The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 5: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6, 2011

When the alarm goes off, I can hardly believe it, and I lie for a few minutes with my eyes closed, willing it not to be true. I’ve had so little sleep that I feel hung over, shaky and nauseated and hollowed-out. Sleep is the wrong word, really; I haven’t slept, I’ve napped, a string of short and wildly unsatisfying naps and now I have to get up and face the day. But I’m not going to do it without coffee, so I stagger downstairs.

Jesse is already dressed and sitting at the breakfast bar, alternating between the newspaper and his BlackBerry.

I pour a cup of coffee. “God, that was a terrible night,” I say.

“Agreed.” Jesse barely looks up from the paper.

“Scotty was up, what, twice, three times? I lost track.” This is not, in fact, true. I know exactly how many times Scotty was awake, and for exactly how many minutes each time, which roughly equals the number of minutes that I lay in the dark awake, listening to Jesse snoring, and wondering why I was the only one awake, plus the number of minutes that I snuggled upstairs with Scotty, composing bitter speeches in my head about Jesse’s failure to wake up for even a token attempt at shared parenting. This is a test, and Jesse has already lost.

“Three o’clock and four-thirty, maybe, but he may have been up before I got home.” If I’m honest, I’m surprised that Jesse can provide an accurate report on Scotty’s nocturnal activity, but no less infuriated. I can feel color rising in my cheeks as I realize that Jesse was conscious enough to register the time, but couldn’t muster the effort to participate.

“I got up with him at midnight,” I say.

“Tough break,” he says.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask.

“No.”

“Because you seem kind of grouchy.”

“Sophie.” Jesse looks exasperated. “I had the same night you did. I’m tired. I am trying to muster enough energy to get through the day. Must we turn this into a referendum on how well we communicate?”

This is totally uncalled for. “Jesse,” I say in a snarky tone. “That is a far bigger project than I have energy for this morning. I’m simply asking what you’re so pissed off about.”

His expression is cool. “If you must know, I’m wondering what possessed you to let Scotty fall asleep on the couch at six o’clock last night. By now, I would have thought that you knew to avoid mistakes like that.”

Now that I’ve extracted proof of my suspicions, I’m on the offensive. “Well you weren’t here, were you?” I snap. “Scotty fell asleep and I was supposed to wake him up? He’s sick. I didn’t think the extra rest could hurt.”

“Fine. What’s done is done. Let’s move on,” he says. “I’ve got to get going anyway. I have an early meeting. My mother will be here at eight-thirty to look after Scotty for the day.”

I could be furious with him for leaving me alone for the early shift, but I’m too tired to fight, and almost pathetically grateful that he has taken control of the childcare arrangements for the day. So I say, “OK. Have a good meeting.” And I lean in for a kiss.

Jesse puts a hand on my shoulder and stops me. “No way, Soph,” he says. “You’ve been sick for two weeks. The last thing we need is for me to get it too.” He pats my arm. “See you tonight.”



Jesse is right. I am sick. And now I look it, because with Jesse’s early departure I haven’t had time to shower or put on makeup. Nigel has my number and today, I fear, it’s up – which is why I’m lurking by the garbage cans at the back of the hospital, waiting for the deliveries to start so that I can sneak into the building through the loading dock. The stench of rotting cafeteria waste is gut-wrenching, but the smokers brave it every day, and I can do it for five minutes until the first truck arrives. It occurs to me that if I were a more “integrated” person, which Zoe is always encouraging me to become, I would cling more tightly to the small amount of dignity that I have left. But then I hear the happy sound of diesel engine, and I brush away these unpleasant thoughts, and concentrate on building a little staircase out of cardboard boxes. As the truck pulls in and the loading dock door rolls up, I hop from box to box, launch myself off the rim of the nearest dumpster and over onto the ledge. The receiving clerk looks on, astonished, as I vanish into the bowels of the hospital in a puff of exhaust fumes.

The first sign that something is wrong comes in the elevator. I get a couple of strange looks from the other passengers, one of whom covers her nose and mouth with her hand. I’m still incredibly congested, so I can’t confirm it, but it looks as though my morning exploits have had an unexpected consequence. I know I’ll get an honest reaction from Joy, who is always enthusiastic about sharing bad news, and I’m not disappointed. She purses her mouth in a little moue of distaste, wrinkles her nose for effect, and says: “What is that revolting smell?”

