Moments We Forget

by Beth K. Vogt

  Within seconds, I’d corrected my error and resent the information, but only after double-checking the e-mail address. “The package is on its way to you. I’m so sorry, Jonah. Really, really sorry.”

  “I don’t have time for apologies, Jillian. But you owe me.” With a click, the line went dead.

  I dropped the phone onto my desk, collapsing with my forehead pressed against my crossed arms. How stupid could I be? Not that I’d be asking that question out loud to give anyone the chance to volunteer an answer.

  Too many mistakes. Too many things left undone at the end of the day that were then waiting for me when I came to work each morning. Too many days that started off with me determined to do better, to accomplish everything I needed to do, to catch up . . . and by midday, fatigue overtook my best intentions, confusion befuddled my brain, and anxiety strangled my confidence.

  An hour later, Harper tiptoed into my office. Her exaggerated wide-eyed glance left and right, tossing her black hair against her shoulders, was almost enough to make me laugh out loud. Almost. “All clear?”

  “Yes. Crisis dealt with.” I leaned forward, resting my head in my palms. “I assume Mr. Hampton is in his office, letting me handle anything else that comes up.”

  “What happened?” Harper settled into one of the blue cloth chairs in front of my desk.

  “Before that, I need to say I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.”

  “Forget it. You were stressed.” Harper waved away my apology. “Now tell me.”

  “You heard what happened. The closing package went missing—”

  “How?”

  “You saw me send it before we left, but I somehow clicked on the wrong e-mail address.”

  “Everyone’s done that.”

  I ran my fingers through my short hair. “Yes, everyone does that. But I used to be so punctual and now . . . now I’m not. Everything . . . everything takes longer. Getting ready for work. Doing work. I don’t remember things like I used to . . .”

  “You need to give yourself a little time. We just passed the one-year anniversary of your diagnosis, Jillian. You’re barely past your treatment. What happened earlier was an honest mistake.”

  “It was me—making another mistake.” I jabbed my index finger into my solar plexus. “I come in late. I leave early.” With every word I said, I added to my ever-growing list of faults. “And this week has been even worse, what with the kitchen renovation being delayed—not that it’s my fault.”

  “Wait—what? The workers never showed up?”

  “I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had time to think about it. They’re finally coming tomorrow—on a Saturday. They’ve promised Zach that they’re finished with the other house project and that they’ll start demoing our kitchen tomorrow.”

  “You’re only five days behind. It could get—”

  “Don’t say it, Harper.” I wanted to plug my ears with my fingers like a little girl but shook my head instead. “I’ve watched plenty of home renovation TV shows. I made the mistake of doing a search online of kitchen renovation horror stories. I know it could get worse. Just don’t say it, okay?”

  The faint spicy scent of roasted chicken and grilled peppers and onions tickled my nose. Why did I smell fajitas? Wait—there, on the corner of my desk, sat my abandoned white-paper sack of lunch leftovers. Perfect. With one swift move, I tossed them into the wastebasket beside my feet.

  “What are you doing? I thought you were taking those home for dinner tonight.”

  “I never put them in the fridge.”

  “They’re fine, Jill. And you hardly ate anything at lunch.”

  “No, thank you. My appetite is off.”

  A shadow filled the doorway of my office as Mr. Hampton appeared again, his glance skimming past Harper to me. “Jillian, could we talk in my office?”

  I half rose, wiping my palms against the material of my linen pants. “Now, sir?”

  “I don’t want to interrupt.” His glance ricocheted between Harper and me. “Fifteen minutes is fine.”

  As he disappeared, I collapsed into my chair, causing it to roll backward. “Well, that’s just perfect.”

  “What?”

  “He probably thinks we were sitting here wasting time talking about the latest story on the British royals.”

  “I seriously doubt the man even knows William and Kate, much less Harry and Meghan, exist. And I work here, too. We could have been talking business.”

