by A. H. Kim
“Girls, I’ll drive us home now,” I say calmly.
By the time we get home, the girls are so exhausted from crying that I tuck them into bed without any supper. I soak a washcloth with cool water and pat gently around their eyes. When I was young, I used to wake up after a night of hard crying and discover my eyes were practically sealed shut like a boxer after taking too many punches. I hope to spare Claire and Ally from that experience.
I go down to the kitchen and rummage through the refrigerator for some leftovers to reheat for dinner. As I sit down with the microwaved enchiladas, I wonder to myself: What could have set Sam off? Was it something that happened at work? Something that Charlotte said? Or maybe whatever is in that shopping bag? I head into the garage and get the shopping bag from the car trunk. Inside is a Tiffany box. I lift the box’s lid and see the three-part silver frame—the one I got for Sam and Beth a couple Christmases ago, the one I spent my annual bonus to buy.
The one I last saw in the wrapping room at Le Refuge.
* * *
I’m asleep on the living room couch when the front door lock makes a loud click.
“Sam?” I call out. I check my phone and see that it’s just after midnight.
“Hey,” Sam replies. He walks into the living room and sits down next to me. His face looks gaunt and weary. I want to ask where he’s been but don’t want to trigger another twenty questions outburst. I sit up and give him a hug.
“I’m sorry about ruining your birthday plans,” Sam says. “And yelling at the girls.”
“I know things are hard, Sam,” I say, taking care with my words. “How can I help?”
Sam leans forward and holds his head in his hands.
“I feel like I’m drowning, Hannah,” he says. “Charlotte was up at Le Refuge this week and said there’s a sheriff’s notice on the house.”
So, it was Charlotte after all. Then I remember her full name: Charlotte Von Maur. She was Beth’s coworker at God Hälsa. The one woman among the many men on Karen’s client list.
“A sheriff’s notice?” I ask. I refrain from asking what Charlotte was doing at Le Refuge.
“Yeah, like a foreclosure notice.”
“Oh,” I say, knowing full well what a sheriff’s notice is.
Sam told me that he and Beth took second mortgages out on Le Refuge and the Princeton house to help pay for Beth’s legal bills. I always wondered how Sam could manage the payments on his limited income. Apparently, he can’t.
“I called my lawyer to see if there was anything I could do,” Sam says.
“And?”
“He says I can stop the foreclosure by paying the full amount due.”
I grit my teeth, knowing the question that’s coming next.
“Hannah, I really hate to ask this, but I have no other choice. Do you think you could float me a loan?”
“How much are we talking?”
“A couple hundred thousand.”
“What? How could it be that much?”
Sam explains to me he’s also delinquent on his payments for the Princeton home. It’s just a matter of time before he gets the foreclosure notice for that house, as well.
“I don’t have that kind of money just lying around,” I say.
“How about taking a second mortgage on your condo?”
“I already did that, remember? For the restitution payment?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” he says. “Can you take out a third mortgage?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How about your 401(k)?”
“Sam, that’s my retirement. I’ll need that to live on when I’m old. And I can’t withdraw from it without incurring a penalty.”
“I promise to pay it back, including the penalty.”
I look at Sam, his face a combination of sincerity and desperation. He honestly believes himself when he makes these promises.
“Hannah, I need your help,” Sam says.
My mind flashes back to the many times I’ve heard these words from his mouth. And then I imagine Claire and Ally sitting on the curb, cold and homeless.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” I say. “On two conditions.”
“Anything.”
“You start living on a budget.”
“Sure thing.”
“And you stop keeping secrets from me.”
beth
twenty-five
It’s a beautiful summer morning. One of those rare West Virginia days when the weather isn’t too hot or too cold. I fantasize about the cool linen sheets and warm summer nights I used to enjoy in my bedroom at Le Refuge. It’s a world away from the scratchy wool blanket and spartan cinder block cubicle at Alderson.
“You’re lookin’ better these days, Lindstrom,” Deb says, watching me as I touch up my makeup. She’s hanging out in her new favorite spot, Juanita’s bottom bunk.
“Yes, more rested,” Juanita concurs. She’s bent over and brushing the baby powder out of her hair. It’s the prison version of dry shampoo. Juanita and I are both expecting visitors, so we want to look our best.
“Deb, I forgot to tell you,” I say, “you were right—it was the drugs.”
“Whatcha mean?” Deb asks.
“The generic Lexapro they had me on? One of the listed side effects is insomnia,” I say. “Not to mention loss of appetite, paranoia and memory loss. I finally got in to see the doc and sweet-talked him into switching me to the good stuff. My tried-and-true favorite, Lexapro oral suspension. I’ve been sleeping like a baby ever since.”
“You got him to give you the brand name?” Deb says. “BOP docs never do that.”
“Told him I was also having libido issues. Told him to check under the hood for proof.”
“Is there anything you won’t do to get what you want, Lindstrom?” Deb asks.
I swirl the Maybelline Kissing Potion on my lips and climb into Juanita’s bunk. I lean in close next to Deb so she can smell the sticky sweetness on my lips.
