Don't Let Go

by Sheryl Wright

  Georgie took the notepad back and began to make additions.

  While Tyler waited for her response, she turned her attention back to the RF chips. Picking up one of the tiny capsules, she had to admit her astonishment. “This is unbelievable. How does it work?”

  With her attention fixed on the notepad, Georgie halted her work just long enough to answer, “Simple dongle.”

  “Dongle?”

  The look she gave Tyler was intensely serious. Tearing the top sheet of paper off the pad, she drew a circle, writing Dongle inside while explaining, “Think…serial number…electronic serial number,” she said, pointing to the circle. She then drew a rectangle and labeled it Security/Access Points. “Interrogator,” she said as explanation for its function. Finally she drew a symbol Tyler recognized as representative of a database. “Comparison.” Then, using arrows, she linked the three objects and then looped the process back to the starting point.

  “Oh, I think I get it,” Tyler said, with some delight. “Tell me if I’m right. Whenever the RF chip gets close to any of the readers, interrogators you said, they read the serial number and compare it to the database while recording the employee’s position in the building. If it’s a security point, like a locked door, it must also check to see if the serial number on the chip is actually authorized entry. If it is, that information is passed back and the door unlocks. If it doesn’t match the database list then the door remains closed. Very interesting. And you’re right, the simplicity is quite elegant.”

  It was easy to see Georgie was pleased with her answer. “Nice!” was her unadorned but keen response.

  Tyler rolled the soft bead of the RF chip in her palm, contemplating everything she had learned. “Do you have a corporate policy on any of the issues you’re asking me to address?”

  Georgie shook her head. Turning to the shelves behind her desk she retrieved a large binder marked Media Releases, and flipped through several pages before finding what she wanted, passing it across the desk.

  Scanning several pages quickly, Tyler noted this particular report was a summary of the company’s position on out-of-production patents. It seemed DME had made a public statement saying they would not sell, license, or allow other manufacturers anywhere in the world to produce two-stroke engines based on their legacy products. The statement went on to estimate the size of the two-stroke engine market, and why, regardless of the estimated loss of projected profits, DME had divorced itself from the product line. Two-stroke engines, while offering much more horsepower per cubic inch, were huge polluters, spewing out three times more carbon monoxide than their four stroke big brothers while adding insult by polluting the water with unburned lubricating oil. When companies from China and India had come looking for cheap two-stroke designs, DME had only offered their four-stroke engines. There were other similar releases. Some went on to describe improvements to the DiNamico building and the Dynamic Marine boatyard and included changes like adding solar panels on the roof and low-voltage lighting inside.

  Tyler closed the press book and took a careful look around the office. This wouldn’t be such a bad place to work. The combination of stone, glass and aged oak made the place seem organic and inviting, or maybe it was the woman herself. She had to admit that Georgie DiNamico was like no one she had ever met. With nothing but simple sentences, the woman had explained herself in more detail than Tyler had ever pulled from chatty-Cathy faculty members. “I would need access to everything, business plans, financial statements, product proposals, everything!”

  “Okay.”

  “I would need input from all the top players.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “Yes.” She stood, waving casually as she said, “Director level access.”

  Tyler marveled at her open trust. “What happens if you choose not to start the new company? What will I be doing then?”

  That question seemed to knock the wind from the woman’s sails. “I will not…lie. This job…babysitting. The rest…up to you.” She retrieved the notepad, bending over the desk to scribble. She handed the page back to Tyler. She had written the word Questions and underlined it. Below it, a point list:

  Privacy.

  Personal liability, long-term impact.

  Fluctuating global money markets. Exchange rates.

  Accounting and investment ethics.

  Environmentally responsible legacy of products and technologies.

  The last bullet point was underlined. In brackets, she had written and underlined, Past – Present – Future!

  “I take it you feel very strongly about this?”

  Again, Georgie looked genuinely surprised by the question. “My dad…struggled. Family or work.” She was quiet again, clearly contemplative. “We…me, Dad, Henry…would talk…issues, upcoming.” She slipped back into her chair. She looked good behind the large desk. There was something calming, almost soothing in seeing her there. At odds with her Mediterranean coloring, her intelligent eyes were a shade of green Tyler had never encountered.

  She watched with interest while her new boss worked to organize her thoughts. Consciously forcing herself to sit up straight, she placed both hands flat on the desk determined to project an air of openness and patience, something Georgie immediately seemed to comprehend and appreciate.

  She gave her a grateful nod before turning her attention back to the notepad, and scribbled furiously for two, three minutes straight. When she was finished, she surprised Tyler again. This time, instead of handing her the notepad to read, Georgie read to her from her notes. Remarkably, the woman could both read from her rushed notes and maintain eye contact. The transformation was extraordinary. If Tyler had not been witness to her previous attempts and frustrations, she would have immediately dismissed everything she’d been told.

