Learn how to walk so I can run.
By the time we reached the waiting room this morning, Sasha was off the rails. She showed me the back-and-forth she had with Chuck Holloway late last night. All in text, of course. She was questioning everything as we took a cab over to Quincy this morning. Maybe he’s the one. Maybe he’s the one I was supposed to be better for.
“I just heard myself say that,” she said and let her head fall against the window of the cab. “Be better for.” The words are barely spoken, but the breath of them fogs the cab window. “I just want someone to love me, not want to possess me.”
I know there’s nothing I can do for Sasha as she begins to see her life in the light of day. But I try. I reiterate that Chuck’s in the past and whatever he thinks he gained from trying to play her didn’t work and the joke’s on him and and and . . . but I can tell she’s not buying it. Because it’s not about Chuck at all. Just like it’s not about Lincoln and it’s not about my parents. It’s about us.
Time ticks by. Slow. Slower. Sloooooweerrrrr. I try to make idle conversation, but everyone is nervous—including the contestants. If we land this campaign, each one of their lives will dramatically change. Booking a gig this big—to become the spokesman for a product—is something every one of them has been waiting for.
The door opens and Preeti emerges. I can’t help but smile. She came out to get us herself.
“Ms. Wyatt. Ms. Merchant. Gentlemen,” she says, making eye contact with each one of us. We stand and follow Preeti through the same hallways we did when we first made the Just Be pitch.
We file into a much larger conference room. The number of executives, if it’s at all possible, has multiplied once more. No all-glass walls this time. In addition to the executives actually in the room, there are also a few watching from laptops and screens; it looks like something out of a science fiction novel. The executives are milling and talking, refilling coffee cups and grabbing pastries from the large buffet table placed just under the picture window with the Manhattan skyline just behind it. Sasha sets up her artwork on the two easels at the front of the room, turning them around so we can unveil them at the right time. I notice her hands are shaking.
When Josh, Lantz, and Jake enter the room, the executives fall silent. They find their seats and a few even manage to close their mouths. And I forget about Phoenix and Audrey Holloway and “Thunder Road” and drunk tanks and hockey rinks and Lincoln and cowardly white knights.
I’m on.
“Last time I was in this room, I asked the eternal question: What do women want? Well, I went out and found it.” And the room breaks into laughter as the three men just stand there. Swoon-worthy and every woman’s fantasy. I command the room. The pitch. The speech. The practiced gestures. Ten minutes and thirteen seconds later and I’ve got everyone on the edge of their seat. If they’re not riveted to what I’m saying, they’re staring at one of the men. And if they’re not staring at one of the men, then they’re ogling Sasha’s artwork. The redesign of the brand. The social media campaign. The revolution we mean to cause. We’re going to change until it’s right.
It’s sweeping.
It’s grand.
It’s epic.
And then the unveiling:
JUST BE.
LUMINEUX SHOWER GEL
THE EVERYDAY LUXURY ALL WOMEN DESERVE.
And the executives applaud. They actually applaud. A few stand. Including Preeti. And I finally breathe. And smile. A demure bow. A “thank you for your time” and we are being shown out into the waiting room.
“We’re going to give you your answer today. We’ll deliberate and let you know. Please, have a seat in the waiting room,” an executive says, closing the waiting room door behind him. And it’s like a gut punch. My smile fades, Sasha’s face drains of color, and the three men just sit down on the long couch.
“You did great,” Josh whispers, leaning over.
“Thanks,” I say.
“It couldn’t have gone better, I don’t think. Right?” Jake says, scooting in closer to the conversation.
“I mean, they applauded,” Lantz adds.
“I can’t believe they’re just going to blurt it out right here. I mean . . . just out in the open like that,” Sasha says.
“We’re going to be fine,” I say, trying not to vomit. “We’re going to be fine.”
And we wait.
No one takes out a smartphone.
No one picks up a magazine.
No one speaks.