But she has overplayed her hand, because she has kept me at her desk long enough for me to see that she is in the middle of an epic game of solitaire, and she knows that I know it. So I take full advantage of my upper hand, and put a ten dollar bill in her in-tray. “Could you please do me a favor, Joy,” I ask sweetly. “If you wouldn’t mind running down to the pharmacy in the lobby for me and picking up a bottle of Febreze, it would be a big help. I had a mishap taking out the garbage this morning.”

I can see the thought bubble forming above Joy’s head with the words I HATE YOU in bold type in the air, but she knows that she has lost this round. She nods curtly, scoops up the money and stalks off.

Geoff arrives for a morning debrief, which I have scheduled first thing so that there is no way I can bump it. He sniffs cautiously.

“I’m working on it,” I say. Joy reappears with the Febreze, and I mist myself generously from head to toe. “Better?” I ask.

“Much,” he says. “Now you just smell like a suburban sofa.”

“That will have to do,” I say, as the rest of the staff rolls in.

Erica is up first, so that I can try to defuse some of her hostility. She wants approval for the media package she has prepared on a major donation to our new cancer center, and although we aren’t doing the official announcement until next week, she has worked herself into quite a frenzy. She wants to start calling reporters to secure their attendance and insists on finalizing the media package today. I’m not in the mood to tell her that the reporters won’t commit to coming this early, and even if they do, they’ll blow it off the second a bigger story comes in, and that sending the media package too early is almost a guarantee of having it forgotten by next week; so I take ten minutes, and lavish praise on what is, in fact, a fairly mediocre effort. And then I ask Albert and Jacob, our fundraising writers, to present their draft of the Family Care Center proposal and I gush to them about how inspiring and incredible it is, and who could fail but be moved to give thirty million to build it; I certainly would if I had cash on hand. And for good measure, I tell them how impressed I am with the annual fund thank you letters, which in my opinion raise the bar for stewardship communications in our sector. This is the cornerstone of my management strategy: douse my resentment with heaping mounds of guilt and then alleviate the guilt by showering employees with unwarranted praise. By the end of the meeting, Erica, Albert and Jacob are positively glowing, while Geoff looks amused. I ask him to stay behind.

“Too much?” I ask.

He laughs. “I doubt they noticed. Erica’s a total narcissist, so I’m sure she took it at face value. And Albert and Jacob are in awe of you, so they were probably touched.”

“Excellent,” I say. “That should tide them over for a couple of days, then. Now, onto more important matters. Any word on the Gala?”

“A lot of email traffic.” Geoff gestures toward my computer. “Something to look forward to. But no decisions, not even close. The committee is spinning off in a million different directions. You and Justine are going to have to rein them in, but I think Justine’s taken a powder on this one. I was trying to track her down yesterday, but she was keeping a low profile. I’d guess she doesn’t have any bright ideas.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Did I mention that this is totally not my job?” Geoff smiles sympathetically. “Alright, bright ideas are on us. Janelle and the girls like the songs of the eighties, so let’s start there. Category is song titles that can carry off a broader theme.”

“Springsteen, Dancing in the Dark,” Geoff starts.

“Simple, basic, a good back-up,” I say. “Bryan Adams, Summer of ’69?”

“Too confusing. Is it an eighties theme or a sixties theme? What are the ladies going to wear? Certainly not shapeless flowing frocks with love beads.”

“Good point,” I say. “Everybody Have Fun Tonight?”

“Wang Chung? That song was really awful, even back then,” says Geoff. “Like a Virgin?”

Now I’m laughing. “Not an appropriate theme for this group of ladies, Geoff. And while we’re at it, let’s avoid Bizarre Love Triangle.”

“Tough crowd,” says Geoff. “I’ll reflect further. That’s all I’ve got for the moment.”

I sigh, and give him a wicked smile. “So we lose a little sleep. What does that matter, when we get to do such incredibly meaningful work?”

We snicker in unison, and then we both start giggling, and then guffawing. By the time Geoff gets up to go, I’m slumped in my chair, wiping tears from my eyes.

“You’re the best,” I say. “Honestly. I know I laid it on thick with the others today, but I want you to know that, in your case, it’s one hundred percent sincere. I have no idea how I would manage without you.”

Geoff blushes so deeply that I can see his scalp glowing. “Um, thanks,” he says, and I remind myself that I should give him this kind of feedback more often. Geoff looks as though he wants to say something else, but instead excuses himself and practically runs out of my office. It’s a bit odd, but then again, so is Geoff. There are probably good reasons why he’s still single.

