Girl Before a Mirror (30 page)

“And now?” Helen asks.

“We changed the landscape with Lumineux. We took your lead and valued women instead of shaming and belittling them,” I say. Sasha passes over her sketches of our logo.

“Nineteen. Nice,” Helen says.

“We'll set up right here in New York and we'll make our mark as the agency for women, by women,” I say.

“But a lot of those corporations are run by men,” Helen says.

“And for that, it comes down to money. They want to make it and we can get their products into the grocery carts of the decision makers: women.” Helen takes out the business plan I sent her. Sasha and I look at our own copies. Crunched numbers. Research. Forecasts. Outlooks. Helen flips through the business plan. I sip my tea, trying to stop my hands from shaking.

“I had a chance to review it; it's good work,” Helen says, turning page after page.

“Thank you,” I say, looking over at Sasha. She looks terrified.

“So, let's get down to the nitty-gritty. This isn't the adorable montage in a romantic comedy where you find a perfect office space in some quaint exposed-brick building that doesn't actually exist. There will be no line out the door. There will be no social life or life at all outside of starting this business. You both will live and breathe Nineteen. There will be no holidays or weekends. The buck that stopped with your boss or his boss or somewhere else up the pecking order now stops with you. From
the light bill to the ordering of tea to the hiring of staff to the wooing of new clients to the firing of that one secretary who's super nice but just terrible at her job to the attending of meetings to the arguing with contractors to the paying of bills and more bills and then more bills, it all comes down to you. And as partners, it will be fifty-fifty. Not Wyatt here talking as Merchant passes over a beautiful drawing with shaking hands. You, my dear, are going to have to step up.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Sasha says.

“Why are you doing this? Do you know the answer?” Helen asks Sasha. I look at Sasha. I'm ashamed. Of course, I never asked her that. Sasha sets down her teacup and slides forward in her chair.

“When I was at NYU I used to have this vision. I was walking through an office and I was smiling and nodding to the staff. Oh, hello, Miller. Nice day out, Webley. Have that on my desk by the end of the workday, Glickman.”

“You made up names for your imaginary staff?” Helen asks.

“Of course,” Sasha says.

“Go on,” Helen says, unable to keep from smiling.

“I was respected. I was respectable. I know I'm good at my job, Mrs. Brubaker.”

“Helen, please.”

“Helen,” Sasha says with a childlike squeal. “I know I'm good at my job,
Helen
.” A smile to me and I can't help but smile back. “But that always seemed to come second or even third or fourth to who I was screwing or who people gossiped about me screwing or if my skirt was too tight or if these mean girls decided that I had slept my way to the top instead of earning it, which I knew I did. I don't know. What finally got me? It's the
utter shock when people see how good I am at my job. They can't put it together, so they usually chalk it up to a one-time thing or that I had someone else do it for me. Anna sees me. She sees me.” Sasha looks over at me and smiles. I smile back. “I want Nineteen to be the kind of office a woman like me can stride through.”

“Well said,” Helen says.

“Thank you,” Sasha says, her voice easy.

“Okay. Location. I wouldn't get too precious about it. While Red Hook and Greenpoint and that Brooklyn business is really hot right now, you are going to have to think about your clients. Corporate America wandering around Bushwick is not what you want.” Helen buzzes her receptionist. The woman appears through the grand double doors with a folder. Helen thanks her and the woman disappears. “I had my realtor look into a few spaces for you. I know. You're welcome. I centered on the West Village, the Meatpacking District, Soho, and I know everyone's talking about NoMad, but to me that's just depressing Midtown. But there are a couple of office spaces included because I had to play nice with my realtor. She's meeting you at the first place on the list”—Helen checks her watch—“in thirty minutes.” She stands. “Now. In this folder is also a list of contractors and handymen and everyone I've worked with in the past.” Helen hands me the folder. “Close your mouth, dear. This is mentoring.” She walks out from behind the table. “Leave your teacups.” Sasha and I gather our things and follow her down the marble-tiled hallway. “All of the places you will see today are within your budget. A few of them have the option of residential living space just over them or behind them. I find that works for me.” Helen motions to the sweeping staircase, which probably leads to
her home on the upper floors of the brownstone. “I will throw you an opening gala and invite everyone I know. We will throw it here or in your new space. Your choice. It will be a networking opportunity and you will need to have the staff and resources available to serve their needs.” Helen has walked us out onto her front stoop. A black town car pulls up in front of her brownstone. “This is Marcus. He'll be your driver for today. I know, you couldn't possibly. Oh, but you will. And you're welcome.” Helen extends her hand to me. Then to Sasha. We are speechless. “And I'm hiring you. Please have contracts drawn up as soon as possible and when you're properly attired, we will meet and talk about the exciting future of Brubaker Enterprises and Nineteen.”