The waiting room is silent except for the receptionist who’s answering the phone and transferring the hundreds of calls that come into just her small corner of Quincy Pharmaceuticals on a minute-by-minute basis. I look around. Hands clasped. Everyone looks straight ahead. Just when I think I have my nerves under control, I feel my face redden, my stomach drop, and my mind launch into a whole new assortment of emotions.
I did my best.
I gave it everything I had.
But that doesn’t stop me from replaying every moment, every second, every word of the pitch meeting.
After a full hour, the door opens. Four executives walk out, along with Preeti. Sasha and I stand. I breathe. Breathe. Hold it together.
“Ms. Wyatt. Ms. Merchant?” A tall, gray man in an expensive suit speaks. The men stay seated behind us. “That presentation was—well, it was like I was finding religion or something. Ms. Dayal was right to take that initial meeting.” I look over at Preeti and she’s beaming. I can’t help but smile. Sasha whispers a reverent thank-you, and I’m afraid she’s on the verge of one of her curtsies. She fights the urge this time. “We are excited, Ms. Wyatt. We haven’t been excited about Lumineux in a very long time. Congratulations. The account goes to Holloway/Greene. I look forward to working with you. We’ll contact you this week and get things going.” I can hear the stifled cheers from the men seated behind us. Sasha lets out a sort of half cry, half squeal . . . then a sniffle. I look over and she is very quietly and elegantly crying.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now get to work,” the executive says with a wry smile. I nod and thank him again. I am barely holding it together. He scans the waiting room and each cover model gets a “well done” and a hearty handshake from the tall, gray man. I shoot one last glance to Preeti, and she looks as if she’s a proud parent watching her child at a Christmas pageant.
The quartet of executives say their farewells and walk back through the waiting room door. Leaving us by ourselves. The men high-five each other, shaking hands and giving congratulations all around. The minute the door closes, I turn to Sasha and pull her in for the biggest hug.
“We did it,” I say. She just nods. Over and over again. Repeating my words. We did it. We did it. Sasha and I break apart and it’s hugs all around. Jake scoops up each one of us. Lantz is all hearty handshakes, and Josh is near tears with gratitude and thanks.
“Let’s get out of here before we really embarrass ourselves,” I say, and everyone agrees, laughing and texting their respective partners, families, and representation. I take Sasha’s hand and we’re down the hallway, down the elevator, and through the lobby. She’s sniffling and just keeps saying, “I can’t believe it . . . I can’t believe it.”
“Have you two ever thought about opening your own agency?” Jake asks, as the bustle of New York moves and flows around us.
“Sure, who hasn’t?” I say. He looks at me. Pointedly. “Now? You have got to be kidding me.” I can’t help but laugh. I look around for a place for us to raise a glass. Something to mark the occasion. I see a restaurant—just next to my favorite bakery—on the other side of the street and decide to make our way over there. “We just landed our biggest account. This is going to change everything at Holloway/Greene. They can’t shove us back into the pink ghetto now. No, Lumineux first, Quincy next,” I say.
We did it. After a lovely celebratory brunch, I take an early train back to D.C. We were supposed to return tomorrow, but I decide to take t
his extra time to see what’s going on with Ferdie before the madness of the Lumineux campaign really takes hold.
On the return train trip I send an e-mail to Helen letting her know we got Lumineux and then another e-mail to Ginny Barton thanking her for her hospitality and letting her know we landed the account. I then e-mail Charlton Holloway with all the details and the timeline for the campaign. We’ll be launching in October. I’ll debrief him when I return to the office tomorrow morning. And then I’m sketching out ideas and writing copy and thinking up social media this and hashtags that and billboards and commercials and then—quite miraculously—I just stop. Close my laptop. Order a nice cup of tea and some shortbread cookies. And allow myself to bask. I’m just smiling, watching the landscape speed by. Work is back to being fair again. Finally. Something makes sense. Sasha and I came up with the best campaign and we landed Lumineux.
