Blemished (a short story)

A rising star, though not untarnished, EmmaJean sat across the table from a middle-aged man, Sanford, who called himself a guide. It had been suggested to her that she spruce up her leadership and she had chosen to work with him.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Fine," she said. That's what she told her husband every morning: fine. He'd learned to ask, "Fine-plus, fine-minus or just plain fine?" On that multiple-choice question she tested well.

Today she was anything but fine. Her performance appraisal was coming up and she was panic-stricken. ‎Shall I tell him?!  The truth, like the juice in an over-ripe nectarine, wanted out but the skin was too thick.

"How about jotting down ten answers to the question: who am I?  Just a word or two for each." A standard exercise. He slid a 3 x 5 card toward her.

"I'm a very private person."

"Our discussions are confidential, as I mentioned. No back door to management." He had an impulse to throw in, "Cross my heart and hope to die," he was tempted to say. Is that her issue, trust? Let's see if she can learn to trust me.

She dashed off her answers. "When she held the card out to him, he said, "That's yours to keep. If you'd just read what you wrote."

She took a deep breath. ""Okay, who am I? A woman, a careerist, mother, spouse, athlete, small-town girl, West Virginian by birth, baby in the family, achiever, introvert. How's that?"

"That's great. Care to put a little flesh on the bones?" Lips sealed, she shook her head, no. "Maybe another time." He was put in mind of oysters on a bed of ice waiting to be shucked.

"That's fine, just fine," he said, making a show of respecting her limits. "But can I ask you a hypothetical question?" Now he was asking if he could ask.

"Okay."

"Good. If an up-and-coming woman is smarter than she thinks, how would that play out?"

"Um, she'd shy away, maybe not speak up when she had something to say. Not live up to her potential? That ain't me, if you're wondering. I'm gangbusters no matter what the weather. My husband says, 'You're going out in this?'"

"Got it," he said. Noting she had actually volunteered something about herself, he decided to chance it. "I could be wrong: you seem troubled."

"You're not wrong. I'm scared out of my wits I'll get fired." She worked for a company that made personal care products—skin cream, skin cleanser, lanolin soap, toothpaste, detergent, you name it. A few years ago she was made head of the Andean region—Argentina, Chile, and Peru.

That business was troubled. There was a good chance she, as a first-time general manager, would be in over her head. But it helped that marketing, the function she knew best, reigned supreme in the company. Just the advertising budget was fully 6 percent of sales‎. It also helped she was fluent in Spanish thanks to her husband's lineage. His parents had emigrated from Colombia. She and her husband raised their kids bilingual; that meant so was she. Improbably, she was granted permission to stay in Chicago, not relocate to the company's regional office for Latin America in Miami.

"Why would you worry about getting fired?"

"That's nothing new. I've always worried about getting fired. But this year I've got good reason for it. I didn't make plan."

"This year. How about past years?"

"That was then and this is now. I will say that when I took over four years ago, the business was the black sheep of the company. Here's what we did, my team and I. Number one, we sorted out the portfolio of products and dropped 300 of the 800 SKUs. That allowed us to pump a lot more advertising money into the better selling products. Two, we went after production delays. Rationalizing the portfolio helped a lot with that. Three, we shed subpar people. Then it was all about execution, grinding it out."

"And?"

"The region had been losing 2 to 4 percent per year. The year before last we delivered 7 percent."

"Wouldn't your boss factor this in, the turnaround?"

"Why would he?"

Taking a flyer, he asked, "Has anyone ever told you you're better than you think?"

"My husband."

"Your husband believes in you?"

"He does, as a careerist anyway."

"Then what if, in fact, you are better than you think?"

"Unthinkable."

As much as her husband, Dan, believed in her, the weather of their marital life was never truly fine. For one thing, she was reserved, she held back. Even when they had sex, the ultimate intimate act. He could tell—she wasn't his first lover—but it didn't occur to him to object. He was the sort who settled for less. That quality was probably partly why, consciously or not, she chose him in the first place. It made it easier for her to have her way.

Dan had quit his job when she was made head of the Andean region. Someone had to hold down the fort. It made sense financially too. His pay as a Legal Aid lawyer barely covered the cost of the nanny. At first, he had made little snippy comments like, "my big-shot wife." But before long he discovered the upside.

The unwelcome void in Dan's life turned into a chance to enjoy his kids and to help out if needed. But the upside for Dan had another side for EmmaJean.

One Saturday morning EmmaJean and Dan were sitting on the front porch drinking cappuccinos, and she thought to ask him how it was going.

