I came to Berkley with a background in human resources and an MBA from Harvard, the perfect hybrid of experience and pedigree. My job requires a lot of hours—seventy to eighty a week—but I don’t have to travel like the nomadic consultants. I go to Europe once every eight weeks, China once a quarter, and New York for one or two overnights a month, but this kind of travel is all predictable, finite, and manageable.
My assistant, Jessica, knocks and enters my office with a piece of paper that reads, “Coffee?”
I nod and hold up three fingers, meaning a triple shot of espresso and not three coffees. Jessica understands my sign language and leaves with my order.
I head up all recruiting, the assembly of high-priority case teams, performance evaluations, and career development at Berkley. Berkley Consulting sells ideas, so the people who think up those ideas are our most important assets and investments. An idea that any one of our teams comes up with today could easily be on the front page of the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal tomorrow. The teams at Berkley guide and even create some of the world’s most successful companies. And I create the teams.
I have to know the strengths and weaknesses of each consultant and every client to fashion the best fit, to maximize the potential for success. The teams are asked to crack all kinds of cases (e-commerce, globalization, risk management, operations) in every kind of industry (automotive, health care, energy, retail), but not every consultant is best suited for every project. I juggle a lot of balls—expensive, fragile, heavy, irreplaceable balls. And just when I think I’ve got as many in the air as I could possibly handle, one of the partners will throw me another. Like some highly competitive Cirque du Soleil clown, I never admit to having too many. I’m one of the only women playing at this level, and I don’t ever want to see that look in one of the partners’ eyes. There it is. She just banged her head on the ceiling. We’ve maxed her out. Go see if Carson or Joe can handle this one. So they toss me more and more responsibilities, and I catch each one with a smile, practically killing myself at times to make it all look easy. My job is very far from easy. It is, in fact, very, very hard. Which is exactly why I love it.
But even with all my years of training and experience, my determined work ethic, and the ability to simultaneously eat, type, and talk, the hardness of it all does sometimes get overwhelming. There are days when there is no room for error, no time for lunch or to pee, no extra minutes to squeeze one more of anything out of me. On those days, I feel like a balloon blown to capacity, ready to burst. And then Richard will add another case to my pile with a Post-it stuck to the top page. Your input is needed ASAP. A big puff of air. Jessica will email me with a new meeting scheduled into the only unscheduled hour of the day. Puff. I feel transparent, uncomfortably taut. Abby will call. Linus has a rash and a fever, and she can’t find the Tylenol. The final puff.
When I feel like I’m about to explode, I lock my office door, sit in my chair, spin to face the window overlooking Boylston Street in case someone should look in, and let myself cry for five minutes. No more. Five minutes of silent crying to release the pressure, and then I’m back. That’s usually all I need to reset. I remember the first time I let myself cry at work. It was in my third month here. I felt weak and ashamed and as soon as I dried my eyes, I swore to myself that I’d never do it again. So naïve. The stress at Berkley, like at all consulting firms of its caliber, is off the charts and gets to everyone. Some people drink martinis at Legal Sea Foods during lunch. Some smoke cigarettes outside the revolving doors on Huntington Avenue. I cry for five minutes at my desk. I try to limit my teary vice to twice a month.
It’s now 3:50. I’m off the phone and drinking the coffee Jessica delivered. I needed it. The caffeine hurries my sluggish blood and splashes cold water on my sleepy brain. I have ten unclaimed minutes. How should I fill them? I look at my calendar.
4:00, phone conference, General Electric project.
4:15, Lucy piano lesson.
4:30, Charlie’s soccer game. LAST ONE.
I always list the kids’ activities in my calendar so, like an air traffic controller, I know where everyone is at any given time. I hadn’t considered actually going to Charlie’s game until just now. Bob said he didn’t think he could make it again this week, and Abby won’t be able to stay and watch after dropping Charlie off at the field because she’ll have to loop back to the other side of town to pick up Lucy from her piano lesson. It’s his last game of the season. I picture the end of the game and all the other kids running off the field and into the celebrating arms of their moms and dads. I picture Charlie’s fallen face when he realizes his mom’s and dad’s arms aren’t there to receive him. I can’t stand the image.