“Can’t think of anything,” I whisper.
“Hey, don’t mess up my bunk,” Juanita says.
“It’s almost count,” Deb says, laughing. She wiggles her butt out of the bunk. “I better get outta here before I get in trouble.”
After Deb leaves, I return the Kissing Potion back to my makeup kit. I stand in front of the mirror hanging on my side of the cubicle and give myself one last look-over. I have to agree with Juanita and Deb: I’m looking more like my usual gorgeous self.
“Who’s visiting today?” Juanita asks.
“Hannah,” I say.
“Again? Wasn’t she just here?”
“Yeah, but this time she’s bringing the girls.”
“She’s a good sister-in-law,” Juanita says.
“Did you notice Deb’s been especially friendly lately?” I say, changing the subject.
“I think you need to stop playing games, chica,” Juanita says. “It’s getting out of hand. And someone might get hurt.”
“I’m not playing games,” I say, directing my words at her face in the mirror.
Juanita gives me a stare that could rival Medusa’s.
Good thing I’m looking at her reflection.
“Okay, so maybe I’m playing games a little,” I admit, “but I promise I won’t do anything to hurt her. Truth be told, I’ve gotten to really enjoy her company.”
“You know what they say,” Juanita warns, “when you play with fire, you have to be ready to pay the piper.”
“I don’t think that’s a saying, Juanita.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes, I do know what she means. In my experience, the world is filled with two kinds of people: those who’ll do whatever it takes to get what they want, and everyone else.
I’m not everyone else.
* * *
Every quarter after Metamin-G’s initial release, I make sure to personally present the latest sales figures to God Hälsa’s board of directors, even though the CEO usually limits board meetings to senior VPs and higher.
After nearly five years of unprecedented growth, Metamin-G’s sales curve starts to plateau. I’m able to make modest strides in sales of God Hälsa’s other drugs, but Metamin-G is still the company’s gold mine. If I want to keep my job or, better yet, get promoted, I need to figure out how to boost sales from flat to stratospheric.
Within months of my Applebee’s outing, I’m standing in front of the God Hälsa board wearing a brand-new Armani suit I’ve had tailored to fit my every curve. The fine-gauge fabric has the luster of a suit of armor, and I’m a modern-day Joan of Arc ready to go into fucking battle.
“Metamin-G and its competitors have historically focused their marketing efforts on boys,” I declare to the stony-faced board members. I pace slowly from one side of the room to the other like a panther surveying her territory.
“The common misconception is that only boys get ADHD. However, the reality is that girls are also at significant risk—it’s just that girls exhibit symptoms at a later age than boys. In fact, a National Institute of Mental Health study released last year finds that teenage girls are almost equally as likely as teenage boys to exhibit ADHD symptoms over the course of high school and college.”
Like a modern-day Don Draper, I flash my most seductive smile as I click the remote. The slides advance to unveil the arresting images for the new Metamin-G marketing strategy.
“Gentlemen, I present you with God Hälsa’s newest ad campaign. ‘Fit Right in with Metamin.’ With this marketing strategy aimed specifically at parents of teenage girls, I won’t simply increase God Hälsa’s piece of the proverbial pie, I’m going to double the size of the pie itself.”
Soon after my presentation, God Hälsa’s CEO comes into my office to tell me that the board has approved my promotion to senior vice president of North American markets.
“You’ll be the youngest senior vice president in God Hälsa’s history, Elisabeth, and the first female senior executive,” he intones gravely. “I want you to understand—with increased pay comes increased responsibility.”
Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen Spider-Man. Who do you think you are: the Swedish Uncle Ben?
I don’t say that, of course.
“I completely understand, Andreas,” I say. “I know the marketing staff will look to me not only to set the strategic direction for the company but also to ensure they are rewarded for achieving our company metrics. I’m excited to demonstrate my leadership on both fronts.
“I also understand my promotion reflects the board’s recognition of my contributions to the bottom line. They expect me to continue to create marketing strategies to make God Hälsa a world-leading pharmaceutical giant. I want to assure you I’ll do everything in my power to make sure the board is satisfied.
“And finally, I fully recognize this achievement isn’t mine alone. It’s a testament to the years of mentoring, sponsorship and support you have provided. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to learn from your example, and I promise to do everything in my power to make you proud of me.”
Andreas is all smiles. He pats me on the back and congratulates me on my promotion.
Confidence and cock sucking: my patented recipe for success.
If you thought God Hälsa was big after Metamin-G was released, you should’ve seen the stock price after we started marketing the drug to parents of teenage girls. We’re talking crazy levels of irrational exuberance. Investors go into a frenzy for God Hälsa’s stock, which doubles, then triples, in price. It seems there’s no limit to the money we can rake in. And for a good stretch there, we’re really raking it in.
With our increased income, Sam and I move out of our midcentury modern house into one of those enormous mansions near the prestigious Princeton Country Day School. We take vacations to Hawaii and Paris and the Vineyard and stay at the best five-star resorts and hotels. Sam gets that BMW sports car he’s always been dreaming about.