"Have you noticed Ricky is off of math?" he said.

"No. How could you tell?"

"He usually does his math homework first, races through it. But then he started doing it last and dawdling over it. He was falling behind."

"Whatever that's about, that needs to be fixed, right away," she said, shifting instantly into problem-solving mode. "What do you think we should do?"

"Actually, it is pretty much fixed." Dan told her that after school one day, he and his son sat together on the front porch while Ricky had had his after-school grilled-cheese sandwich, which he made himself.

"Don't you like math anymore?" After a curt "no," Dan coaxed out the reason. Ricky's friend, Samuel, was doing better than he was, and Ricky had given up. Starting that evening Dan sat with Ricky while he did his math homework. "I only stepped in when Ricky got stuck. He just needed some support. By the end of the week he'd caught up." Dan smiled.

"That's good,'" EmmaJean said, a beat too late. She could view Dan's success that day as hers too. But instead, she felt negated as a mother. Rather than enjoy the accomplishments of her husband and her son, she only tasted misery. Hearing the hesitation in her tone, Dan held back from telling her that their twelve-year-old daughter Melissa had started confiding in him.

EmmaJean waited until the morning of the performance appraisal to mention it to Dan. Distress was written all over her face. He was pained but, per usual, he took his cues from her and gave her a big hug but said nothing. Grateful, she kissed him on the cheek.

The appraisal was at noon, which spared her driving into Chicago during rush hour. Cedric, the head of International, had been her manager for a little less than a year. She was prepared for the worst. On the verge of panic, she reached hurriedly into her purse and gulped down half a Xanax moments before he arrived.

Looking serious, he got right down to it. "You didn't meet your growth objectives for the year," he said. Oh no, he's going to lower the boom. "Volume was just 60 percent of plan. Terrible. Would you agree?" ‎At the word 'terrible' she caved in emotionally and gasped for breath. He pulled up short. "Wait, I was kidding!"

"Kidding! What do you mean, kidding?"

"Given the market conditions—the steep drop-off of demand—you've had a good year."

"But I didn't make plan."

"You did what could be done. Sharply reduced costs without cutting to the bone. The business won't be handicapped when demand goes back up. I give you a lot of credit."

She almost fell out of her chair. "I was expecting blame, not praise."

"Then you're almost certainly not expecting this: you're getting promoted." Again she gasped. "To the head of LATAM," he added.

She flew to her feet. "Is this another joke?"

He rose to his feet too. "I kid you not."

"I'm sorry, I know I should be happy."

"That's okay. But may I say congratulations. It's well deserved."

Just days later, still swollen with feeling, she met with Sanford.

"Is something wrong?" What now? he thought.

"I'm getting promoted. An office in the new tower on Michigan Avenue."

"And that's bad?" he asked, his tone light.

"Certain things about my past stick in my mind like a sliver, a nail, in my foot." She flashed to an image of herself standing in the rain, statue-like, her face immobile. With the rain running down her face, you couldn't tell she was crying. Girls at school, a little clique, picked on her, delighted in it. She never let her face betray a thing. A clap of thunder brought her mother to the door. 'Are you crazy?' she shouted.

She kept the thought to herself. To him she said. "I thought I might go to college. I would have been the first person in my whole family to do it. But my guidance counselor talked me out of it. 'You're not college material,' she told me." 

"But here you are," Sanford said, "vaulted to a high floor in corporate headquarters. Once a caterpillar, now a butterfly."‎

"Me a butterfly?" But he'd got her to laugh. "Only if I'm really management material. I don't even feel I can tell Dan. The promotion isn't official anyway."

"Tell your husband," Sanford told her.

She finally got around to it as they were cleaning up from Sunday brunch. He was excited. "The executive level: that means a big jump in salary, stock grants too. Now we can move to Oak Park!" He longed to live in a Frank Lloyd Wright house; there were several in that neighborhood.

"What's wrong with this house?" She was dead set against the outlay of capital and the added expense of a big house and a big yard.      

But he kept trying to persuade her. "What's money for, EmmaJean? We've got plenty socked away, almost enough for you to retire. And, hey, I'm home all the time." It was as passionate as he ever got. But to her their savings could vanish in an instant. He got nowhere but knew how to eat disappointment.

"‎My husband thinks we're upper class now," she told Sanford, exaggerating. "But I can still picture my father's blackened face, like some ghoulish Halloween mask, when he got back from the coal mine. My father was out sick a lot. Turned out it was black lung disease. Never enough to eat, evicted two or three times."