Fueled by three shots of espresso and two additional shots of guilt and compassion, I check my watch one last time, then grab my cell phone, the GE folder, my bag and coat and leave the office.
“Jessica, tell the four o’clock meeting I’ll be phoning in from my cell.”
No reason why I can’t do it all.
I’M TALKING ON MY CELL phone, about forty minutes into the 4:00 meeting, when I arrive at the Welmont town fields. A baseball diamond is situated adjacent to the parking lot, and the soccer field is beyond that. From my car, I can see the kids in the distance already playing. I’ve been talking for a long stretch now about who our rising experts are in green technology. As I’m walking across the baseball field, I suddenly realize a lack of throat clearing, pen clicking, and general background conference room noise.
“Hello?”
No response. I look at my phone. No Service. Crap. How long have I been delivering that soliloquy?
I’m at the soccer field now but not at my meeting. I’m supposed to be at both. I look down at my phone. Still no service. This is not good.
“Hey, you’re here!” says Bob.
I’m thinking the exact same thing in my head but with an entirely different inflection.
“I thought you couldn’t come,” I say.
“I snuck out. I saw Abby when she dropped Charlie off and told her I’d take him home.”
“We don’t both need to be here.”
I check my phone. No bars.
“Can I use your cell?”
“It’s a dead zone here. Who you calling?”
“I need to be in a meeting. Crap, what am I doing here?”
He puts his arm around me and squeezes.
“You’re watching your son play soccer.”
But I’m supposed to be staffing the GE case right now. My shoulders start chasing the tops of my ears. Bob recognizes my telltale sign of building tension and tries rubbing them into submission, but I resist. I don’t want to relax. This isn’t relaxing.
“Can you stay?” he asks.
My brain races through the consequences of missing the last half of the GE meeting. The truth is, whatever I’ve missed, I’ve already missed it. I might as well stay.
“Let me just see if I can pick up a signal somewhere.”
I wander the perimeter of the field, trying to find a coordinate that might catch a bar on my phone. I’m not having any luck. Meanwhile, first-grade soccer is hilarious. It shouldn’t really even be called soccer. From what I see, there are no positions. Most of the kids are chasing and kicking at the ball all the time, as if the ball were a powerful magnet and the kids were helplessly pulled toward it wherever it goes. About a dozen kids are now gathered around it, kicking feet and shins and occasionally the ball. Then the ball is aimlessly knocked free of the mob, and they’re all chasing it again.
A few of the kids can’t be bothered. One girl is doing cartwheels. Another girl is simply sitting on the ground, ripping up the grass with her hands. Charlie is spinning. He spins in circles until he falls. Then he gets up, staggers, falls again, gets up, and spins.
“Charlie, get the ball!” encourages Bob from the sidelines.
He spins.
The other parents are cheering their kids on, too.
“G
o, Julia, go!”
“Come on, Cameron!”
“Kick it!”
I missed an important meeting for this madness. I make my way back over to Bob.
“Any luck?”
“No.”
It has just started to snow, and now most of the kids have abandoned any thoughts of the ball or why they’re here in favor of trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues. I can’t help checking my watch more than once a minute. This game, or whatever it should be called, is going on forever.
“When is this over?” I ask Bob.
“I think they go forty-five minutes. You coming home after this?”
“I need to go see what I missed.”
“You can’t do that from home?”
“I shouldn’t even be here.”
“See you at bedtime?”
“If I’m lucky.”