I’m tempted to call Will, but I want to check first to see if he’s sent an email. Unfortunately, there’s no way to open my in-box without triggering an email flood; the members of the Gala committee, it appears, are caught in a terrible Reply-All vortex. And they’ve drifted a long way from songs of the eighties in the past twenty-four hours, proposing and rejecting Mardi Gras (deemed to be insensitive due to the devastation of New Orleans, and offering limited wardrobe possibilities); Beach Party (a thinly veiled excuse for the Pilates crowd to show off their abs, but providing limited wardrobe options for everyone else); Hawaiian Luau (same objections as the Beach Party with the additional downside of terrible music); Mad Men (rejected as too aesthetically narrow, and too obviously grasping at coolness); Beauty and the Beast (an odd suggestion, soundly rejected as creepy, arguably insulting to dates/husbands, and offering little in the way of music that you can dance to). After I’ve read about fifty messages, I pick up the phone and dial Justine’s extension. “I’m deleting the rest of my email,” I say. “I can’t stand it anymore. Did they make any decisions?”

“Negative,” says Justine. “The only suggestion with any traction at the moment is the Fashion Week idea, but at this point it’s logistically unworkable. The idea is to have a full-on fashion show with a runway, models and designers showing new collections in the middle of the event, between dinner and dancing. But the timing is all wrong and even if we weren’t months too late to get the designers on board, all of the fashion weeks will be over by the time we have our event and no one will be interested.”

“You lost me there,” I say.

“Trust me when I say that you will not care about what I’m going to tell you, but I got an earful from Janelle on this so I’ll share my pain. There are four big spring-summer fashion weeks – New York, London, Milan and Paris – and they all run between February and March. So in a nutshell – and I’m doing some serious editing here – by the time our event happens at the beginning of April, these ladies will have seen all the collections, and it won’t be that exciting.”

“So in what way does it have traction?” I ask.

“At a basic level, by introducing shopping and models, which everyone agrees are fun,” says Justine, “But there seems to be consensus now that it’s not enough to build an event around.”

“So we’re no further ahead,” I say.

“Correct.”

I take a deep breath. “Justine,” I say, “Today is Tuesday. If we don’t get a theme nailed down by the end of the week, there is no chance that we will have an effective marketing strategy in place for this event, which means we won’t hit our ticket sales targets, we won’t raise enough money and the event will be a complete failure. I need you to understand how serious this is.” But, to be perfectly honest, I’m having trouble finding the energy to care.

“These women are impossible,” Justine says, not very nicely. “You deal with them, if you think you can do a better job. I’ve had it.”

“Hey,” I say, in what I hope is a soothing tone, “It’s not your fault. We’ll figure it out.”

There is an ominous pause, and Justine says, “Sophie, I have to tell you –“ but I interrupt her, because I’ve just noticed the time, and we are both late. “Shit! Justine, we have a senior management meeting now.”

“Oops,” she says, and we slam down the phones in unison and sprint out of our offices. We’re overdue for our weekly dose of public shaming, otherwise known as Barry’s weekly senior staff meeting, and we both know that arriving late is an invitation for retaliation.

Barry is sitting at the head of the table obviously annoyed as Justine and I enter. The rest of the team is seated, leafing through a pile of handouts that show our progress towards our annual fundraising goal. The atmosphere is vaguely funereal, suggesting that we have missed Barry’s opening comments on our fundraising performance. There are seven of us on the senior management team, representing Community Relations and Stewardship, Operations, Major Gift Fundraising, Annual Fundraising, Research, Events and Communications. As a general rule, the head of Operations, a pudgy, pasty fellow by the name of Arthur, gets to sit there looking smug while the rest of us get raked over the coals for our failure – however indirect – to encourage people to give us money. The rest of us went out for a quiet and wholly inappropriate drink the day the computer system crashed and a bunch of data was lost, and Operations took it in the chops.

“Thank you for joining us, ladies,” says Barry, darkly – a bad sign. “As I was just telling the rest of the group, it’s time to talk turkey. The latest campaign totals are in and they are extremely disappointing. We have just over three weeks until year-end and we are going to have to bear down hard to meet our targets.” He gestures to Peter, our Director of Research. “Peter has produced the report in front of you, which indicates that we have forty million in verbal commitments and solicitations in progress. You can’t be a little bit pregnant, people. These numbers mean nothing until we have them in black and white.” He scowls at Marni, the Director of Major Gifts; this too is a bad sign, since Marni is a relentless suck-up and, consequently, the closest thing Barry has to a favorite. “Tell your staff that we need to close some deals. I don’t care if they have to work 24-7 for the next three weeks. They need to stick to their knitting.”