It’s odd finally seeing myself as the seasoned warrior that I’ve become. The panning shot of the soldiers as they ready themselves for the onslaught and now I finally see that I’m the one with the scar running down half her face and that these eyes . . . ohhhh, these eyes have seen some horrors. And that that’s a good thing. Age. Wisdom. Being forty. I like it here. I take a sip of my tea and can’t stop smiling. I earned here. This cup of tea. These shortbread cookies. This landscape speeding past me. The Lumineux campaign. I also know that it took what it took to get me here. That if I would have gotten a big campaign like Lumineux any earlier I wouldn’t have believed I deserved it. Or I would’ve believed that I deserved it for reasons other than my own talent and skill.
Timing.
I think about Lincoln and me. Was I just putting off the inevitable by inviting him to my birthday dinner or was I giving us a chance to actually become something real? Something unhurried. I don’t know. But I do know that I’m not done believing in us yet. Like I said to Hannah at my birthday dinner, I was so ready to be with the wrong kind of men that I realized how unready I was for the right one. Lincoln is the right one. Just not right now.
Maybe that’s what growing older does; it puts things into perspective. Love. Success. Self. Every day it feels like I battle the illusions of my past—unlovable, unwanted, insignificant. These are the fishhooks from my childhood that get snagged into my adult life’s tapestry. And they yank. And they catch. And they try to pull at who I really am. And on the good days, I can pluck them out and toss them aside, but on the bad days, I can only talk about how scared I feel and that the fishhook hurts and maybe, because I don’t have the strength to, could a friend lend me a hand and dig it from my flesh for me? And so it goes. Day in and day out. No automatic key to the next level. I must take this step by step. Floor by floor. Every day the fishhooks dull just a bit and every day I get a bit more skilled at unwinding them from myself.
And once again, by overthinking something, I’ve thought myself right out of feeling pleasure firsthand. Fishhooks? Jesus. Just . . . why can’t I just sit here and drink this tea and bask? Smile. Let the joy wash over me.
I always love watching that part in the Olympics when the athletes are on the podiums, medals around their necks, and the first notes of their national anthem are played as their flag ascends into the heavens. Everything they’ve done has led up to this moment. And to watch them run through the gamut of emotions, tears, a smile, taking in the crowd, trying to sing along with the song, disbelief, and then this panic that the moment—the moment—is almost over and have I felt it enough, have I properly chronicled every second of it so that I can relive it . . . and then the song ends and the athletes come out of the haze and just wave their hands over their heads in thanks.
The power of a moment. To just allow it to happen. Experience it firsthand. I guess with all my theories on fishhooks and the wisdom of age, that one still eludes me.
16
I climb the three flights to Ferdie’s walk-up and prepare my speech. I’m not going to butt in, but if we could I’d like to have a conversation about what he thinks he’s doing with his life. He’s thirty-one years old now. And then maybe we’ll talk about some of this . . .
The landing in front of Ferdie’s apartment is overrun with garbage and his door is open. My stomach drops. I race up the stairs and push open the door.
Tinfoil on the windows with an old bedsheet nailed up as “drapes” for good measure. Pizza boxes everywhere and just . . . darkness, trash, and hopelessness permeate the entire apartment. And there’s Ferdie. He has a black eye and several other cuts from whatever barroom brawl landed him in jail however many nights ago. His knuckles are bloodied and I’m sure I don’t want to see what the other guy looks like. Ferdie’s sitting in that old leather club chair that used to be Dad’s, surrounded by empty beer cans, beer bottles, fifths of scotch, bongs, and pipes, and on the coffee table in front of him is what looks like the remnants of a line of cocaine.
I clap my hand over my mouth and finally see it.
Ferdie’s not a loser. He’s an addict.
He hasn’t woken up. I walk closer to make sure he’s alive. Check his pulse, realize quickly I don’t know how to check pulses, and then just put my hand on his chest to see if he’s breathing.
“What . . . what are you doing?” he slurs, bringing his head up.
“Checking to see if you’re alive,” I say.
“And am I?”
“Just barely,” I say. He laughs a little, his head slamming back against the chair and he’s out. “Ferdie? Ferdie??” Nothing. I check his breathing again. It’s there, but . . . slow. I pull out my phone and dial Michael at work.