"To this day you're holding on for dear life?"

"Something like that."

Sanford thought for a moment. "Do you think your kids feel that way?"

"God, I hope not. I don't know why they would."

EmmaJean cared deeply about her kids and she left no doubt in their minds about that. She had trained them, like the pet dog they didn't have,‎ to come running when she got home. She'd smother them with kisses: "Oh, honey, it's so good to see you, I love you so much." Laying it on thick, Dan thought, but kept it to himself.

Knowing no other way, her children had gone along with EmmaJean's overzealous ways of showing her love. Until one day her twelve-year-old, Melissa, did not come running. EmmaJean called out for her. Finally, she came trooping down the stairs: "I was doing my homework," she explained. That sounded plausible. But when EmmaJean tried to smooch each cheek, Melissa pulled away. "Oh, Mom."

"What is it?" EmmaJean said, puzzled.

"Nothing. Just that it's—I don't know. Talk to Dad, he'll explain." EmmaJean was shocked. Her trust in him was strong but not impervious to doubt.

That evening EmmaJean went upstairs to read to the kids and tuck them in, Ricky first. To EmmaJean's relief, bedtime with Melissa came off as usual. She found Dan in the living room reading a magazine. He made room for her on the couch but she remained standing. "What's going on?" she demanded.

Dan crossed his arms. "What do you mean, what's going on?"

"Are you and Melissa conspiring against me?" Not knowing about the incident at the front door, Dan leapt to his feet.

"What are you talking about?" His integrity was a cherished possession and he was not about to have it impugned. From the top of the stairs Melissa called down in a quavering voice, "Is everything okay?"

"I'll take care of it," Dan said and ran up upstairs. That only added to EmmaJean's upset. She was the one who attended to the kids' post-goodnight needs. He's up to something. The one person in the world I thought I could trust, and now this. How could he team up with one of the kids against me? How could he betray me? When she heard him coming down the stairs, she jumped up, fire in her eyes.

He raised his hands, saying. "Hold it, will you please? I can explain." Melissa had told him what happened.

"It better be good." At his urging they sat down. "Okay, I'm waiting."

"She thinks you still treat her like a child."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"‎Look, this is no reflection on you," he said, knowing full well it was. "Melissa's growing up, that's all."

"What, I can't kiss her anymore?"

"‎Of course you can. Just cool it a little." Another woman might have dissolved in tears but that was not her way. "Come over here," Dan said affectionately. They hugged and went upstairs to bed. But she couldn't shake the sense she was a bad mother.

The next day at bedtime EmmaJean told Melissa, "Dad and I talked."

"Did you make up?"

"Yes."

Melissa scooted over to make room for her mother. "I get it, Melissa, you're growing up...."

"Yes, Mom, I am. Let's read." Which they did, but it was awkward. To be uncomfortable with her own children was more than she could bear. They were her only refuge. I can't show affection to my own children? Where does that leave me?

At work rumors the company might be acquired were buzzing around like deer flies. EmmaJean assumed the potential acquirer was another company in the space, just bigger. But the reality was different. With the board's approval, the CEO and a small group of executives had struck a deal with a private-equity firm, Sequoia Capital. Sequoia had bought up 40% of the company's publicly traded shares. Along with the rest of senior management, EmmaJean was summoned to a meeting. In the front of the room, there the CEO sat beside a stranger soon introduced as the PE firm's deal partner. He'd serve as chairman of the new entity. She didn't know much about PE firms but her distrust meter oscillated wildly. She began to sweat and was seized by an overpowering urge to run from the room.

Afterwards she was first to meet with Cedric. To settle her nerves, she had popped a Xanax, a whole pill. Cotton balls filled her head. "It's a whole new ball game, EmmaJean," her manager said neutrally, as hard to read as ever.

"What if I don't want to play?" It leapt out of her mouth, startling her as well as him.

"Look," he said, with a twisted smile, "I'm in the same boat."

Ah, he's not one of them. ‎She softened. "These PE firms—I've heard, read horror stories about them," she said scornfully. "They cut costs to the bone. They leave the company in a weakened condition. Bankrupt, often."

"Don't tar them all with the same brush."

"But what about the 'little people,' as the private equity guy called them? I come from a family of so-called little people. Very little."

"That's just an unfortunate expression."

"That may be, but those money people, I don't trust them as far as I can throw them." ‎

She faced the hateful task of breaking the news to her team and flew to Santiago to do it. She had gone there so often that the hotel stored her stuff between trips. Assembled there were the three country heads as well as the CFO and head of HR. She addressed them in Spanish.