Stunned silence.

“Chop, chop. Marcus is waiting.” Helen walks us down to the car, opening up the back door.

“Thank you,” I say. Sasha mutters a stunned thank-you just behind me.

“You're welcome,” Helen says.

“Why . . . I can't . . .”

“You're the good guys, Ms. Wyatt. That's why.”

She tucks us into the backseat of her town car and we're off to meet with her realtor and I will never stop clutching this folder to my breast or holding Sasha's hand or how did this happen and . . .

“We're the good guys,” Sasha says. She looks over and smiles.

“I guess we are,” I say.

Helen wasn't kidding. For the next two months, Sasha and I ate, slept, and breathed Nineteen. I put all my worldly belongings in storage, making sure to snap a photo of the stacked chaos and sent it to Lincoln. My bed was a cot in the back of our new office space in the West Village—another photo to Lincoln. His response to that one was a photo of a ripped pair of tweed pants. Right down the back seam, his hand poking through. He accompanied the photo with the words “Walked around in these all day.” I texted back that I would have loved to have seen that. I had to brush my teeth in the kitchenette and joined a gym so I'd have somewhere to shower. I snapped another photo of the delightful pair of shower sandals I bought at the local drugstore and sent that along to Lincoln, too.

With the construction going on around us, Sasha and I set up a makeshift office with card tables and folding chairs so we could handle the Lumineux campaign. We immediately felt the impact of not having the support staff we luxuriated in at Holloway/Greene. Our days were spent running errands and
copying contracts and answering phones and what do you mean the toilet is backed up and when in the world is that pounding going to stop and oh my God, we're out of tea?

When the contractors finally finished my living space, I was able to move my stuff to the upstairs of the XIX offices. Sasha moved back in with an old roommate from her modeling days. She was excited about it, said that living on her own—especially during a Time-Out—felt a bit lonely. I know the feeling.

Ferdie and I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas together at the Recovery House. They have extra rooms for relatives and staff. And then I spent New Year's Eve seriously questioning my life choices while freezing my ass off sitting on that cot with nothing but a space heater, my constantly full e-mail box, and a picture Lincoln sent of himself, alone and still at work. He'd even bought a sparkly hat. I texted him back a picture of me with a couple of deflated balloons left over from the impromptu party Sasha and I had after we landed another client. They'd been rolling around the break room for days. In the picture I'm holding the sad balloons and wearing the jaunty faux fur trapper hat I'd started wearing to help with the cold.

The shame spirals are violent and come from out of nowhere. I really would have thought that after months of investing in XIX they would lessen. They haven't.

With the rush of seeing our letterhead for the first time also came the voices of who do you think you are? When we hired a receptionist, I felt the burden of her livelihood as I burned the midnight oil. A meeting with our new accounts manager and I knew for sure he thought we were amateurs. Sasha brought on a couple of new hires for the art department and immediately I tried to inappropriately impose sage advice on them. Pass the
coffee? Don't you mean do unto others as you would have them do unto you, Skylar?

On my last trip down to D.C. to visit Ferdie, I met with a saleswoman I always liked from Holloway/Greene. I made her an offer she couldn't refuse. And when she accepted, it was all I could do to not kiss her full on the lips. Sasha brought in a few interns from NYU who looked like they should be playing Little League, and all I could think was how much more they'd be learning at a place like Holloway/Greene. See, I knew how to be a great employee. I knew how to bring in accounts for the bigwigs upstairs. I knew how to impress the professor. I knew how to serve the Holloways of this world. And I thought I would be the perfect boss right away, and I'm completely frustrated that I don't know how to be in this new life 100 percent and stride through XIX like I own the place (which I do). I thought not only that the training montage was over, but that the fight was going to be a breezy knockout. Why then do I still feel like a fraud when the little intern trembles as she tells me my three
P.M.
is here to see me?