“Understood.” Marni looks pained, but she rallies quickly. “And let me just say, Barry, that I completely agree with your strategy here. The economy is a challenge, but great leadership like yours inspires us to meet and overcome it. Thank you for keeping us focused on what we need to do.” She is rewarded with a gracious smile from Barry. The rest of us avert our eyes at her shameless display.

Of course, Barry’s expectations are completely unrealistic. No one is papering deals these days, because the economy is – to use a technical term – in the crapper. Philanthropy is a business based on hope and optimism, both of which have been in very short supply for the past couple of years. So while there are lots of donors who are willing to entertain funding proposals, and even some willing to tell us that they will give us money, almost no one wants to sign on the dotted line. Everyone wants to wait until next year, in the optimistic belief that recovery is just around the corner.

“And that goes for your team, too.” Barry spins on his castors and points to Jason, the Director of Community Relations and Stewardship, which is a fancy term for sucking up to people who have already given you money in the hopes that they might give you more someday. “We’ve got a bunch of donors on the verbal commitment list from your Stewardship program.” He waves his fingers at Peter, who hands another document around. “I want you working with Marni’s team to make sure that anyone on this list with any possibility of closing a gift is feeling the love. I want you two to put your heads together and come up with a strategy for each and every one of these folks. I want a full-court press, people. Senior volunteers, hospital staff, whatever it takes. Just close the gifts.”

Jason nods and looks resigned. We all know that no amount of team-building is going to change the global recession, but as Barry likes to say, he’s a mind over matter guy. And now his color rises as he turns to Bill, the Director of the Annual Fund, whose results have dropped by thirty percent this year. Annual funds flow directly into the operating budget of the hospital, and are made up of many small gifts that are typically renewed year over year. In a recession, though, donors reduce or cut their monthly or annual gifts to charities as part of an overall belt-tightening exercise. Bill’s been tightening his belt too; he’s lost about fifteen pounds in the last six months from pure stress.

Barry shoots the Blowfish directly at Bill, who shudders visibly while the rest of us cringe in solidarity. “Well, Bill, there’s no way to put lipstick on this pig. The Annual Fund results are disastrous. You leave me no choice.” The rest of us exchange anxious glances. Surely Barry wouldn’t fire Bill in the middle of a senior management meeting, would he?

“We are going to have to run a holiday appeal ad.”

There is a collective exhalation, and we all rejoice inwardly that Bill has escaped the guillotine for now. But then Barry’s pronouncement sinks in. A holiday appeal ad? These usually take weeks to write and shoot, and they air on television in the run-up to Christmas, which is to say, now. Several months ago, Barry announced, over Bill’s objections, that we would be cutting the holiday ad, as it was too expensive to run and we couldn’t prove that it made a measurable difference to the Annual Fund results. At the time, all of us (except Bill) breathed a sigh of relief, since the production of the ad never fails to drain time and energy out of every department.

And almost before Barry spins toward me, the penny drops and I realize that it’s payback time for my too-vigorous participation in the Search Committee meeting yesterday. “Sophie,” says Barry, “We will need the full attention of the Communications Office on this project. The fundraisers need to drill down on bringing dollars in the door, so it’s all on you. Today is Tuesday. I want something ready to air on Monday.” He smiles, and his perfect capped teeth seem to glitter in the florescent light.

“Barry,” I say, carefully, “I will do my best, of course, but the deadline is, um, tight.”

“I have confidence in you, buddy,” he says, but I can tell from the cold light in his eye that I’m no buddy of his. He turns to the rest of the group. “What’s my motto?”

“There are no excuses in business!” we all parrot, with varying degrees of self-loathing.

“You said it,” says Barry. “And now, I have one more announcement. I’m sorry to tell you that Justine will be leaving us at the end of the week to spend more time with her family. Let me assure you that I tried to persuade her to stay, but she had made up her mind. I realize that this will seem like very short notice, but Justine asked me not to make her resignation public until after this week’s meeting with the Gala Committee.”

And now Barry spins back to stick it to me one more time. “Since you are already involved in the Gala, Sophie, I’ll ask you to take over managing the Events group until we find a replacement for Justine.” He winks. I feel cold all over and wonder if I am going to vomit. Instead I force myself to meet Barry’s eye.

“Thanks, pal,” he says.