looked back at Charlotte.
“Charlotte, execs get kicked to the curb all the time. It’s as brutal as dating. I’ll land on my feet. I promise.” I said the last part in a softer voice because she’d started to cry again.
“I, I don’t like it. After everything you did to get them where you are and how you always look out for the employees, well, it’s just not right.” Her voice had the wobble you get after crying on and off for half the day. Unfortunately I was familiar with this too. Back when I used to cry, thanks to my mother. Charlotte continued. “I hate business. I have no heart for it. I hate it. The only thing that made it bearable was you.”
“Charlotte, you’ll have a different boss and I’m sure whoever it is, it will be just like working for me.” But as I said it, I realized there were no openings for executive assistants in the company, which meant she’d have to work for Ralph. I hadn’t even thought of that until now, so concerned with my own situation. Poor Charlotte. I would call some recruiters later to see if any of them knew of some executive assistant roles. I grimaced. “Did they say you have to work for Ralph?”
She nodded, crying harder. “Ye-ye-yes.” Suddenly she took in a long, shaky breath and stopped crying, her pretty face determined and her small hands clenched into fists. “When they told me, I marched right into Rachel’s office and quit on the spot.”
“What about your stock?”
For the first time, her mouth turned up slightly into a half-smile. “I pretended for a minute I was you and I told them I wanted my stock fully vested.”
“But they didn’t agree to that, surely?” Of course they wouldn’t. Companies didn’t give resigning employees anything except the open door.
Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2) Page 2
