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Chase
Acoupleofdays after my mother’s birthday, I met my father in the office to show him my ideas for the Elixir campaign.
I was finally in the good books, it seemed, judging by his smile. As soon as I waltzed into his office, my father glanced down at his Rolex. Seeing that I’d arrived earlier than expected, he asked me what I’d done with his reprobate son.
Rolling my eyes, I responded with a “ha ha ha” and flicked a side-glance at Ms. Sharp, who remained unsurprisingly blank-faced.
After spreading the sheets out on his desk, my father took a few minutes to study the brief I’d pieced together.
“This actually looks really good,” he said, wearing a “that’s my boy” look he normally reserved for Hunter. “I like the alley cats scrounging through tin cans. Very Top Cat.”
“Top Cat?” I asked.
“Oh, it was a great cartoon we watched growing up. Check it out. I thought you might have seen it, going on this campaign. And you drew the pictures?” His eyes shone with a mixture of pride and surprise, confirming just how little my father knew me.
“Yep.” I stretched my arms. “I was up all night drawing.” I looked over at Ms. Sharp. “Not all good work happens between nine and five.”
She didn’t say a thing.
Is she even breathing?
I did wonder about our CFO. She’d started to concern me. I had a running theory that maybe she had issues at home. With all the over-sharing going on, I kind of respected the stoic-bordering-on-mysterious approach. I only hoped whatever was going on, if anything at all, that she wasn’t suffering.
Yes, I cared. I didn’t know why. But I tended to worry about chronically unhappy people. For all I knew, though, her turned down mouth was due to a dislike of men, or any number of things.
I would probably never know. Instead, I kept bringing her chocolate until I found one in the bin, so I brought her booster juices instead. She seemed to like those, going on the quick nod before returning her attention to spreadsheets.
My mother was the only other chronically morose person I knew. I’d even questioned her a few times, but she would wave me off as though sharing one’s innermost frustrations was self-indulgent bullshit.
Lack of time, in order to realize my dream of running a destination hotel, was my only frustration.
“I think the clients are going to like these,” he said, flipping through the sheets. My father was old-fashioned in that he liked to see the actual physical storyboard.
“So can I give these to Jenny to scan for a digital presentation?” I asked, feeling upbeat and pleased with myself.
“You bet.” He gazed over at Ms. Sharp, who’d remained as quiet as a mouse.
“I take it you agree?” I couldn’t resist asking her.
“Yes. I think it will work.”
After she left the office, I asked Dad, “What do you think of Ivy?”
He reflected for a moment. “She’s a beautiful girl.”
“And what about Mother?” I asked.
He played with his pen. “Well, you know your fussy mother. Unless the girl’s filthy rich, she’s hard to satisfy.”
“Ivy’s mother owns a boutique, and from what I’ve seen, she’s very well-off.”
“I’m happy, son.” He pulled an affecting, sympathetic smile, and a lump grew in my throat.
Me, a cry baby?
We held each other’s stare for a moment. I shifted uncomfortably. Was my father finally seeing me for what I could become?
He cleared his throat and sat up. Back to business. “This campaign’s a winner. And don’t worry about your mother. At least she approved of how Ivy presented. She liked her gown. And you know your mother—if she likes what a girl’s wearing, you’re halfway there.” He chuckled.
