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to see me develop the digital marketing strategies for seven years, and then she’s going to sigh and shake her head and say how sorry she is to have to let me go.
And that’s exactly what happens. I’m fired, effective immediately. Twenty minutes later, I am clearing out my desk—not that there’s much for me to take. My laptop belongs to Maemae, and since we change desk spaces every few days, all I have is a photo from my wedding day and a potted cactus Naomi gave me for good luck when I started. It’s survived longer than I have.
I am numb, my mind seeming as if it is full of buzzing bees. I can feel people’s glances, burning and inquisitive, and a few colleagues I’ve called friends hug me and say we must get together for drinks. I wonder if we will, or if I’ve become that person no one talks about, a work pariah because I’ve been fired.
Fired. I can’t believe it, and for a few seconds I consider my options. I could file a complaint of unfair dismissal, register something formally with HR, consult a lawyer. I know I won’t do any of it. Even if I hadn’t been fired, my time at Maemae had been coming to an end. I’d been getting bored with makeup, ethical as it was. I’d lost my passion and my drive, and I don’t blame Mara for firing me. Using work contacts, updating Emily’s page on company time… all of that was just an excuse to get rid of dead weight. Me.
I feel leaden inside as I say goodbye to everyone, a flurry of air kisses and pressed hands. I’ve worked here for seven years, and I’ve made some friends, albeit not very close ones. Occasional drinks, idle chitchat as we get coffee, the odd bridal shower or bachelorette party. It never went much more beyond that, and I didn’t mind, because I was focused on success, and then I was focused on James, and then I was focused on getting pregnant.
And here I am, one already lost, one starting to slip away, one I might never have. A tremor of terror ripples through me as I realize I have to tell James about everything. If Mara can find out, if I’ve lost my job over this… I have to tell him. There are no more excuses.
As I leave the office, I reach for my phone. I see another two texts from Rachel, and my trepidation intensifies. Something must be going on. When I swipe to see what she’s written, I swear under my breath.
A local TV station just called me about Emily’s page—and how James doesn’t know?! What should I do??
I duck into a café, order an espresso and then load Emily’s page as I wait for the barista to make it. Twelve thousand views. Over a thousand in the last twenty minutes.
Shit.
I realize, in this moment, that I didn’t want this. That my ambivalence about it all was actually a dread, a fear that I would start something that would snowball and snowball and never stop. And it might cost me everything.
I check the Instagram account Rachel doesn’t even know about, and scroll through the comments on the last post, which was a more personal one about Emily. I’d written it recklessly on Friday night, after I’d promised myself not to check the page all weekend. There are now over six hundred comments. How did this happen?
And yet I know how it happened. This is what I do, what I’m good at, despite having just been fired. My gaze flicks over the comments—Poor Emily, God bless. People need to know about these conditions. What a sweetheart. Am donating now.
I let out a shuddery breath and the barista hands me my espresso. Then I call Rachel.
“Eva?” She sounds panicked.
“It’s all right,” I soothe even though I am feeling as on edge as she is, if not more. “This is a good thing. The publicity—”
“The publicity sucks,” Rachel cuts across me. “Some viper from a local news channel called me and wanted to know why my ex-husband didn’t know about any of this, and what did I think about the fact that he’s actually opposed to the treatment. That’s the angle she’s going for—”
“How did she know he didn’t know?”
“Because she called him. He’s spoken to her, Eva. She saw something on Instagram… I didn’t even know we had anything on Instagram… and from that she ferreted out his details. Eva, what am I supposed to do? I want to take it all down.”
“Don’t do that.” Even now, when everything in my life is at risk, I don’t want her to stop it all, not that it even could be. These things become juggernauts. “I know this feels overwhelming, Rachel, but this is good. The comments are all positive.” Except for a few horrible ones that I deleted so Rachel can’t see them. Hopefully she hasn’t already looked. “If one desperate journalist wants to make some story about James not knowing, that’s a small price to pay.” For her, not for me. It might be a much bigger price for me… although surely I can explain. Surely I can make James understand. “I’ll talk to him today. Make sure we’re all on the same page. Then there’s no story there, and she’ll drop it.”
“But what if we aren’t, Eva? What if he doesn’t agree to any of this?” Her voice is high and thin. “I should have told him. I’m so stupid…”
“I’ll tell him now.” I know I have to.
“I’m the one who needs to talk to him, Eva,” Rachel says, her voice hard all of a sudden. “You might have had the idea, but Emily is James’ and my child. This is about us, not you.” I am silent, winded, absorbing the hostility of that statement along with its truth. “I’m sorry,” Rachel says more quietly. “I’m not trying to hurt you. But you must know I’m right.” And then she hangs up.
I spend the afternoon being a domestic goddess, as if that is going to make any difference. I clean the kitchen even though it’s already pretty clean, since we hardly ever use it. I scrub the bathrooms, I pick up the dry-cleaning and sort the laundry, I blitz the living room with air freshener and dust and vacuum everything. It helps to keep busy, but I am still filled with dread, checking my phone constantly for updates from Rachel or something from James, but there is nothing.
And then he comes home, his shoulders stooped, weary lines of resignation etched on his face. I stand in the kitchen, holding a dish towel, filled with fear. Should I confess right away, or let him speak first? What is the right thing to do, never mind what feels easier? Safer?
“Sorry,” he says, apropos of nothing, as he puts his messenger bag on the floor. “It’s been a crap day.”
I hesitate, then ask in a voice that wobbles a little, “What happened?”
“Rachel…” He blows out a breath. “She’s gone and done something without telling me, and now it’s blown up.” He shakes his head. “I just wish she’d told me.”
I bite my lip. I have to say something, I have to confess, and yet somehow I can’t. “What has she done?”
James shrugs off his jacket. “Created this whole page online about Emily, asking for donations for her treatment. The treatment I have not agreed to,” he emphasizes, his voice rising. “I mean, what is she really trying to do?” Then he deflates again. “I know she’s desperate, and she really wants this treatment to happen, but…” Another weary shake of the head. “This morning I was contacted by some news reporter who wants to make it a thing, that I didn’t know. Because I didn’t know. I get this call out of the blue… well, you can imagine.”
