Catherine McKenzie - Hidden

“Yes, that’s true, but—” I stopped myself from saying, “She’s so much better than I was.” I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe I wanted to protect the teenage/college me.

“Yes?” the interviewer prompted.

“I meant…I can’t take credit for what Zoey’s done. What she’s doing. She does it all on her own, truly.”

I could see the skepticism in his eyes, could tell he believed me to be the worst kind of stage mother. But until that moment, I’d never connected my poems, which I hardly ever wrote anymore, with Zoey’s. She was passionate, directed, focused, while I started and abandoned career after career.

There was no contest, really.

Brian drives me to the office, worried about me in my weakened state. He drives slowly, cautiously, and I’m almost late for an early department meeting. There’s another round of cuts coming, Art Davies was just the beginning, and we have to establish what our severance strategy will be.

Why we have to have a meeting about this every time we start a round of layoffs is beyond me. Our severance strategy is always the same. Offer enough money so the majority of the employees being cut will accept the offer, no questions asked. Set aside a contingency fund for the small percentage who seek legal advice and demand more. Have a firm ceiling above which you cannot rise during your negotiations with said lawyers. Make it clear that you will see them in court if necessary. Chance that someone will institute litigation, according to the consultants: 0.02 percent.

I wish I could skip the whole thing, but what choice do I have? So here I am, completely freaked out, half an Ativan in the bag, skulking into the conference room with the rest of my department.

I take a seat next to my supervisor, Lori Chan, a tiny woman with straight black hair who’s been at the company about as long as I have, just in time for the Safety Minute presentation—the SMP.

If these meetings are pointless, the SMP is in a category all its own. Implemented two years ago when, as Jeff would say, the consultants started taking over, every meeting begins with one. A minute-long presentation about safety in the workplace. It’s why all the cars are parked ass inward in our parking lot. Why you’ll see employee after employee swing their legs out of their car and make sure both feet are planted firmly on the ground before exiting their vehicle. That, and an infinite number of other acts of conformity that are supposed to make us safer, but only make me think of the Two Minutes of Hate in Nineteen Eighty-Four every time I’m forced to listen to one of them.

I’m sure I’m being subliminally programmed for something; I’m just not sure what.

As Casey Durham, today’s lucky contestant, rises to tell us about water fountain safety, my mind drifts to the one fun Safety Minute I ever attended.

I don’t know how, but Hector Valenzuela knew he was about to get whacked. But first, he had to deliver his SMP. And boy, did he go out in style. He was supposed to be speaking about how to avoid paper cuts, but instead, he gave a very instructive, and very graphic, presentation on how to skin a moose. Apparently it depends on what you want to use the skin for, and all kinds of other things I never absorbed because I was laughing so hard thirty seconds in that the laughter took over my whole body. I was nearly crying by the time I told Jeff about it…

Is this what my life is going to be like after the deadline? Every little thing reminding me of him, and not being able to tell him about any of it?

Where is he, where is he, where is he?

I can feel my throat closing up and my head starts to spin even before it happens. Lori stands to thank Casey, then she gets this look on her face, this fake sad look, and says she has something else to add before we begin.

“I’m not sure how many of you knew him, but it’s my unfortunate job to inform you that Jeff Manning, of the other Springfield, died tragically in a car accident on Friday…”

No. No!

“Tish, are you okay?”

I didn’t realize I spoke out loud. Screamed. I think I might’ve screamed out loud.

“I…” I stand on wobbly legs and move as quickly as I can for the door.

The handle’s slippery in my hand, but I have to get out of here. Then I’m out, and the bathroom is only two doors away. I’m in a stall and I’m leaning over the toilet, heaving, choking, until there’s nothing left in my stomach, not even bile.

I knew it, I can’t stop thinking. I knew it.

A couple years ago, I was invited to the company’s annual retreat in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.

