Now, at the age of forty-two, Caroline was sitting at her desk in her office off the back hall of WPBP, trying to remember just what equipment she needed to bring home with her so she could take it to Westchester tomorrow to give her demonstration. She had written the list out last night and put it in her bag so she would have it when she needed it, but somehow it had gotten lost. She had reminded herself during coffee break this morning to come down to the office to check it all out as soon as she got a chance, but she never did get a chance. Coffee break had been difficult and lunch had been impossible. She had called her Overeaters Anonymous buddy, but she hadn’t been able to get through. Then the day had gone on getting worse and worse, and here she was.
Seven-fifteen. Sitting in the office. Trying to remember what to bring. What Caroline Hazzard did for a living was to produce a local public television show on home improvement for women. Once or twice a week, she gave lectures on home improvement for women to women’s groups. The lectures were always project-specific. How to design an addition. How to build a staircase. How to replace a floor that had rotted from mildew and humidity with one that wouldn’t rot anytime soon. Caroline liked solid, practical projects that women could go home and start work on immediately. She liked specific step-by-step information that could be followed to inevitable success. She liked to see women empowered. She wanted to help women build their self-esteem. It was just that there was something wrong in her, that was all. It was just her programming that was off. That was why she couldn’t ever seem to feel empowered or full of self-esteem herself.
There was a spray of crumbs across the corner of her desk—her sister Alyssa’s crumbs, from the Peak Freans Alyssa had been eating when she’d dropped in to visit half an hour before. It was Alyssa who had made Caroline think of Jacqueline Isherwood. Alyssa always did things like that. Alyssa was a saboteur.
They were all saboteurs.
Caroline leaned forward and pressed the intercom buzzer. A moment later the speaker crackled and Sandy’s voice said, “Yes? Miss Hazzard? Can I do something for you?”
Caroline felt momentarily guilty. Sandy must have a life of her own outside the office. It couldn’t be right for Caroline to make her stay late just because Caroline couldn’t make up her mind what to do next. What was Sandy doing down there, at her desk in the typing pool, with no work to do and nobody to talk to?
If there was something Sandy wanted, it was Sandy’s responsibility to ask for it. That was what they taught you in Group. It was a symptom of codependency to think you had an obligation to read other people’s minds.
“Sandy,” Caroline said. “Yes. I need some help. Could you come in here for a minute?”
“I’d be glad to.”
“Bring your copy of the Westchester itinerary with you if you have it. I seem to have misplaced mine for the moment.”
“I have it, Miss Hazzard. I’ll be right in.”
Was that a tongue-click of annoyance Caroline heard, coming at the end of Sandy’s sentence? Caroline didn’t like Sandy much. She didn’t think Sandy liked her either. If it had been up to Caroline, Sandy would have been replaced by another secretary practically immediately. It was not up to Caroline. Sandy was a member of the typing pool, assigned to assist Caroline when Caroline needed assistance. She was also WPBF’s star hire under the Americans with Disabilities Act. She wasn’t going anywhere soon.
The door to Caroline’s office opened and Sandy came in, walking a little heavily on the brace that propped up her withered right leg. The leg was withered because something awful had happened to it when Sandy was a child, but Caroline could never remember what. The leg seemed less important to Caroline than Sandy’s weight, which put Sandy definitely on the pudgy side. People like Sandy were beyond Caroline’s comprehension. She didn’t understand why they didn’t do something about themselves.
Sandy put a thick sheaf of papers down on the edge of Caroline’s desk and sat herself in the visitor’s chair, stretching her braced leg out along the carpet. She was wearing a new pink sweater and a chipped front tooth. It was just like her, Caroline thought, to spend her money on clothes instead of dentistry.
“Well,” Caroline said, forcibly stopping herself from saying “I’m sorry.” She said “I’m sorry” far too much. They were always pointing that out in Group. It was part of Sandy’s job to stay late, not a special favor Sandy was doing Caroline.
Sandy was looking at the sheaf of papers. “I’ve got the itinerary right here,” she said, “and a copy of your lecture and your materials list. Have you packed your materials yet?”