I promote Lise from au pair to personal assistant and put her on the payroll. She’s come a long way from that horny Swedish teenager who used to post sex tapes of her and her boyfriend on the internet. If she’s lucky, she might be able to make something out of herself.
I tell the architect to throw away his blueprints for the sweet summer cottage and instead design a luxurious family vacation compound. I think I’ll even ask Alex to help me plan the interior decor. With their girls’ private school tuitions, I know Eva could use the extra money, and Alex could use something to keep him out of trouble.
I’m looking at the architect’s latest plans on my work computer when my executive assistant, Renee, pops her head into my office.
“Your brother’s here to see you,” she says.
“My brother?” Martin didn’t tell me he was coming.
I walk out of my office and see Martin sitting in the waiting area.
“Martin, what are you doing here?”
“Hey, Beth, can’t a guy come and check out his baby sister’s new corner office?” he says. He gives Renee a smile and a wink.
I know Martin well enough to suspect he’s got ulterior motives, but I give him a hug and usher him into my office anyway.
“Karen wanted to join me, but she’s busy with the kids,” Martin says.
“Of course,” I respond. Honestly, I couldn’t care less. Unless I’m stark naked and getting rubbed with essential oils, Karen is of no use to me. I think she’s kind of a dolt.
“Wow, this is frickin’ incredible,” Martin says. He takes in the view from my floor-to-ceiling windows. “A guy could really get used to this.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Do you want something?” I ask. I’m standing in front of the blond wood built-in kitchenette with its gleaming silver Nespresso machine.
“Why do you always think I want something?” Martin asks. He sounds defensive.
“Do you want a drink?” I clarify. “I can make you an espresso, latte, cappuccino. Or else I’ve got sodas and waters in the fridge. No booze, though, sorry.”
“Oh,” Martin responds, “I’ll take a sparkling water, if you’ve got one.”
I open the fridge and pull out a chilled Pellegrino for Martin and a Diet Coke for myself. I hand Martin his drink and take a seat on the celadon mohair couch. Martin sits opposite me in the matching armchair, his back hunched, his elbows on his knees.
“So, seriously, it’s great to see you, Martin, but do you want something?” I ask.
“Beth,” he begins, “you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done. For me. For us. Your support of the business has been incredible, and we’re this close to scoring that new Defense Department contract.” Martin holds his thumb and index finger just millimeters apart.
“Okay.”
“But, you know, until the contract is signed and invoices paid, cash flow is tight.”
“So, you want me to put more into the business,” I say, trying to complete his thought. God, I wish people would just get to the point sometimes.
“Yes, and no. I mean, yes, we need to make this month’s payroll, but even apart from that, Karen and I need...” He stops to take a sip of his Pellegrino.
“What?” I say. “What do you need?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“For what?”
It takes Martin a few false starts before the full story comes out: Karen’s son, Max, got caught with a backpack full of drugs. Pot, shrooms, nothing serious, just kid stuff. The police agreed not to send him to juvie if Martin and Karen send him to a residential drug treatment facility over the summer.
“That kid’s a pain in the ass, if you ask me,” I warn. I walk over to my desk and pull out my checkbook from the bottom drawer
.
“I know, but he’s Karen’s son,” Martin says. “The poor kid’s had it rough, with his dad running off and abandoning them when he was just a baby.”
“We had it rough, too,” I reply, “but you don’t see us dealing drugs.”
Martin looks at me. We stare at one another for a beat and then laugh.
“Well, not the illegal kind,” I reply.
I write out a check for a hundred thousand dollars, made payable to Martin Lindstrom.
“Half of that’s for payroll, the other half’s for your stoner stepkid,” I say, handing the check to Martin.
“Thanks, Beth. I really appreciate this,” Martin says as he stands up. He leans forward and gives me a kiss. “This is the last time, I promise.”
Yeah, that’s what he always says.
I show Martin out of my office and watch as he strides to the elevator bank. His broad back straightens from Sad Sack to Master of the Universe. I make my way back into my office, eager to check out the architect’s blueprints, when I have a sudden compulsion to look out my window.
In the visitors’ parking lot, I see Karen leaning against a brand-new Lincoln Continental, dressed to kill and having a smoke.
hannah
twenty-six
“Thanks for doing this, Hannah,” Sam says. “I owe you one.” He pecks me on the cheek and carries his golf bag and weekend duffel out the front door. It’s the final week of August, but the morning air is unseasonably crisp. I wrap my bathrobe tightly against my body, slip on my shoes and follow Sam outside. The Z4 flashes its lights and makes a beep noise as Sam clicks the remote and tosses his bags into the trunk. As he makes his way to the driver seat, I hand him a crisp brown paper sack.
“I packed you lunch for the plane. A ham and brie baguette, some green grapes and half a dozen chocolate chip cookies.” I wasn’t sure how many cookies to include. Growing up, Sam could eat practically an entire batch of chocolate chip cookies in one sitting, but I figure he’s not a kid any longer.
“Thanks, Little Mommy,” he says, giving me another kiss on the cheek.
