by Beth K. Vogt
“Telling you why isn’t going to change anything, Jillian.”
“Yes, it will.” I waited until he looked at me instead of staring at his plate. “If you explain, then I’ll understand your decision. And your decision affects both of us.”
Geoff closed his eyes. Opened them again. “Fair enough.”
But even as he agreed to answer my question, it was as if Geoff moved further away from me. There was a fleeting glimpse of something bleak in his eyes. I almost said, “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
But I had to understand why he was saying no to children. To our children.
“I have . . . a brother, Jillian.” Geoff’s voice had dropped to a whisper, but I didn’t dare lean closer or ask him to speak up, for fear he’d stop talking. If he did, then I’d never make sense of the sentence that seemed to be a direct strike to my heart.
“His name is Brian. He’s twenty months older than me. And you’re probably wondering why you’ve never met him.”
No. No, I was wondering why I’d never heard about Brian before now.
“Brian was always a handful for Mom and Dad—challenging them. Ignoring them. Ignoring teachers. Anyone in authority, really. When he hit the teen years, it was as if all the rebellion was turbo-charged. When he was seventeen, Brian ran away from home.”
Geoff spoke with no emotion, his words as bland as if he were reading from a dishwasher installation manual.
“Where is he now?”
Geoff shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“You’ve never heard from him again? Not once in all these years?”
“At first, he’d call every four months or so. But our parents told him to stop calling unless he was willing to come home and get his life straight.”
“And?”
“That was the end of the phone calls.”
“Don’t you ever wonder where he is? Want to find him?”
“He left the family, not me.” Never once had Geoff looked at me as he spoke, but now his gaze connected with mine. “There was no reason to try and find him.”
It was as if Geoff’s words formed extra puzzle pieces that were supposed to somehow fit into our life story.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about Brian?”
“I don’t . . . we don’t talk about him.”
“None of you—not your parents or you—talk about your brother? Ever?”
“I tried to ask my parents about Brian a few times, even though my mother kept telling me to stop. Then a couple of years later, I mentioned him again. My mother looked at me and said, ‘Who?’” Geoff swallowed hard. “I never asked again. Over the years, it’s become easier not to talk about him.”
“Until now.”
“What?”
“It was easier until now.” I withdrew my hand from his, rubbing my palms together. My diamond engagement ring had twisted around and scraped against my skin. “Were you ever going to tell me about Brian?”
“No.” Geoff’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Maybe. I don’t know. What good would it do?”
“What good would it do to tell your wife that you have a brother?”
“It’s bringing up the past, Jillian.”
“Your past is affecting our future.”
“Not really. I’d already made my decision not to have children before I met you.”
“Because of your brother.”
“He abandoned our family!” Geoff’s voice rose before he stopped himself. “Why can’t you understand that?”
“Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might understand difficult family situations, Geoff? You just never gave me the chance.”
“This is my family’s issue, not yours.”
“Not anymore. Not once we got married.”
Silence.
None of this made any sense.
I slipped from my chair onto my knees beside him, wrapping my arms around his waist, hoping for some connection with my husband. Geoff stiffened, his arms resting on the table, his hands fisted together.
I couldn’t fix this with a hug. This wasn’t like trying to talk Geoff out of a bad mood.
Questions filled my mind.
How could your parents never talk about their firstborn son?
Don’t you miss your brother?
And then arguments filtered their way in between the questions.
How can you let something that happened when you were in high school determine what we do now?
Why are you letting fear stop you from becoming a father?
But I said none of these things. Instead I held my husband even as I tried to hold the invisible puzzle pieces he’d handed me as he told me about Brian. Winston came and nudged around us, settling with his head resting on Geoff’s feet. I found my husband’s hand, intertwining our fingers so that our wedding bands touched.
I needed to remember this . . . Our marriage was until death do us part. Not until I couldn’t understand my husband.
Geoff shifted, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his ragged breathing warm on my skin. I waited for him to cry.
But no tears came.
Just more silence.
It was as if I stood at the edge of an open cavern, peering down into the opaque darkness. How deep was it? And if I slipped, would I ever stop falling?
JUST OUTSIDE the expansive glass windows surrounding the staff café, gray clouds hid the mountains from view. The overhead lighting created a cozy feeling, warming the tops of the rustic wood tables and cloth chairs scattered throughout the room. Several seating areas were arranged around a central stone waterfall, accented by lush greenery maintained year-round by a small, dedicated staff of horticulturists who also took care of the other plants in the hospital.
The café was one of the staff perks at Mount Columbia Medical Center—and Johanna usually appreciated it. But not today . . . not when she was having coffee with Axton Miller. Did the man think this was necessary now that he was her boss? She could only hope he didn’t plan on making morning coffee sessions a regular occurrence, along with monthly birthday celebrations.
