Left Neglected Part 28

Considered to be a universal truth and one of the Ten Commandments for Berkley consultants, the 8020 rule is an economic principle that states that 20 percent effort yields 80 percent value. Essentially, it means that for anything anyone does, only 20 percent really matters. For our consultants who need to deliver an answer to the client in a few weeks and therefore don't have the luxury of studying a particular business problem for the next year, the 8020 rule reminds them to focus on the 20 percent of information that is vital and to ignore the 80 percent that is likely to be irrelevant (our superstar consultants are the ones who have an intuitive sense for what to focus on and what to ignore).

The editors of The Week have basically culled the 20 percent of news that matters to me and published it in a tidy little magazine. I'll finish this whole issue by tomorrow if not today, which means I'll be sufficiently informed of the week's world events by Tuesday, which leaves the rest of my week free and clear to do something else. The 8020 rule is pure genius.

I look out the windows into our suburban yard and then through the French door windows into the living room and sigh, unable to think of what that something else might be. There are only so many word search puzzles I can work on, only so many red b.a.l.l.s I can find and pick up off a tray. My outpatient therapy, which was two times a week, is now over. It's not over because I've fully recovered (I haven't) or because I quit (I didn't), but because our insurance only pays for ten weeks, and my time was up. How any human being with a molecule of reason, a shred of compa.s.sion, and a pulse could establish and stand behind this preposterously premature cutoff is beyond me.

After waiting on hold on the phone for what felt like ten weeks to speak with an actual human being at our insurance company, I expressed my unedited outrage to some poor customer service representative named Betty, who I'm confident had no part in creating the policy and who surely has no influence over changing it. But it felt good to vent. And so that's it. If I'm to recover 100 percent, it's going to be 100 percent up to me from here on out to make it happen.

I finish reading The Week. Now what? I'm surprised that my mother and Linus aren't back yet. Linus is really on the move now, running whenever he gets the chance simply because he can. He hates to sit still, and he's exceptionally single-minded, a trait my mother claims descended directly from my DNA. He doesn't get it from the wind, she says. I hope he isn't giving her a hard time. She's been amazing with all three kids, juggling their schedules, preparing their meals, laundering all their clothes, and she's enjoying the time she spends with them, but I can see by four o'clock on most days that she's worn out. I feel bad that she's working so hard, but I can't imagine how we'd be managing without her.

I snuggle into the deep chair, close my eyes, and absorb the relaxing greenhouse-like warmth of the sunroom. But I'm not tired and don't feel like napping. I wish it were Sat.u.r.day. If it were Sat.u.r.day, we'd be in Vermont, and I could go s...o...b..arding. I can't wait to go back.

The phone rings. My mother handed me the phone like she always does before leaving me alone in the house, but I don't see it tucked into the cus.h.i.+on next to me where I normally keep it. It rings again. I follow the direction of the sound and locate it on the small occasional table opposite me, remembering now that Linus had been playing with it and must've discarded it there. Three feet and miles away.

I could get up and granny cane over to the table, but probably not in four rings. I should let the machine answer the call, but I was just wis.h.i.+ng for something to do. I'm going to try to beat the machine. The phone rings again. I only have three more.

I grab Granny by the shaft and s.h.i.+mmy down until I'm holding one of the rubber feet. Then I reach out and lob the handle end onto the table. I wiggle the cane until the phone sits inside the U of the handle. Ring number four. I yank on the cane, and the phone flies off the table and smacks me square on the knee. Ow. The phone rings at my feet. I reach down, pick it up, press Talk, and almost yell I win! instead of h.e.l.lo?

"Hi, Sarah, it's Richard Levine. How are you?"

"I'm good," I say, trying not to sound out of breath or in pain.

"Good. I'm calling to see how you're doing, and if you'd be ready to discuss the possibility of your coming back to work."

How am I doing? It's almost noon, I'm in my pajamas, and the proudest moment of my day will be that I retrieved the phone with my granny cane before the sixth ring.

"I'm doing great, much better."

Am I ready to consider going back? My mother would probably point out that if I can't coordinate the steps it takes to change a diaper, how would I possibly coordinate human resources? But Bob would say that I'm ready. He'd tell me to go for it. And customer service Betty from our health insurance company would tell me that I'm ready. Pre-accident me is popping corks of champagne, patting me on the back, practically pus.h.i.+ng me out the door.

"And I'd love to discuss coming back."

"Great. When can you come in?"

Let's see. I was planning on going for a walk around the block this afternoon before taking my nap, my mother's coming home from the grocery store, which means I probably own a new word search puzzle book, and there's a new episode of Ellen on the DVR.

"Any time."

"How about tomorrow at ten o'clock?"

"Perfect."

"Great, we'll see you then."