  I repositioned my chair. “What am I going to do, Harper?”

  “Do? You’re going to go talk to Hampton. It’ll be fine.”

  “But he came by and we were just sitting here . . .”

  “Exactly.” Harper stood, motioning me to my feet. “We were talking, not playing cards or surfing the Internet, looking at clothes or vacation spots. Stop imagining the worst.”

  Harper ushered me out of my office with a pat on the back and one of her trademark positive thoughts. “Mark Twain said this—‘I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.’”

  Despite her encouragement, today was almost as bad as the day I’d gotten the biopsy results. When I knew I had breast cancer but didn’t know how bad it was.

  No. Nothing . . . nothing would ever be as awful as that day. Cancer had snuck up on me the night of my engagement party as soundlessly as my footsteps along the carpeted hallway between the bank’s offices.

  Cancer had ravaged my health. Undermined my future. I’d almost allowed it to destroy my relationship with Geoff, except he’d ignored my “You can’t love me” protests and proved me wrong.

  Now was not the time to remember all of this. I needed to be calm. Unemotional. Not to assume anything and overreact.

  Mr. Hampton welcomed me into his office with a nod, indicating I should sit in one of the faux leather chairs positioned side by side in front of his desk. He looked as neat and put together at four o’clock as he had when he’d arrived at seven thirty—his customary start of the day. Dark suit. Light-colored dress shirt. Patterned tie. Shaved head. And the menthol aroma of some sort of aftershave lingered in the room.

  An abstract print in blue, yellow, and orange hung on the wall behind his desk, and a small window allowed some natural light in. A low bookshelf contained an orderly array of binders and books, and several family photos placed just so indicated that yes, Mr. Hampton was a family man, too.

  My boss cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, I rushed ahead. “Mr. Hampton, I wanted to apologize again for what happened. I accidentally clicked on an outdated e-mail address—”

  “Thank you, Jillian.” Mr. Hampton folded his hands on top of his desk. “I understand. And I hope you know that you’ve been an excellent employee.”

  He paused, his words putting me on alert. I shifted in my seat, maintaining both eye contact and silence.

  Mr. Hampton cleared his throat. “I also want you to know my decision is not based solely on what happened earlier today.”

  “Your decision?”

  “Yes. Jillian, I’m sorry, but your position here at the bank is terminated.”

  I swallowed, my mouth dry. “You’re firing me?”

  “Again, I’m sorry.” My boss rubbed his palm against his bald head. “We both know you’ve had a challenging time with your workload the past few months. And it’s not that I’m not sympathetic. I am. Things just aren’t getting done in a timely or thorough manner. Your job here is a full-time position but, what with you coming in late and leaving early, you’re still keeping part-time hours.”

  What was I supposed to say? He might as well have listened in on my earlier conversation with Harper.

  “It was understandable when you were originally diagnosed with cancer—with the expectation that you would eventually get back to your normal work schedule. And I know that you made every effort to maintain your hours and workload. What happened with the closing today is merely another indicator of your inability to keep up with the demands of your
job.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “I’ve talked with some of the management team, and they agree there are extenuating circumstances here. Confidentially, there are also some changes being set in place for the company.”

  I tried to keep up with what he was saying. “Changes?”

  “Nothing I can discuss openly at this time, except to say there will be some downsizing in the months to come. The banking industry is more and more about digital interfacing. In light of all of this, Jillian, we’d like to offer you a decent severance package.” He lifted a slim manila folder from his desk. “You can look this over, discuss the details with your husband if you’d like to, and let me know if it meets your approval.”

  I was being shown the exit in the nicest way possible—and also being asked if that was okay with me.

  My fingers trembling, my first attempt to take the folder failed. I couldn’t even get fired without messing it up.

  What was I supposed to say? “Thank you”?