Bob and I don’t often get home in time to have dinner with the kids. Their little bellies start growling at around 5:00, and Abby feeds them macaroni and cheese or chicken nuggets then. But we both try to be home to eat dessert together at around 6:30. The kids eat ice cream or cookies while Bob and I typically have cheese and crackers and wine, our dessert being more of an appetizer for the dinner we eat after the kids go to bed at 7:30.
The referee, a high school boy, finally blows the whistle, and the game is over. As Charlie walks off the field, he still hasn’t noticed that we’re here. He’s so cute I can barely stand it. His mop of wavy brown hair always seems a little too long, no matter how often he gets it cut. He has blue eyes like Bob’s and the longest black eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a boy. Girls are going to go crazy someday over those eyes. He’s suddenly so old and yet so young all at once. Old enough to have homework and two adult teeth and be on a soccer team. Young enough to want to play outside every day, to still have baby teeth and missing teeth, and to care more about spinning and catching snowflakes than winning the game.
He sees us now, and his eyes light up. His whole face stretches wide with his goofy jack-o’-lantern grin, and he runs straight into our legs. I shove my phone into my pocket so I can hug him with both hands. This is why I came.
“Great job, buddy!” says Bob.
“Did we win?” asks Charlie.
They lost 10–3.
“I don’t think so. Did you have fun?” I ask.
“Yup!”
“How about pizza tonight?” asks Bob.
“Yeah!”
We begin walking to the parking lot.
“Mom, are you coming for pizza?”
“No, honey, I have to go back to work.”
“Okay, bud, race you to the car. Ready? Set? Go!” yells Bob.
They tear across the baseball infield kicking up clouds of dusty dirt. Bob lets Charlie beat him and hams it up. I can hear him saying, “I can’t believe it! I almost had you! You’re a speed demon!”
I smile. In my car, I check my phone. Three bars and seven new voice messages. I sigh, brace myself, and hit Play. As I wind and inch my way out of the parking lot, I end up right behind Bob and Charlie. I beep and wave and watch them turn left toward pizza and home. Then I turn right and head in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER 4
I’m strolling through the Public Garden, past the statue of George Washington on his horse, past the swan boats in the pond, beneath the giant willow trees, past Lack, Mack, and the rest of the bronze ducklings.
I’m wearing my favorite Christian Louboutin, black patent leather, four-inch, peep-toe shoes. I love the sound they make as I stroll.
Clack … Clack … Clack … Clack … Clack … Clack.
I cross the street to the Common. A tall man in a dark suit crosses behind me. I walk through the Common, past the baseball fields and the Frog Pond. The man is still behind me. I walk a little faster.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
So does he.
I move quickly past the homeless man asleep on the park bench, past the Park Street T, past the business tycoon talking on his cell phone, past the drug dealer on the corner. The man follows me.
Who is he? What does he want? Don’t look back.
Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack.
I pass the jewelry stores and the old Filene’s Basement building. I weave and wind through the crowds of shoppers and turn left down the next side street. The cars and crowds are gone now. The street is empty except for the man pursuing me, even closer. I run.
CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!
So does he. He’s chasing me.
I can’t shake him. On the side of the financial building ahead of me, I see a fire escape. Escape! I run to it and start to climb. I hear the man’s footsteps echoing mine on the metal stairs, bearing down on me.
CLINK! CLOMP! CLINK! CLOMP! CLINK! CLOMP!
I crisscross up and up and up and up. My lungs are screaming. My legs are burning.
Don’t look back. Don’t look down. Keep going. He’s right behind you.
I reach the top. The roof is flat and empty. I run to the far edge. There’s nowhere else to go. My heart is hammering against the bones in my chest. I have no choice. I turn to face my attacker.
There’s no one there. I wait. No one appears. I cautiously make my way back to the fire escape.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
It’s not there. I walk the perimeter of the roof. The fire escape is gone. I’m trapped on the top of this building.
I sit down to catch my breath and think. I watch a plane take off into the sky out of Logan and try to imagine a way down other than jumping.