"See you tomorrow."

I hang up the phone, tuck it into the seat cus.h.i.+on, and absorb the impending consequences of that unexpected conversation along with the heat from the sun. Both are making me sweat. I'm ready to discuss returning to work. But am I ready to go back? I ripped into poor customer service Betty, denouncing her criminal policy for discontinuing my therapy before I was 100 percent recovered. Before I was 100 percent ready. So how recovered and ready am I? I can read and type, but it's slow. Walking is even slower. I worry about being late for meetings and deadlines, about not noticing some critical doc.u.ment placed on the left side of my desk, about forgetting to open files stored on the left side of my computer desktop. I think of the 8020 rule. Am I even at 20 percent?

I've always prided myself in being a perfectionist, for dotting 100 percent of my i's, for doing it all. But what if less than 100 percent were enough? What if I'm 20 percent recovered, and that's enough to return to my job? It could be. My work is in human resources, a desk job. It's not performing surgery (requiring two hands) or the fox-trot (requiring two feet). I can be less than 100 percent better and still be brilliant at my job. Can't I?

I sit in my favorite chair in my sacred s.p.a.ce, my heart pounding, each beat fueled by equal parts exhilaration and fear, wondering if my proclaimed readiness is reasonable optimism or a laughable lie. I look out the windows into our yard and sigh, unable to lean far enough either way into an answer. I guess we'll all find out tomorrow.

CHAPTER 31.

I glance over at my alarm clock again. It's four minutes later than the last time I checked. And we're still working on my pants. I keep sucking in, and my mother keeps tugging, but my black wool suit pants won't zipper all the way up.

"I think you should wear these," says my mother, holding one of my many identical, black synthetic, elastic-waistband pants.

"I think you should try one more time," I say.

"That's as high as it's going to go."

"It's fine then. Once my suit jacket is b.u.t.toned, it'll cover everything."

We move on to my blouse. In the time it used to take me to get fully dressed without memorable effort, I manage to fasten two of my blouse b.u.t.tons by myself. I fasten one more, not breathing and grinding my teeth, before I give up and turn the entire project over to my mother. I look at the clock. I can't afford to be late.

My mother finishes with the b.u.t.tons of my blouse and then the suit jacket. She clasps my turquoise bead necklace around my neck and my jingle charm bracelet around my left wrist. I pick out diamond stud earrings. She fits them into my pierced ears and secures the backings. She brushes my entire face with foundation and bronzing powder, sweeps a light pink eye shadow over my lids, plucks a few rogue hairs from between my eyebrows and my chin, and colors my lips with a subtle gloss. I look in the mirror and approve of her job.

We reach a gridlock, though, when it comes to my footwear. I refuse to wear my Merrell mules (or her other suggestion- white sneakers!), and my mother refuses to drive me into work if I choose to wear heels.

"I have to look completely put together. I need to portray power and sophistication."

"How powerful and sophisticated are you going to look when you trip and fall flat on your face?"

Sadly, it's not an implausible prediction. I decide not to risk that particular humiliation with a compromise. Bruno Magli ballet flats. My mother prefers the sticky rubber soles of the Merrells to the "slippery" bottoms of the flats, but she acquiesces and fetches them for me. There. Aside from my Annie Lennox hairdo, which I happen to love, I look pretty much like I did four months ago. Appropriately corporate, sophisticated, powerful, and most important, not disabled.

Until I grab hold of my granny cane. There's nothing powerful or sophisticated about this accessory, but unfortunately, I'm stuck with it. I wish I'd progressed to a regular cane by now. A handsome wooden shaft and a fancy bra.s.s handle conjure far more attractive a.s.sociations than harsh stainless steel and gray rubber-a distinguished gentleman with a slight, inconsequential gimp as opposed to a frail grandmother recovering from a recent hip replacement. My mother offers to dress Granny up for the occasion with a pretty silk scarf tied around the handle, but I don't want to call any unnecessary attention to it. Better to just ignore it and hope that everyone can follow my lead.

The kitchen is oddly quiet with the kids already gone. Bob brought them to school and day care early today, giving me and my mother uninterrupted s.p.a.ce and time to get ready. I down a cup of coffee. My stomach is too full of b.u.t.terflies for food. I check the time.

"Let's go."

I've been tense since I woke up, and I think my mother's feeling it, too, but getting dressed, even when I was only offering direction, provided us both with an activity to channel all our nervous energy into. Now we're driving into Boston, and I'm a pa.s.senger strapped into my seat, and my anxiety is trapped inside the car with nothing to do and nowhere to go, claustrophobic and expanding exponentially by the second.