Despite Johanna’s protests, he’d paid for both their coffees, along with his bran muffin. But only because his request for this meeting had caught her unawares—and she’d left the coffee she’d brought from home back in her office. They’d maintained idle chitchat while they’d waited for the barista to prepare their drinks, until she suggested she’d go claim a table for them. And now she waited for him to make his way through the room to where she sat at a small table for two. But the way the man stopped and chatted to first one group of people and then another—after saying good morning to the servers and cashier—she might be ready for lunch by the time he arrived.
The man was a schmoozer.
“I’m glad this worked out.” Dr. Miller set his tray down across from her, unloading their coffees and his muffin and setting his briefcase on the floor before turning to hand the tray to a passing busboy. “Thank you, Billy.”
Of course he knew that guy’s name, too.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting, Johanna.”
She mentally stumbled over his use of her first name. Fine. That was his decision—his freedom—as her boss. “No problem at all.”
He peeled the paper wrapper from his bran muffin. “I’m glad we finally have a chance to talk. To get to know each other better.”
Johanna knew everything she needed to know—or wanted to know—about this man. She’d read his résumé. Twice. He’d taken the job she deserved away from her. They were not becoming work buddies.
“You did a good job as interim director, Johanna.”
Had he put a slight emphasis on the word interim?
“Overall, things are in good shape.”
“Overall?” Johanna set her coffee to the side. Okay. They’d talk.
“I’ve been talking to the staff, and from what I gather—”
“You’ve been talking to people?”
“Informally. Tryi
ng to connect, to get their view of things. And from what I’ve heard, I believe morale is down.”
“You may think morale is down, but I know efficiency is up.”
“Efficiency could be up because of fear—and fear is a poor long-term motivator.” Any hint of a smile had disappeared from Dr. Miller’s pale-blue eyes. “You can run fast when you’re being chased by a bear, but it doesn’t work well for real, long-term success.”
Had the man just compared her to a bear?
She’d been a good pharmacy director during the job search. There’d been no complaints. None. And there’d been some customer compliments, too. She’d saved them all to a file on her computer.
Johanna refused to respond to his not-so-veiled suggestion that she was the reason employee morale was down. Let the man talk.
“What do you think we should do about this?”
Now he wanted her help dealing with a fabricated problem? Not going to happen. She had actual projects that needed her attention.
“I think things are going fine.”
“And I just informed you there are some issues we need to address.” He buttered his muffin. “You’ve been here longer than I have. You know people better than I do. Why don’t you come up with some ideas to encourage unity among our pharmacy team?”
Again with the unneeded request.
“This is a hospital, Dr. Miller, not a sports arena. We are taking care of patients, not . . . not playing volleyball.”
He laughed. Laughed. “That’s true. However, it turns out that team dynamics work on the court, in the boardroom, in the operating room . . . and in a pharmacy. Humans care about being valued and believing they are doing something important.” He pulled a small navy-blue notebook from the pocket of his lab coat. Opened it and made a notation. “How about we meet Monday morning, after the Thanksgiving holiday, say eight o’clock, and you let me know what you come up with?”
Did Dr. Miller think one of his responsibilities as a pharmacy director included being a corporate leadership trainer?
Out of the corner of her eye, Johanna noticed the hospital CEO walk into the café. She had to at least pretend she and Dr. Miller were getting along when Dr. Lerner was around. That this was a pleasant chat over coffee, instead of the reality that he had tossed veiled threats at her from across the table.
Or she could leave. End the conversation now.
“That’s fine. I’ll talk to you on Monday.”
Dr. Miller stood, stopping her with a hand on her forearm. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
He pulled a book from his briefcase. “I’ve read this book several times. I bought you a copy.”
Not. Another. Book.
“It’s The Power of Positive Leadership.” He offered her the book, which meant she had to take it. “Go ahead and read the first couple of chapters. When we meet on Monday, you can tell me what you think.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
As if she had nothing else to do during the long Thanksgiving weekend but read a book and come up with ways to improve morale.
“This has been a good talk.”
This wasn’t a talk. It was covert accusations and a homework assignment.
And now . . . now the CEO was coming their way. Johanna was caught between a traitor and a saboteur.
Dr. Lerner nodded at Johanna. “Good to see you both. I knew you’d work well together.”
“Johanna and I just had a good conversation about what we discussed yesterday.”
Wait. He’d talked to Dr. Lerner about all of this? About her?
“Good. Good.” Dr. Lerner pointed to the book Dr. Miller had just handed to her. “Johanna, you’re reading Jon Gordon’s book? It’s excellent.”
“Oh, I, um, I’m just starting it.”
“My copy is highlighted and dog-eared.”
“Well, that’s quite a recommendation.” Johanna eased away from the other two. “If you will excuse me, I need to get back upstairs. Thank you for the coffee.”
Not that she’d tasted any of it.
“I look forward to talking again on Monday.”
“I do too.”
That was a lie.