It's the first days of spring with some shimmery snow still on the ground, and XIX is finally up and running. I grab my tea, pack up my laptop, lock up my apartment, and walk down the stairs to the office. I flick on the lights, turn on all the power strips and the kettle and the coffee maker and the copier, throw a random piece of paper into the bin, and clean a bit of dust off the conference table as I make my way back to my office. I see the light on in Sasha's office, so I dump my workbag and purse at my desk and, still clutching my tea, head in to see what has her here so early.

I poke my head into her office and am met with the same
dark reds and browns that she had back at Holloway/Greene. Art is everywhere. Covering every inch of her space.

“We're meeting with that little Disney actress today or her people, probably,” Sasha says, not looking up.

“For her clothing line,” I say, sitting in one of Sasha's client chairs.

“They sent me an e-mail late last night about there being more to it than that,” she says. The difference in Sasha is noticeable. She has become that woman she envisioned striding through that office. Her voice is stronger, calmer. Her shoulders are always back and she hasn't done that thing where you say “excuse me” even though it was the other person who got in your way? Yeah, that.

“You should have said something,” I say.

“You've got that big exit meeting with Ferdie today. Plus? I've got it,” she says, looking up with a huge smile.

“I know you do,” I say.

“They're thinking of a whole backpack line and school supplies and then that can go over to this new animated character they're auditioning her for. So, this could be huge.” Sasha hands me the printed-out e-mail with all her notes on it.

“You're going in with Nick?” I ask, speaking of our new accounts hire.

“Yeah, and I thought I'd bring Skylar. Show her the ropes,” Sasha says.

“That sounds great,” I say.

“I saw that Preeti sent you over the numbers on Lumineux. Holy moly, right?”

“I know. It's unbelievable,” I say.

“You're going back in to meet with them next week?”

“Yeah and hopefully . . .” I cross my fingers.

“I know. I mean, it sounds like that's what they're thinking,” Sasha says.

“But I think we really have to stay with our mission statement and only represent the Quincy products that are targeted at women,” I say.

“Agreed,” she says.

“And we're both on the same page about being wildly happy that Chuck blew his meeting at Quincy, right?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“And if we were lesser people, we'd spend hours upon hours gloating and laughing.”

“Thankfully, we're not lesser people,” Sasha says. I smile and Sasha can't help but laugh as she shifts in her chair.

“Okay, I've got a train to catch. Plans for the weekend?” I ask.

“Work. Work. And more work,” she says. I smile at her and say my good-byes. I'm just about to walk out of her office when . . .

“Does any of this ever get to you?” I ask.

“Any of what?”

“Nineteen. Being someone's boss. All of this. Do you ever feel like a fraud?”

“Every day.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yes! Are you kidding? Wait. You do, too?”

“Yes!”

“Wow, I thought you had it all figured out.”

“I thought
you
had it all figured out,” I say.

“Nope.”

“Me either.”

“Do you think Helen Brubaker ever feels like a fraud?”

“No way. Not at all.” I laugh.

“Yeah, I didn't think so, either.”

“Okay, the train. She awaits. Good luck with the Disney princess. Let me know how it goes,” I say, turning to leave.

“Roger that,” she says, calling out after me. I walk out through the XIX offices, into the newly fallen snow, and I'm back on the Metroliner speeding toward Ferdie and his exit interview.

“Anna? Come on back,” Ralph says, later that morning. He lumbers down the long hallway and into a vacant office in the back of the Recovery House. “Any plans for the weekend?”

“Work, probably,” I say. Ralph turns around and smiles. He motions for me to come in. Ferdie is there already.

He takes my breath away. Standing in front of me is the brother I remember from our childhood. He's been here for six months. Six months of sharing at meetings through tears and anger. Apparently, he and Ralph got into several shouting matches and one particularly Godzilla versus Mothra shoving match that ended with Ralph tugging Ferdie in for a monster bear hug, telling him that he knew he was mad, he knew he was mad . . . it's okay. Let it out, Ralph soothed. Let it all out. Ralph wasn't going anywhere.

I launch into Ferdie for a hug, and I love that I've gotten used to his new smell. The new smell is the old smell. He pulls me close and when we break apart he pushes up his glasses and just smiles. It's a hesitant smile, but something else is there. Ferdie is proud of himself. And now? There's no one around to punch that feeling out of him.

“Anna, thank you so much for coming down here today,” Ralph says.