  “We’ll talk on Monday. Is that all right with you?” Mr. Hampton saved me from trying to figure out the appropriate words.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Whatever was in the folder, I was as good as fired. It wasn’t like I would turn down the offer. The only thing I had to figure out was how to tell Geoff. But right now I needed to stay calm. Somehow be appreciative . . . although all my job training never prepared me to thank my boss for firing me.

  I needed to pretend I was some award-winning actress playing the part of a gracious woman who smiled though her heart was breaking. Discover the technique for talking while fighting back tears. My gaze made it as far as the bridge of Mr. Hampton’s nose. I smiled, hoping the action stopped my lips from quivering. Stood. Shook his hand. Heard my thank-you collide with his.

  One more thing lost to cancer.

  My best friend did not take no for an answer.

  It didn’t matter how many different ways I tried to decline her impromptu suggestion for a Girls’ Night. Harper was having none of it.

  “I know Geoff’s working late, so there’s no rush for you to go home.” Harper tilted her head, one eyebrow raised, giving me her “I mean business” look. “We’ll be sitting down—not working out at a gym, so it doesn’t matter if you’re tired.”

  “I just don’t want to.” I stood next to her car in the bank parking lot, the manila folder in one hand, my purse slung over my shoulder. My sunglasses hiding the fact that I’d spent five minutes in the ladies’ restroom crying. Not that crying had done anything except ruin my makeup, what little I wore. But when your eyelashes are almost nonexistent thanks to chemo, mascara is a must.

  “Which is exactly why we’re going to do this. Besides, we got lucky. We’ve got reservations at The Melting Pot. Me. You. And a pot of chocolate fondue.” Harper laughed, slipping on her sunglasses. “And no, I didn’t intend for that to rhyme. See you there.”

  With that, she rolled up her car window and drove away. I debated whether I’d meet her or just go home, but Harper was right, this was a good idea—and she didn’t even know how my day had ended. I didn’t want to be alone with the memory of being fired on constant replay in my mind.

  Thirty minutes later, we sat in a small booth for two, sipping glasses of wine, while our waiter prepared the Flaming Turtle chocolate fondue, complete with milk chocolate, caramel, and pecans.

  “I figured you needed this. I know you feel bad about the mix-up with the closing package.” Harper raised her glass and nodded toward the silver pot of fondue. “Can’t go wrong with warm, decadent chocolate, right?”

  The waiter set a white china plate filled with sliced strawberries, bananas, marshmallows, and brownies on the table with the encouragement to enjoy. Harper speared a piece of fruit. “Dig in—and talk to me.”

  Tonight was like so many of our Girls’ Nights. Necessary. Therapy. No matter what, Harper and I made time for each other.

  “Remember back in college, when a Girls’ Night meant popcorn and a movie?”

  “Look at us now, all grown-up and indulging in fondue and a glass of wine.”

  There were other less subtle changes, too. I was a newlywed . . . and a breast cancer survivor. Harper would be divorced soon, facing the unwanted reality that her husband would marry his former high school girlfriend as soon as the divorce was final.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last year, it’s that life is uncertain.”

  Harper pierced a piece of brownie with her fondue fork and raised it like a torch. “Hear, hear.”

  I touched the tip of my fork to hers.

  “No, you have to put something on it.”

  I added a strawberry and returned the fondue-food-fork salute. “The other thing I know is that I want to be more like you—my always-glass-half-full friend. And if someone’s glass is empty, you find a way to fill it up for them.”

  “Eat your fruit. You’re making me cry.” Harper dunked the brownie into the fondue pot. “Was there any more fallout from the closing snafu this morning?”

  Where to start?

  “I, um, spent the afternoon apologizing. I sent e-mails to Jonah and his boss. And I asked for the Spencer family’s new address so I could send them a fruit basket or something nice.”

  “Hey, if you really want to make good with the parents, send something for the kids. They’ll love that. Not a fruit basket—no kid wants grapefruit and apples. Maybe a movie gift card?”

  “Have I ever told you that you’re brilliant, Harper?”