I took it as a positive sign about my performance as the new head of the accounting department, but mostly I was happy it was slated to take place at a pricey golf resort, and that spouses were invited along for the ride. Claire and I hadn’t had a trip without Seth in a while, and it was nice that we were being forced to take the time. That we needed it was one more reason to be happy to go.

My parents eagerly agreed to stay with Seth, and I brought my clubs up from the basement, dusting them off and taking practice swings in the living room. I hadn’t played a round in four months, and I was feeling itchy. Not a golfer, Claire was looking forward to getting away from the dull gray winter we’d been having and seeing a bit of sun.

I don’t usually think of myself as the sort of person who’s affected by the weather, but I felt lighter the minute we deplaned. The sight of all that pristine grass, broken up by sandy-white bunkers and indigo water hazards, as we drove through the resort added to the bubble of happiness welling up inside me. I could tell that Claire was feeling happy too. She had a sort of perma-smile on her face, something I hadn’t seen in a while.

The resort was plush, spread out over endless acres bounded by the choppy ocean. Our suite was in a building next to the newly built clubhouse. The first one we’d been in since our surprise, paid-for-by-the-family honeymoon, the suite had a large living room, an even bigger bedroom, and a bathroom that was grand enough to house a Jacuzzi. The colors were light and airy. Sunlight flowed in from the massive windows that gave never-ending views of the kelly-green golf course.

“Maybe I should go to the pool?” Claire said, flitting around our room, unpacking. “Or, I saw tennis courts. Do you think I could find someone to play with me?”

“I think you could find someone to do a lot of things with you.”

“Flirting!”

“Can you flirt with your own wife?”

She rested her hands on my waist. “You certainly can.”

We started kissing, pressing against each other. Thoughts of the golf course drifted away. I had my shirt off and was working the buttons on hers when the phone next to the bed rang shrilly.

“You better get that,” Claire said.

I put my lips against her neck. “It’ll take a message.”

She swatted me gently as it rang again. “It might be one of the bosses calling.”

She was right. John Scott, the VP in charge of my department, wanted me to go to the driving range with him, had heard I could help out a guy who might have a “slight” slice. I wondered how he knew that, but then I remembered some passing conversation we’d had months ago about how I’d worked as a golf pro for a couple summers when I was putting myself through college. Drinks had been involved in this conversation, of course, because the truth was that I’d worked for the golf pro while I was putting myself through college. But I couldn’t tell him that, so I agreed to meet him in the lobby in fifteen.

“Sorry, honey, but duty calls,” I said as I hung up the phone. “I have to go to the driving range.”

“Since when has someone ever had to convince you to do that?”

“It shows the power you still have over me.”

“Now you’re feeding me lines! What’s gotten into you?”

I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like it had gotten into both of us.

I hoped it would last past golf practice.

“I feel happy.”

“You know what?” Claire said. “Me too.”

I met John in the lobby twenty minutes later. He was standing underneath a large blue banner that read Welcome! and was dressed like my grandfather used to, in a pink polo shirt, madras golf shorts, and tan socks pulled up to his knees. He was chewing on an unlit cigar, his shaven head glinting under the harsh overhead lighting.

“Jeff, my boy,” he said, shaking my hand firmly, “let’s do this thing.”

He slapped me on the back and led me outside, where a white electric golf cart was waiting for us. I had started to strap my bag in when a young kid in a dark blue polo shirt and chino shorts mumbled, “Let me help you with that, sir,” in nearly flawless English and snatched it from me, then did the same for John.

Having been in this kid’s position, I wanted to tip him for his efforts, but I’d left my wallet in my room. John took it as part of the included service, and placed his rather large behind into the golf cart. It listed to the side under his girth.

I mumbled an apology to the kid and climbed in next to John, surprised he was letting me drive. Until he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a silver flask. He unscrewed the top and took a long pull.

“Would you like a snort?” he asked, holding it out to me.

“I’m good.”

I pressed the pedal and followed the signs for the driving range, wishing I hadn’t answered the damn phone. Wishing the golf cart went faster than ten miles an hour.