@millieandipaxtonYet you’re still ranked below us for climate action policies . . .
I hear Matteo’s footsteps before I see him. I rush to press ‘send’ before dropping my phone back into my bag, a smile blooming across my face just as Matteo thuds to a stop beside my cubicle. He walks like a lumberjack, even though at five foot nine he’s only a few inches taller than me. He fills up the entire space next to my desk.
‘What’s got you grinning?’ he asks, smiling himself.
‘Nothing.’ I squirm, trying to ignore the insinuation that I haven’t been as cheery at work lately.
As if he can read my mind, Matteo’s expression softens, and I remember why I liked him so much during my first interview with Sunshine Foods (a giant conglomerate that produces a lot of cereal). I interviewed for an operations job, one that involved a lot of crunching numbers in a cubicle and putting them into a slide to help executives make decisions on how many boxes of cereal to ship to each supermarket. Sunshine Foods was a good opportunity for someone just out of college. I had no idea I would end up sticking around this long.
‘I just wanted to tell you good work on this deck,’ he says, hoisting a sheaf of papers in the air and waggling them around.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you – are you taking any time off around the holidays? I haven’t seen any requests come in.’
I hesitate. I know I should be taking time off, but I have nothing to do with it. Taking time off to sit at home sounds . . . depressing.
‘Just let me know when you’ll be out.’ Matteo’s deep voice fills the silence. ‘Things slow down during the holidays, no need for you to sit here alone. Heck, even I’ll be gone!’ He laughs at his own joke. He gestures towards the sea of desks that are already starting to empty out in the post-Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas lull. ‘See?’
‘Right,’ I say, feeling panicked at the idea that everyone seems to think I need a vacation. How many times will I have to say, ‘I’m fine,’ before they believe me?
‘I’ll let you know when I’ll be out.’ I force a smile and Matteo claps his hands on the padded grey walls of my cubicle and walks away. Matteo is the one who hired me, and in the six years I’ve worked for Sunshine, our relationship has never progressed past colleagues. I know about his two daughters, and he knows I have a sister and live near my parents. He promotes me like clockwork every two years and gives me a 2 per cent raise every year. I never work more than forty-hour weeks and have a great work–life balance. But lately I’ve been feeling like I have no ‘life’ worth balancing. Especially now that after our friends sided with Zach in the breakup, I only have Murphy and Millie to keep me company. Sometimes I go running. Maybe I should learn how to knit. With a sigh, I pull up the company calendar.
I have fifteen days of holiday for the year. So far, I’ve only used three, all of them to go to weddings. I was supposed to take a trip to Italy with Zach, but after I asked him four times if we could spend one weekend planning it, and each weekend he ‘lost track of time’, and was ‘so sorry’, and ‘please can we plan it next weekend?’ I stopped trying to make that happen.
‘He doesn’t mean to let me down,’ I remember confessing to Millie in an attempt to minimise my disappointment. ‘Travelling just isn’t as important to him. He likes being home.’ She had simply nodded.
I force my attention back to the calendar. Sunshine Foods gives us the week of Christmas off, so if I’m going to use my holiday before year end, I basically have to start tomorrow.
Matteo means well, I remind myself, and time off should be a good thing. I can take Murphy for more walks. I can get some stuff done around the house. I can take my time wrapping Christmas presents. I almost cry at how boring my life feels.
I google ‘Great Barrier Reef’ and watch as the search returns picture after picture of magnificent coral structures, bright pink and yellow, giant clams ringed with purple. I pore over the photos, imagining what it would be like to go to Australia. I spot a bright blue coral that looks like a collection of elk antlers – staghorn coral – the coral Millie’s lab studies.You could take photos of that for her, the voice in my head says,you know your stuff. You’ve been pretending to be more like Millie your whole life. This will be a piece of cake.
As quickly as I opened it, I close the tab and get up from my computer, looking over my shoulders to make sure no one saw. I’m superstitious, and I feel like if I even admit to myself that this trip sounds fun, something will happen to Millie. I do not want to take that chance.
‘Please God,’ I whisper, ‘let Sal be a good lump.’
Two days later and I’m repeating ‘Let Sal be a good lump,’ in my head like a mantra. I met Millie at the hospital so we could go to her post-op appointment together, and I can’t tell who is more nervous. Millie is scrolling through Instagram from her reclined position on the exam table in the middle of the room, and even though her posture is relaxed, her gaze darts to the door every five seconds.
When we hear a knock, I flinch. I’ve been jumpier lately, much to Murphy’s chagrin. Every time he barks at a squirrel I gasp, and he cocks his head at me in annoyance. And I’m not the only family member that’s picked up an annoying habit out of anxiety. My dad has thrown himself into his hobbyist French horn playing and decided to learn all the Christmas carols, starting with ‘Silent Night’. I’m pretty sure if my mom has to hear the opening bars one more time she’ll scream. She’s been in overdrive, texting Millie and me both constantly, dropping off casseroles, baking banana bread and offering to take us out for drinks when we finish work.
I have been attempting to act exactly the same and give Millie a semblance of normal, although I feel like I fend off a panic attack every five minutes.
Millie has rallied all of her positive energy into manifesting a good result. She’s doubled down on yoga classes, been drinking green smoothies every morning, and finished all her Christmas shopping. She even had me reset the password to her HealthChart account so she couldn’t see the results of her biopsy before she had a chance to speak to the doctor about them.
‘There’s no sense in paying them if I’m just going to diagnose myself, is there?’ she said, when she handed me the log-in credentials. ‘Better to not google.’
Since the night we watchedThe Bachelor, she hasn’t mentioned Australia again — not once. Before the lump, Millie referenced it every time we were together. If we so much as saw a swimsuit or a cute hat through a window she would squeal, ‘Should I get it for Australia?’ but since asking if I would go, she’s been radio silent.
There’s another knock at the door. Millie clears her throat. ‘Come in,’ she says. Her voice wavers. I take a deep breath and try to steady my shaking hands. Millie plasters a smile on her face, completely committed to a positive outcome.
The doctor sidesteps into the room, his face partially obscured by the sheaf of papers he’s holding in his right hand. A shock of white hair sits on the top of his head. ‘Dr Taylor,’ he announces, as he turns to face Millie.
‘Hi,’ she says brightly, extending her hand. ‘Millie.’
‘Ah, so no Millicent then,’ he says, making a note on his clipboard.
‘Nope. No one calls me Millicent, just Millie.’Except Hugh,I think, remembering our conversation from yesterday.