  “…Environmental impact is a big concern. One reason we only build sailboats. There is a good margin in fiberglass runabouts, if you build to the lowest standards. We will not do that. To build a power boat we would be proud to put our name on, we would price ourselves out of the market. It would not matter that our boat would last longest. Today customers ask how many years they can finance a boat. Not how many years of service they can expect. A good deal is not a good deal. It is a mistake to play the economics of volume game. Not for us. I need you to explain that to the Board. We must demonstrate how to take the high road and turn a profit.”

  “What if I can’t find a profitable economic model that fits your high moral ground?”

  Georgie scooped the RF chips into her hand and back into the small paper box, silent and brooding again. Finally, she looked back at Tyler. Instead of trying to explain, she picked up her cell phone and navigated to a webpage.

  Accepting the phone, Tyler read aloud, “Miami International In-Water Boat Show. February twenty-third through the twenty-eighth. “I assume this is a big event for the company?”

  “Industry,” Georgie explained.

  Tyler wasn’t quite sure of the point—then the implication dawned on her. “Oh my God, you’re planning to pitch this right after the Miami Boat Show.”

  “During,” she corrected. “Everyone…in Miami.”

  “Oh my God! I can’t even begin to tell you how much work is involved.” She was surprised by the smile she saw across the desk. “You’re liking this. This idea of putting a proposal together. Taking the company in a new direction.” Tyler had to think about that for a minute, only then admitting how empowering it would be to work with this woman. “All right, let me get this sorted in my head. You’ve got this idea to split the company into three divisions. And you have a very strong feeling about the way you want to structure your corporate ethics policy including licensing and legacy. And, you plan to pitch this while your family’s in Miami for the boat show.”

  Georgie nodded her confirmation, her too-long bangs falling into her gorgeous green eyes. Even in the plain gray suit and the shoddy blue shirt, the
re was no denying how attractive she was, especially with that beguiling smile.

  “I hate to ask this but what happens if the board rejects your proposal and wants to go in a different direction?”

  The smile vanished and in its place came disappointment. Then Georgie shrugged, pointing at herself and said, “Unemployed.”

  “You? That doesn’t make sense!”

  Georgie nodded, again playing the airplane game with her hands. Once again she flew the two airplanes on a collision course but narrowly missed, each continuing on in opposite directions.

  Silently contemplating the woman across the desk, Tyler counted herself surprised once again. What the hell is with her? Remarkably forthcoming and thoughtful, she was woefully unaware of her potential detractors. In a way, it was a remarkable skill. Although, how that affected her personal or emotional life was hard to fathom. Surveying the office once more, she asked, “Where will I be working?”

  “Close,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the administrative offices next door. “All right?”

  She was starting to understand that Georgie would simply ask her when she was unsure of whether she was right or wrong. She stood, following Georgie through the same back corridor Zoe had pulled her along just that morning.

  Steps from her office, Georgie turned and pointed out the private kitchen. Opposite and with a spectacular view of the South Erie shoreline were two glass-fronted offices. Each was about half the size of the CIO’s. Susan Chan’s name was on the far office door while the one closest to Georgie’s was empty. A desk and bookshelves lined one wall, a love seat had been pushed against another. This was not what she was expecting. When she first applied for the position, she had imagined being sequestered to a tiny cubicle and having to prepare coffee and photocopy reports. Turning a complete 360 degrees, she took in what looked like brand-new office furniture. Indeed, the sofa still had tags hanging from one arm, as did her office chair. The desk and bookshelves were empty, but looked handsome and inviting. She could actually imagine working here, really working on serious issues affecting this company. Before she could comment, Georgie pointed to the glass office door. It was propped open, so she hadn’t noticed a door inscription had already been added.

  “I hope…okay. Marnie…will tell this,” she said, pointing to the door, adding a warning, “Some know…babysitting too!”

  Tyler read the lettering on the class panel. Dr Tyler Marsh, PhD. Director, Special Projects.

  Still pointing she asked, “…You want that?”

  “Are you kidding me? Wait, are we talking about the same type of work, addressing ethical issues, economic impact statements and analysis. The whole works?”

  Georgie nodded. “Sorry, I…never explained…

  “I understand,” Tyler said, squeezing her arm to halt the confused apology. “I have to tell you. This is not what I was expecting. It’s good. Actually, it’s great. This is something I know how to do. It’s the other half, assisting you. I don’t want to let you down.”

  “Dr Marsh,” Georgie offered formally. “Marnie…the list?”

  “The list?”

  “Details…what is managed. Oh, managed…Manager is better?”

  Tyler tipped her head toward the office door, “Well, according to that, I’m the Director of something called Special Projects. Manager sounds like it would be a step down.”

  Georgie smiled, really smiled, for the first time since their introduction. Reading from the door placard she said with pleasure, “Welcome aboard…Dr Tyler Marsh, PhD, Director of Special Projects.”