My shoulders crowd my ears, my right foot bears down on the imaginary gas pedal on the floor, and my nerves are screaming Go, hurry up, let's get there so I'm not late! Meanwhile, my mother has gone to a calm place in the opposite direction, driving slower than usual, proceeding with extra caution on this critically important day, crawling safely in the first lane of the highway while everyone in Ma.s.sachusetts seems to be whizzing by us. She is the tortoise, and I am the hare. Under the best of circ.u.mstances, we were never meant to share a morning commute.

I'm about to lose it when I notice where we are, and every preoccupied, panicky thought inside me goes eerily still. Gooseb.u.mps scuttle up my spine and down my arm. There's nothing significant about this stretch of the Ma.s.s Pike, no meaningful landmark, exit, or sign on either side east or west, nothing anyone else would take note of. This is where it happened. This is where I lost control of the car. This is where my whole life changed.

I want to point out the spot to my mother, but before I can coordinate my thoughts with my voice, we're already past it, and then it doesn't feel worth sharing. I decide to keep quiet, both about the location of my accident and about my mother's driving. We'll get there. We're going fast enough.

WE PARK IN THE PRUDENTIAL garage and take the elevator to the mall level.

"Okay, Mom, I can take it from here. Where do you want to meet?"

"I'm not going in with you?"

I'm trying to present myself as independent, confident, and ready. Not exactly the three words that jump to mind if I walk back into work for the first time with my mommy.

"No, you can go do some shopping. Let's meet in the food court when I'm done. I'll call you."

"But I wanted to see where you work."

"Another time. Please."

I can tell I've hurt her feelings, but there's too much at stake. I don't even want anyone suspecting that my mother drove me into work. Let them a.s.sume that I drove myself here.

"You sure?" asks my mother.

"Yes. I'm a big girl. I'll call you."

"Okay. I'll get Linus some bigger onesies at the Gap."

"Perfect."

"Good luck," she says and hugs me, surprising me.

"Thanks."

I make my way beyond the retail stores, following the route I've walked thousands of times, to Berkley's lobby, nestled in a private, exclusive-feeling corner of the mall. The reception area is exactly as it was-sleek, modern, creamy leather chairs and a gla.s.s coffee table arranged like a miniliving room in a waiting area, today's New York Times and Wall Street Journal available on the table, an expensive arrangement of fresh flowers set on the imposingly tall reception desk, berkley consulting embossed in gold lettering on the wall behind it. Heather, our receptionist, sits behind the desk on a platform so that she's well above the floor, looking down, adding to the authoritative impression Berkley stamps on its guests.

"Good morning, Heather."

"Sarah, welcome back!"

"Thank you. It's good to be back. I'm here to see Richard."

"Yes, they have you in the Concord Room."

"Great. Thank you."

I walk past Heather's desk, doing my best to minimize the obvious drag of my left foot.

"Oh, sarah? the Concord Room is this way," she says, pointing in the opposite direction and like she's talking to a sweet but obviously confused elderly woman. d.a.m.n this cane.

"I know. I want to say h.e.l.lo to someone first."

"Oh, sorry."

I walk down the long hallway, slower than I ever have, and feel like I've come home. The predictable order of offices as I pa.s.s by, the framed aerial photographs of major world cities on the walls, the lighting, the carpeting, all feel inviting and comfortable in their familiarity. I thought I might b.u.mp into Jessica along the way, but I wasn't truly planning on saying h.e.l.lo to anyone on this side trip. I stop in front of my office.

I open the door and flick on the lights. My computer screen is off, and my desk is clear of papers. The pictures of Bob and the kids are angled exactly as I left them. Even my black wool sweater is still hanging over my desk chair, ready for days when I feel chilly and need an extra layer, usually in the over-air-conditioned summer months.

I thought I'd want to go in, sit in my chair, fire up the computer, enjoy a few minutes of people watching out the window on Boylston Street, but I don't step one ballet flat inside. The reception area and hallway felt like home to me, but my office, which I've probably logged more hours in over the last eight years than in my actual home, feels somehow too strange, like it's now a crime scene under investigation, and although there's no police tape, I'd better not go in and disturb anything. I flick off the lights and quietly close the door.

When I acted on the impulse to visit my office, I imagined that it would be a quick detour. I should've known better. Berkley's Boston office is the company's world headquarters, a ma.s.sive, sprawling corporate s.p.a.ce, and my office is located about as far away as it could be from the Concord Room. I jingle my bracelet and find Heidi's watch on my left wrist. c.r.a.p.

By the time I cane, step, drag, and breathe to the Concord Room, everyone is already there, seated, drinking coffee, waiting for me, and now watching my grand, granny-caned entrance. I should've gotten here early. What was I thinking?

"Sarah, come in," says Richard.