The man had never outright threatened her. He was too slick for that. But she was smart enough to read between all the lines. He was gunning for her. Couldn’t wait to take her down. Probably already had someone in mind for her job.
And now the CEO was sitting in the chair she’d vacated.
Fine. Let the two of them talk. She had work—real work—to do.
Johanna fast-walked to the elevator, slipping in among the group of people already on board, all the way to the back, and closing her eyes.
If only she could leave. Go home. Be by herself.
Why did she ever decide to become a pharmacist?
Because she was good at math.
And to help people . . . that, too.
She could always start looking for another job.
But she wasn’t a quitter. Well, she wasn’t anymore. She was an adult, not some young kid. She’d grown up and learned not to give in just because someone else didn’t come through for her like they’d promised. Just because someone let her down.
Dr. Miller might have gotten the promotion she deserved, but he wasn’t kicking her out of her hospital by drumming up imaginary problems. She had a long-standing reputation at this hospital. And she had statistics—hard, cold facts—proving patient satisfaction and employee efficiency.
Johanna opened her eyes. The elevator was empty. Somehow she’d missed her floor. She pressed the correct number on the panel.
Whatever her boss was up to, he wasn’t going to mess with her any more than he already had.
EVERY FAMILY had their holiday traditions. My family did, too—and Johanna, even more than Mom, ensured we maintained them, going so far as to come over the weekend before to get things ready.
Setting the table for Thanksgiving? We used Mom’s china dinnerware she’d received as wedding gifts, decorated with black rims and delicate silver-and-black floral scrollwork, which Johanna had hand washed and dried. Of course, various accidents meant her collection had been supplemented with replacement pieces through the years. Grandmother’s silver was polished—which grandmother, I couldn’t remember—and the crystal goblets were unpacked and also washed and dried by Johanna.
Even today’s activities had a certain order, with Johanna setting out the plates while I arranged the forks, knives, and spoons and Payton filled the glasses with ice water. Some things didn’t change, even if we were adults, not little girls waiting for Mom to tell us what to do.
“I feel sorry for Thanksgiving.” My admission was spoken aloud before I even realized it.
“You . . . feel sorry for Thanksgiving?” Johanna stared at me across the dining room table. “The holiday?”
Now I needed to try to explain myself. “Yes. It’s confused.”
“You’re confused.” Johanna smoothed the white tablecloth before centering the last dinner plate in front of Mom’s chair. “Thanksgiving is a holiday—a day of the month that comes around once a year. It can’t be confused.”
“Fine. If you want to be literal about it. People have confused what Thanksgiving is about. The day has a split personality.”
Johanna moved to the head of the table and began setting salad plates on top of dinner plates.
“It used to be a religious holiday, right?” Despite Johanna’s disinterest, I continued. “I know, I know—everything we were taught in school got watered down. The Pilgrims thanking God for helping them survive the first winter in America? Remember that?”
“Not everyone believes—”
“I get it. But I’m talking about what’s happened to Thanksgiving.” I finished another set of silverware. Two forks. A knife. A spoon. All slipped into the cloth napkin Johanna had starched, ironed, and folded so that it formed a little pocket. “A lot of people spend the day watching football.”
“Where
do you think Dad and Geoff and Beckett are right now?” Johanna pointed toward the family room. “Even Winston is out there.”
“Of course he is. If Dad’s around, that’s where Winston is.” We shared a brief laugh. “Not that we mind. The men will do the cleanup. Wait . . . Does Beckett know about that Thatcher family tradition?”
“Not yet. Let the guy relax for now.”
She was right. He’d be indoctrinated into that family tradition soon enough. “And then there are the people who planned what time they’ll eat so it doesn’t interfere with Black Friday shopping—which now starts later today.”
“So what’s your point, Jillian?”
“That I feel sorry for Thanksgiving.”
“Right.”
I needed to give up. Admit I was having a one-sided conversation between two people. Johanna was fine with Thanksgiving the way it was. She wasn’t considering my point of view in a way that might change her mind. She was more concerned with setting one plate on top of the other and aligning the patterns just so.
Some things never changed, and that was never more true than in my family.
Payton entered, carrying the tray of glasses needing to be filled with water and setting it on the sideboard before adding them to the table.
“Did Jillian tell you that she feels sorry for Thanksgiving?” Johanna stepped back to give Payton room.
“What?”
“Jillian feels sorry—”
I could explain myself. “I was saying it’s sad Thanksgiving doesn’t even get a whole day anymore . . . It’s this odd mishmash of be-thankful-watch-football-go-shopping-for-Christmas.”
“I can’t disagree with that.” Payton circled the table, adding the goblets to each place setting. “The Christmas decorations show up in the store earlier every year, mixed right in with Halloween.”
“Exactly! If anyone knows how to celebrate Thanksgiving, it would be Zach. At least he’s saying thank you to someone.” I finished another setting of silverware. “Where is he, anyway? Is he coming soon?”