  * * *

  “I swear that man will be the death of me! One day he will have to learn the difference between a general ledger and General Motors.” Tyler’s mom stopped short at the sight of her eldest daughter. She was sitting at the kitchen table, stacks of papers, reports and booklets spread out over the entire surface. The only clear spot was occupied by her perpetual coffee cup. She had changed out of her interview suit into a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt that read Carl’s Auto Body, with a cartoon depiction of a toothy Corvette. Her mother gave her an appreciative little backrub before turning to the coffeemaker to fix her own cup. “So I take it things went better the second time round?”

  “Dad told you?”

  “He told me it was complicated,” she answered, stirring cream into her coffee.

  She noticed that her mom’s dark hair was starting to show even more gray, ravages of raising three headstrong girls. Willowy tall, dressed in her work clothes, jeans and a V-neck sweater embroidered with Carl’s Autobody across the front, she pulled out a chair and sat down across the table without messing up Tyler’s spread. “This reminds me of your undergraduate years. When you were here at State. I hadn’t realized how much I missed having you home until right this minute.”

  “Mom!”

  “Don’t mom me! I can’t help if I like having you here. I hated it when you were down in the Big Apple. Almost as much as I hated having you away at graduate school. I know honey. I see your look. It can’t be that bad, living with your mom and dad, is it?”

  “Of course not. Although I will admit, it does wreak havoc with my love life.”

  “Oh honey, you could always bring your girlfriends home.” This she added with the same spark of mischief Tyler recognized in her dad.

  She groaned. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to introduce anyone to her parents, it was that she had no one to introduce.

  As if she could read her thoughts, her mother offered gently, “Maybe you’ll meet someone at this new company. There’s got to be some lovely ladies you might be interested in.”

  “Lovely ladies? Mom, when are you from?”

  With blue eyes darker than Lake Erie, Debbie Marsh laughed, age lines adding a certain air to her affection. Sipping her coffee appreciatively, she was obviously unwilling to comment on her generational slang. “So what’s all this?”

  Tyler set her pen down, frustrated by the interruption but in need of fresh coffee anyway. Grabbing her cup, she returned to the coffeemaker, deciding just how to explain what she had learned. Padding back to the table, her bare feet appreciated the heated tile floor. She was wondering how often they had done just this. Sit together and discuss her work, her research, even as far back as public school. She loved doing her homework at the kitchen table if for no other reason than to share the ritual with her mom. “This was a surprise. Turns out my new boss wants to put my skills to work. And, it turns out, the only way she could convince her company to hire an Ethicist was to accept that she needed an assistant too.”

  “Your dad says this DiNamico woman is a vet, that she needs a little help. How bad is it?”

  “It’s actually not what you’d imagine. Her head injury only affects certain aspects of her right brain function.”

  “The right brain, that’s the analytical or the creative side?”

  That surprised Tyler. “You know about brain hemispheres?”

  Her mother nodded, enjoying another sip of her brew, slouched in her chair, something she only did after work. And cradling her cup in both hands, something Tyler had seen her do for ages. How she managed to keep her long hair so neat and her long nails so perfectly manicured while working in a body shop never ceased to amaze her. She’d worked in her parents’ shop every summer for as long as she remembered and never made it home looking so good. If she didn’t know better she would have been shocked to learn the casual beauty across from her ran the busiest body shop in town. “Your dad and I watched some program on the Discovery channel, or maybe it was PBS.”

  Tyler nodded appreciatively. “Well, you basically know as much as I do. But of course it’s more complicated than that. According to this letter written to her sister from her neurologist, Georgie has suffered permanent damage to some key areas. The amygdala is the first.”

  “What does that part do?” She sat up straighter, all business again. Tyler had always admired that in her mom. The articulate and sincere interest she dis
played instilled confidence and had the added effect of renewing her own curiosity in a subject.

  “According to this,” she said, holding up her iPad, “it’s the fear center. Which accounts for her lack of common sense.”

  “Oh? What’s that about?” A mom tone creeping back into the conversation.

  Tyler opened a video link before passing the tablet to her mom. “This was taken last year. I think it was early December.”

  Clearing a place on the table for her coffee cup, her mother tapped on the play arrow, then watched the footage of Georgie DiNamico jumping overboard into the icy lake, and the steps her crew took to find her and haul her back aboard. “Holy crap! Tyler Ann Marsh! If you ever pull a stunt like this, I will kill you myself!”

  There was no doubting her words. In this house Debbie Marsh was the boss and what she said was law. As kids Tyler and her twin Kira had never gotten away with anything. Oh they could run to their dad for sympathy but even he bowed to Debbie’s rule. It had become the family’s running joke. The biggest linebacker in town was afraid of his skinny raven-haired bride! Laughing, Tyler retrieved the iPad while assuring her mother, “Don’t worry. You raised me to be smarter than that. Thank God!”

  “So I guess this is the part where the babysitting comes into play?”

  “You got it.”

  Debbie, uncharacteristically quiet, seemed to be carefully considering her daughter’s new job.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I see that look. She’s been diagnosed with PTSD.”

  “That seems to be a common thread for veterans these days. Are you surprised?”

  “Not at all. I guess my concerns are more about managing her emotional states, if I can put it that way.”