W E D N E S D A Y
I’m a Boston Driver. Traffic regulations like speed limits and do not enter signs are more suggestion here than law. I navigate the city’s one-way, helter-skelter streets, dodging potholes and nervy jaywalkers, anticipating the next construction detour, and gunning every yellow light with experienced bravado. All in the space of four blocks. The next traffic light turns green, and I’m on my horn in less than a blink of the eye when the Honda in front of me with New Hampshire plates doesn’t move. Like any self-respecting Boston Driver would.
Driving home at the end of the day requires infinitely more patience than coming in, and having any patience at all has never been my virtue. There is always traffic both times of day, but the evening exodus is significantly worse. I don’t know why this is. The whistle blows, the gates open, and we’re all off, like a million picnic ants converging onto one of three trails of cookie crumbs—Route 93 for those who live on the North or South Shore and the Mass Pike for those, like me, who reside west of Boston. The civil engineers who planned and designed these roads probably never conceived of this many commuters. And if they did, I’ll bet they live and work in Worcester.
I accordion along the Pike, wearing out my brake pads, swearing that one of these days I’ll start taking the T. The only reason I subject myself to this daily erosion of my brakes and sanity is so I can see my kids before they go to bed. Most people at Berkley don’t leave before 7:00, and many order dinner and stay well past 8:00. I try to leave at 6:00, right in the thick of the Going Home parade. My early departure doesn’t go unnoticed, especially by the younger, single consultants, and as I walk out of the office each night, I have to resist the urge to remind all their judging eyes just how many hours a night I work from home. I have my faults, but I’m not, and never will be, a slacker.
I leave “early” because I hope to muddle through the traffic and get home in time for dessert, baths, stories, and tucking the kids into bed at 7:30. But every minute I now sit unmoving in my Acura is another minute that I won’t get to see them today. At 6:20, it’s already been dark out for over an hour, and it feels even later than it is. It’s started to rain, which is slowing down progress even more. I’ll probably miss dessert at this point, but we’re creeping along, and I should get home in time for bath, book, and bed.
And then everything stops. It’s 6:30. Red brake lights glow
in an unbroken chain all the way to the horizon. Someone must’ve gotten in an accident. I’m not anywhere near an exit, so I can’t even bail out early and take the back roads home. I turn off whoever’s complaining on NPR and listen for sounds of an ambulance or police siren. I don’t hear any. It’s 6:37. No one is moving. I’m late, I’m trapped, and my barely contained anxiety breaks open. CRAP! What is going ON?
I look to the guy in the BMW next to me, like he might know. He sees me, shrugs his shoulders, and shakes his head in disgusted resignation. He’s on his cell phone. Maybe that’s what I should do. Use this time wisely. I pull out my laptop and start reading case team reviews. But I’m too aggravated to be productive. If I wanted to work, I would’ve stayed at work.
It’s 6:53. The Pike remains paralyzed. I text Bob to let him know. 7:00. Bath time. I rub my face and breathe in and out into my hands. I want to scream the stress out of my body, but I worry that the guy in the BMW will think I’m crazy and gossip about me on his phone. So I hold it in. I just want to be home. I just want to click my Cole Haan heels and be home.
It’s 7:18 when I arrive in front of 22 Pilgrim Lane. Fourteen miles in seventy-eight minutes. The winner of the Boston Marathon could’ve beaten me home on foot. And that’s exactly how I feel. Beaten. I reach up to the visor and press the button on the garage door opener. I’m inches away from pulling in when I realize that the garage door didn’t open, and I slam on the brakes. I made it through the gnarly streets of Boston and a gridlocked Pike without a scratch but almost totaled the car in my own driveway. I repeatedly click and curse at the stupid garage door button a few times before I get out of the car. As I run through puddles and freezing rain from my car to the front door, the saying “The straw that broke the camel’s back” comes to mind.
I pray that I’ve at least made it home in time for bedtime stories and good-night kisses.