"You've seen the announcement. I'm here to tell you what it means for us, to the extent that that's knowable now." She'd done her homework. "Frankly, I feared the worst. ‎But as private equity firms go, this one--evidently, but we'll see--is not among the worst of the bunch. Meaning they won't just cut, cut, cut, to maximize their internal rate of return. They claim they gain if the company gains."

"What does that mean for the rank and file?" asked the country manager of Peru.

"Supposedly, they won't demand wanton across-the-board cuts. But nothing's sacred."

The following week she got a rare call from her mother. She wanted to visit. Nosy bitch, EmmaJean said to herself. She and her mother hadn't seen each other since her father's funeral several years ago. Her mother had accosted her: "What's wrong with you, EmmaJean, you're not crying."‎

The morning her mother was due to arrive was sunny. She actually found herself thinking, Maybe, just maybe, this visit will go well. But the sky had clouded over by the time her mother pulled into the driveway in her subcompact rental. There was no way EmmaJean was going to pick her up at O'Hare. EmmaJean, along with her daughter and son, went out to meet her. When she stepped out of the car, the first thing out of her mouth was, "Oh, EmmaJean, how pretty Melissa has gotten to be. How is that possible? You're not." EmmaJean's sister had been prettier and now her daughter. After a split-second delay—EmmaJean was out of practice—her defenses kicked in and walled off the stabbing pain. EmmaJean turned on her heel and marched double-time up the walk and into the house, leaving her mother's bags in the trunk. Inside, she leaned against the storm door‎, fuming. Why does my mother's crap still get to me?

Still angry,‎ she brought it up with Sanford a few days later. "How far back does that go?"

"What do you think?" she said, ‎chafed at the lack of a sympathetic ear.

He bore her displeasure. "You really did have a hard start in life."

"My father was a lot worse, absolutely," she said.

"‎But you weren't defeated by it. There must have been offsets."

"You're right. My grandparents on my mother's side were a saving grace." EmmaJean was their youngest grandchild and they doted on her. Her grandpa had retired from a skilled job at the local nylon intermediates plant, where he had been a union steward. Starting when she was twelve, he'd let her drive the old pick-up truck by herself on their dirt driveway. On their long walks in the nearby hills he pointed out the local flora and fauna. He taught her how to catch trout in the clear mountain stream, how to hand-make the lures, how to filet what she caught. From her granny she learned to sauté the fish, a delicate art.

"They loved me and they believed in me. I miss them terribly." She could have cried.

By plan, EmmaJean and Sanford went off-site to delve into her leadership. They met at a conference center that was once a private residence modeled after a French chateau. He had recommended offsite, including an overnight. A better chance for deep learning, he had told her. Deep, oh great, she thought.

When she walked into the conference room, he offered her the seat at the end of the antique mahogany table. She demurred but he charmed her into taking it, all wordlessly. "It's like we're marooned here at the corner of this very long boardroom table. But this is a retreat. We're meant to be on an island, an island in time, aren't we? Seat belt fastened?"

"Yup." She was apprehensive but kept it to herself. 

"You're such a capable person. Consistently get good results through people in the right way. The very definition of good leadership." He paused for her to respond.

"That may be, but I know I'm no exemplar. Every single thing I'm good at, I know somebody who, in that category, is better than me."

"Nullifying the value?"

"Pretty much."

"In a sense you're right: your leadership flies off in opposite directions." She wore an I-told-you-so-expression. "That hypothetical woman who pulls in her horns. Remember her? You told me, no, you're not like that. But think again."

"Well," she said, "truth be told, relationships have never been my strong suit. They've always lost out to getting things done and getting ahead. A lot of schmoozing went on our block in North Chicago, barbecues and what not, and"—she curled her lip—"I hardly showed my face." She'd written off relationships, he noted, taken a defeatist attitude toward that side of life.

"But you are in good shape with your team."

"Can't do it by myself. But that's just with people located here. Anyone remote I don't keep up with. Not that I feel good about that." 

"Is there something that warns you off of relationships?"

"Sanford, what am I going to do with you?" But she yielded to his influence. "You want to know the truth? I worry, to this day, whether people like me. A grown woman—can you believe it?!"

‎"I can. Social anxiety, it's as common as weeds."

"Plain language?"

"You're afraid of being rejected."

"Afraid of it—I am a reject." she said mournfully.

"Re-ject—thrown back." He couldn't restrain his literalist self.