  “Yeah. Many times.” Harper selected a second piece of brownie. “Then you’re all good.”

  There was no sense in delaying the truth, even if talking about it ruined our fun night out. “No, I’m not.”

  Harper paused with her fondue skewer in midair. “What’s going on? Jonah send you a nasty e-mail? Ignore it.”

  I indulged in a bite of banana dipped in melted chocolate, but it seemed to get clogged in my throat. I grabbed my glass of ice water and took a sip. And another. Waved away Harper’s look of concern.

  “I’m okay. I just . . . I lost my job.”

  “They can’t fire you!” Harper’s fondue skewer clattered against the side of the pot.

  “Yes, they can. And they don’t have to give any reason why, either. Have you forgotten that Colorado is an at-will state?”

  “But you’re one of the bank’s best employees—”

  “No.” I had to stop Harper’s loyal defense. Best friend or not, she was wrong. “I’m not. Not since my diagnosis. Not since the chemo. The radiation. Mr. Hampton offered me a decent severance package. And I got my bonus . . . so this could be a lot worse.”

  Here I was trying to tell Harper all the reasons losing my job was acceptable. Almost to be expected. Maybe by the time I talked to Geoff, I would be able to pull this off with a smile. Convince him, too.

  “You’re not going to fight this?” Harper slumped back against the padded booth.

  “What good would that do me?” I needed to remember I couldn’t tell Harper everything because some of what Mr. Hampton told me was confidential. I selected a strawberry, dipping it in the fondue. “The truth is, my future is as muddy as the chocolate in this pot.”

  “Now that’s appetizing.” Harper’s laugh was brief.

  “Some days it feels like I lost myself the day I was diagnosed with cancer. . . . I’m like Gretel in that fairy tale. Trying to find my way out of the woods, but I didn’t drop any breadcrumbs to lead me back home—back to the woman I was before all of this happened.”

  “It takes time, friend. Time.” Harper reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You haven’t told Geoff, have you?”

  “No. It’s not the kind of thing you mention in the middle of the day when your husband calls to check in, you know?”

  “I would have to agree with you.”

  No need to tell her that I’d let Geoff’s call go to voice mail. That would be admitting out loud that I was a coward. Even though Harper was my
closest friend . . . even though she knew me at my best and my worst . . . I still didn’t want to say it.

  “I have to figure out how to tell him what happened. It’s going to be a shock—and a bit of a jolt to our finances, especially since we’re remodeling the kitchen.”

  The blended music of laughter between a man and a woman pulled my attention to a couple in a booth across from Harper and me. They were snuggled up close, the man’s arm draped across the woman’s shoulders. An assortment of colorful helium balloons floated above the booth, while a small bouquet of red roses decorated one corner of the table.

  “Look at them. They’re so young. So in love.”

  “Isn’t it sweet?” Harper rested her chin on her upturned hand.

  “I was going to say, ‘They’re so clueless.’”

  Harper’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you say something like that?”

  “It’s the truth. They obviously haven’t hit any bumps in the road of life yet—but they will.”

  “When did you become such a cynic?”

  “I’m not a cynic. I’m a realist.”

  “And what good does that kind of negative outlook do for you?”

  “I’m dealing with real life. You of all people know that life happens. That love doesn’t always mean happily ever after—”

  Harper crossed her arms, leaning away from me. “Right. My husband cheated on me. I’m getting a divorce. But I am going to have a good life despite that.”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  Two apologies to Harper in one day. If I’d gone home, I would have at least kept it to one.

  Harper shook her head, her black hair brushing her shoulders. “Forget it.”

  “Harper.” I waited until she made eye contact. “I am sorry.”

  “I know. We’re good.” She shrugged. “Look, Trent wasn’t who I thought he was. He’s a cheater. I know that. You know that. But I can’t stay angry with the guy because if I do, he wins. He’s already ruined our marriage. I’m not going to let him ruin the rest of my life.”