“My pleasure,” I say, taking Ferdie's hand in mine as we sit across from Ralph.

“How's Nineteen?” Ferdie asks.

“It's terrifying and amazing,” I say.

“I know the feeling,” Ferdie says. I squeeze his hand tight. Tighter. We are quiet. I don't know who to look at or what's supposed to happen here today. So, I just look from Ferdie to Ralph and back at Ferdie. It's Ferdie who continues. “I've decided to stay on at the Recovery House. They've found a place for me doing intake and I can work up to being a counselor here.”

“That sounds amazing,” I say.

“Okay . . . cool,” Ferdie says.

“Were you worried?”

“Well, you always wanted me to go back to school and all that,” he says.

“I just wanted you to be happy,” I say.

“Being here makes me happy,” he says.

“When this facility evaluates someone for employment, they make sure that they're not using Recovery House as a crutch or a place to hide. We know that there's a big, wide world out there, and we need to have every confidence that our employees can make it there, too,” Ralph says.

“Oh . . . right,” I say.

“That's the case with Ferdinand,” Ralph says.

“I feel like I can do some good here,” Ferdie says. “I mean, who better, right?”

“No one,” I say.

“Ferdinand would work almost as an R.A., if you will, for the first few months and then from there—”

“If I wanted to pursue addiction counseling, I could go back to school for that,” Ferdie says.

“It sounds great. It just sounds great,” I say, smiling. Smiling. Smiling.

We are quiet. I don't know what else there is to talk about. Is this—

“Ferdinand wanted to broach the issue of your parents,” Ralph says.

“Oh?” My stomach drops.

Ralph looks to Ferdie. Ferdie turns to me, taking both of my hands. I grow worried. Panicked. I have no idea what's coming.

“We've talked a lot about family in here. What it means and all that. I have you.” Ferdie stops talking. Abruptly. He looks down. A deep breath. “But Mom and Dad? As it stands right now, they're not people I really want in my life.”

“I totally get that.”

“I plan on paying them back all the money. I'm forever in their debt for making this possible. But I can be indebted to them and love them from a distance. I think I thought that when I got ‘fixed,' then all of a sudden my relationship with them would be better. But that's not how it works. It was never about me. It was never about us.”

“I know. I . . . want to think that. I want to know that,” I say, trying to hide my welling tears from Ralph. He slides a box of tissues over to me. I smile and act like I'm not totally crying right now.

“I think family can be a lot of things. And Mom and Dad
always acted like they were doing us a favor in loving us—or trying to love us, anyway. That it was such a burden, but that's not right,” Ferdie says.

“I . . . I know,” I say. Ferdie looks down at me, squeezes my hands, and waits for me to look up into those deep brown eyes of his. So clear. So bright now. He looks so young and alive. Unafraid.

“People have to love all of us, not just some of us,” Ferdie says. I nod. And nod. I lean in close.

“The Batman side.”

“Right.”

“What if they're right, though? And there are parts of us that are unlovable?” I ask, my voice a whisper.

Ferdie pulls me in for a hug. And then he whispers in my ear, “They're not right, Anna. They're not right.” He pulls me in closer and when we separate he holds my face in his hands. “It is a privilege to love you and to be loved by you. All of you.” I nod as the tears stream down my face. Ferdie watches me. Do I get it, he wonders. I nod. I nod yes. I nod yes. He pulls me in for another hug.

“I'll eat you up, I love you so,” I say.

I'm sitting in my rental car in the pouring rain. Ferdie's words echo and pinball around my mind, this car, the world.
They're not right
. There are not whole parts of me that are unlovable. Loving me, contrary to popular opinion, is not a burden. It's not my fault that my parents couldn't—
didn't
—love me. I was a kid. What could I have done that made me so unlovable? My secret fear, my shame, was that it was never anything I did; it was just
me. All of me. That at my root, in my essence, I was so inherently flawed that even my own parents couldn't love me.

Why did it never occur to me, until now, that it was about them?

Because it was easier to think it was me. I could control it if it was about me. Or try to. I could get good grades, go to community college plus night classes, pull myself up by my own bootstraps, and land a fancy job in advertising, and I could squeeeeeze love out of my parents blue ribbon by blue ribbon. And if they were cold and detached, I could still work harder. There was always an answer! There was always another hill to climb! There was always another opportunity to thank my parents while standing atop another podium.