Richard and Carson are seated at the immediate right end of the ten-seat-long conference table. I scan to the left. Gerry and Paul, two of the managing directors, are seated opposite Richard and Carson, and Jim Whiting, one of the partners, is sitting next to Paul. From the caliber of the crowd, I draw two quick conclusions. One, this decision is critically important. And two, this decision will take all of ten minutes. I might be done here before my mother even finds the babyGap.

I can also tell from the polite silence and hesitant smiles that everyone is concerned if not surprised and unnerved by my walk and my granny cane. I draw in a deep breath and all the courage I can muster and shake hands with everyone before I sit down at the head of the table. I've got a great handshake-firm but not crus.h.i.+ng, confident and engaging-and I pray that it cancels out the damage done by this first impression of me.

I decline Richard's offer of coffee or water, not wanting to risk dribbling anything down the left side of my mouth, but wis.h.i.+ng I could say yes to both. I'm tuckered out and my throat is dry from the long walk across Berkley, and I could use a drink. I'm also feeling sticky under my arms and beneath my bra, and so I'd also love to remove my wool suit jacket, but I don't dare throw that sideshow into the act. Plus, it's hiding my unzipped pants. I find my left hand with my right and pin it between my knees. A touch late, sweaty, thirsty, and praying that my left hand doesn't come loose and do anything inappropriate or disabled-looking, I smile at Richard, as if everything is business as usual, ready to begin.

"Well, Sarah, we have a number of big projects coming in next quarter, and we've experienced some unexpected turnover. Carson's been doing a great job filling in for you for the last few months, but we absolutely can't afford to limp along going forward."

I smile, flattered. I imagine human resources dragging itself around with its own granny cane for the last four months, handicapped, unable to function at 100 percent without me.

"So we wanted to check in with you and see if you're feeling ready to jump back in."

I want to dive back in. I miss my life here-the fast pace, the high intensity, contributing to something important, feeling powerful and sophisticated, being effective. I look from person to person, trying to read how much they believe in my readiness to return, to see if anyone's expression or body language mirrors the enthusiasm I can feel popping all over me, but I'm not getting the positive reinforcement I want. Gerry and Paul have their arms crossed, and everyone is poker-faced. Everyone but Jim. I shook hands with Jim a moment ago, but I don't see him anywhere now. It's possible that he snuck out, that he was paged and had somewhere more important he needed to be. But it's more likely that he pushed his chair back ever so slightly, or Carson's pen tapping is drawing too much of my focus to the right side of the room, or who knows why, and he's still here, sitting in the black hole of my Neglect.

Who am I kidding? I'm dealing with more than a p.r.o.nounced limp. My mother had to dress me and drive me in, my left hand is pinned between my knees, I'm afraid to drink a cup of coffee in front of anyone, I'm exhausted by the trek from my office to this conference room, and I have no idea where the managing partner is. Whatever percentage ready I am, it's not enough. I think of the volume of work I used to process each day, the volume of work expected of me. Given my current level of recovery and ability, there simply aren't enough hours in the day. And however much I want to dive back in, I'm not willing to compromise the quality of work that the company needs or my reputation for delivering it.

"I really want to come back, but in total fairness to everyone here, I'm not ready to be back full-time. I'm capable of doing everything, but it all still takes me a bit longer."

"How about part-time?" asks Richard.

"Is that really an option?" I ask.

Berkley doesn't have any part-time employees. You work here, they own you. Not part of you. All of you.

"Yes. We understand that you might need some more time before you're fully up to speed, but it'd be more efficient and effective to pull you back in, even part-time, than for us to find, recruit, and train someone new."

I imagine the cost-benefit a.n.a.lysis run by one of our a.n.a.lysts. Somehow, my numbers, even at part-time, must've come out more attractive than the numbers for a new VP of HR, at least for next quarter. I wonder what discount factor they used to account for Left Neglect.

"Just to be clear, part-time means how many hours a week?"

"Forty," says Richard.

I knew this would be the answer before I asked the question. At most companies, forty hours is full-time, and twenty would be part-time. I know I could handle twenty. But this is Berkley. It would probably take full-time hours for me to produce what's expected of part-time productivity, but I could probably do it. Eighty hours of time and effort for forty hours' worth of work and pay. Bob and I really need my income, even part of it.

"And when would you want me to start?"

"Ideally, right away."

I was hoping he'd say next month, giving me more time to recover, but I suspected from the urgency of this meeting and the number of bigwigs in the room that they need someone up and running in this position today. I think of all the b.a.l.l.s I used to juggle every day-expensive, fragile, heavy, irreplaceable b.a.l.l.s-barely able to keep them all in the air, loving every adrenaline-packed minute of it. And now here I am, back at Berkley, and Richard's got an armful for me. My right hand is ready to catch them, but my left hand is pinned between my knees.

"Well, what do you say?" asks Richard.