“Well, hello, stranger. How was Phoenix?” Michael says.
“It’s Ferdie,” I say. I hear my voice. It’s panicked. Not my own. I’m usually so calm in these situations, but this isn’t just another day. Things have changed. I’ve changed.
“What’s happened?” Michael asks, shifting gears instantaneously.
“I think . . . he needs help. I’m here at his apartment. He called from jail while I was in Phoenix and apparently he’s been on quite the bender,” I say, taking in the mayhem around me.
“What can I do?” Michael asks, without hesitation.
“Didn’t your nephew have to go to rehab a while back?”
“He got hooked on Oxy . . . or that was one of the things he got hooked on,” Michael says.
“I think I need to get Ferdie into rehab,” I say. Out loud.
“Okay,” Michael says.
“But it’s not one of those country club places with the limos and all that, is it? Where it’s just—”
“No, this place was good. It was in Virginia. This place—” I can tell Michael is sifting through papers, probably trying to find the name of the rehab. “Here it is. The Recovery House. Hilarious, that I couldn’t remember that name. Okay . . . let me call and see if they have a bed. I kept in touch with the main guy over there. Let me call you back.”
“Okay.”
“Anna. He’s going to be okay. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll call you right back.” Michael hangs up and I just stand there. Everything in me wants to clean up Ferdie’s apartment before Michael gets here. Protect him. Protect us. I don’t want anyone to see what . . . what’s become of him. Do I want to hide the truth or the illusion? Which version of Ferdie . . . shit. I sit on the arm of the old leather chair and Ferdie absently rubs my back. And it’s that simple thing that breaks me open. I cry quietly while my little brother’s mitt of a hand tries to soothe me—even in his drugged-up haze.
What I wouldn’t give for my walls now. What I wouldn’t gi—oh no, of course. Of course. Now I see it. I was never the only Wyatt trying to distance myself from feeling things firsthand. I used ice, walls, and control. Ferdie used booze, drugs, and numbness.
I lost myself in becoming a winner just as sure as Ferdie lost himself in becoming a loser. Becoming these labels meant we didn’t have to be us. Human. Vulnerable. The kind of kids parents don’t
love.
I wipe away my tears, set my purse on the filthy floor, and stand. Pace.
I find his backpack by the door, empty it of all the weirdo detritus he’s always accumulated (what grown man needs a single rubber ball and two combs?), and pack what I think he’ll need: T-shirts, boxers, jeans, and a sweatshirt. I walk into his bathroom, trying not to lose it as the filth and the . . . just the hopelessness of it all overtakes me. Did this apartment look like this the night of my birthday dinner? Sure it did. So, he came home to this? Why . . . why didn’t he ask for help?
Because he’s a Wyatt. It’s not like I asked for help, either. Jesus. I pluck the toothbrush from the cup, grab some toothpaste, deodorant, and the glasses he never wears and tuck them into the outside pocket of his backpack. And why exactly am I making a mental note to get him a toiletry bag for Christmas? Because I can’t stop being me on a dime, that’s why. I walk back out into the main room and Ferdie is up doing another hit from a bong as big as my arm.
“When did you get here?” he asks, sitting back in the chair, the smoke coming out in little rings. Rings. Rings.
“A few minutes ago,” I say, putting his backpack over my shoulder.
“Oh,” he says, blinking back into beautiful oblivion. My conversation with Lincoln. Is it the drink, he asked? I so easily laid everything firmly on Ferdie. No, it’s not the drink. It’s him. I am always so quick to believe that it is us who are inherently flawed. My phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Okay. They’ve got a bed. Here’s what we’re going to do. Ferdie’s too big for just you, so I’m going to drive over there and we’ll load him up together.”
“Thank you . . . Thank you so much,” I say.
“Don’t worry about it. But here’s the complicated part. It’s not like Ferdie has medical insurance, and Recovery House costs a lot. Most of it up front. It’s a six-month program.”