"In middle school, the better-off girls had nicer clothes than I did. They wore a different blouse every day. I wore the same one. They'd corner me. 'You're a nobody,' they'd shriek. In eighth grade I got into a screaming match with one of the girls, possibly the most sadistic of the bunch. The assistant principal came along just as it was about to turn violent. Guess what: after that those kids more or less left me alone." Quite the warrior, he said to himself. They refreshed their drinks.

"You say my leadership flies off in the opposite direction?"

"Yes. Is it possible to drive too hard for results?"

"Nope. The more the better. Did I tell you I run marathons?" She hadn't. "Well, race day, if I don't break four hours—better than average for my age—it's a complete let-down," she said.

"Doesn't matter if you miss by a few seconds?"

"Doesn't matter. Disappointment hangs over me for months."

"All or nothing?"

"Definitely," she said.

"Oh, I haven't told you: my manager did the second part of my appraisal. 'You need to be more of an enterprise leader,' he told me. 'You're too focused on your own patch.'"

"Interesting. What's the message, really?"

She squinted. "I'm trying too hard?" With his hand he motioned for more. She squinted again. "I'm over-compensating?" He nodded and smiled. She sighed. "Do you mind if I have dinner by myself? Can that be arranged? Sorry, I know it's rude."

There was ground he planned to cover but he went along. "Under one condition, that you don't work over dinner."

"Deal."

Walking back to her room, she thought, He's growing on me. But her mind was still a great jumble. Unable to sleep, she tried out the shower that sported seventeen shower heads. Sanford had arranged for her to have that room, originally the chateau's master bedroom. ‎

She turned the shower handle, gingerly at first. Nozzles ringed the shower enclosure, some at chest level, some higher, some lower. It's nice, she thought, let's see what it can do. She turned the spray way up, then the heat. Now the water came coursing out, completely surrounding her, and it was getting hotter. The spray turned into needles on her skin, hitting sensitive parts of her body, and the heat was getting to be too much. Typical, she thought, you overshot, and reached for the handles but the shower stall had turned into a steam room, as thick with vapor as heavy fog. Now she was overwhelmed. It was like being overtaken by a higher power and it wasn't benign. Bad associations crowded in, vague at first. She leaned back against the wall but nozzles poked her. Her legs gave way and she slid to a crouch.

In seconds she was convulsed by sobs. It was nothing she'd experienced since childhood, and her usual instinct to clamp down didn't kick in. "Unwanted‎" flashed through her mind, slamming into her like a punch to the solar plexus, and she sobbed all the harder. "Never amount to anything" quickly followed and dealt her another body blow. Then "Not college material" hit her and her whole body jerked. Great waves of feeling bent her over and she convulsed with sobs. The shower stall had gotten so steamed up it was hard to breathe. She slipped to the floor of the shower, sobbing and gasping. As she sat there like a helpless child, the water still pelted her from above. Shielding the top of her head with her hands, she watched the water circle the drain, around and around, swirling and swirling, sluicing down the drain. Drained, she thought.

Finally she took a deep breath, put her hands on the floor of the shower and mustered the strength to hoist herself up through the steamy air. She felt around with her hands and finally found the handles one at a time and turned off the shower. Toweling off, she leaned against the wall to keep her knees from buckling.

Sanford was always interested in who showed up on the second morning. Right away he could tell something was different. Her face was puffy, her voice deeper and more resonant. She seemed much more present, as if her armor, her self-protective gear, was gone.

"Pray tell," he said, sympathy in his voice.

"Last night was so big I almost can't see past it."

"Then don't," he said brightly. He handed her a leather-bound journal. "Here, write it all down."

"But this is yours—you've written on it." He took it back, ripped out the only page he had written on, and handed it to her. "But it's yours," she protested but without conviction. He waved that off. Warmed by his gesture she bent to the task. A few minutes later she looked up. "Rather than read this, I'll just tell you." She took a deep breath. "I don't know what hit me. That room you put me in, all those shower heads, water spurting at me from all directions, the heat, the fogged-up stall. I started sobbing and couldn't stop. What really got to me: memories, bad ones. They bent me over, shaking me like a spastic. Somehow it was satisfying, though, like a bottle of champagne shaken, shaken and then uncorked. Like being purged."

"Released?"

"Yes, I've been released—from bondage. From bondage. Freed up from my single-minded campaign to...." He waited. "...to prove my worth."

"You see, I was an unwanted child. I overheard my mother say it, that I was a 'mistake.' It fit. I'm ten years younger than my middle sister."‎ Her eyes glistened. "That's not all. My father put me down and his harsh words still ring in my ears. 'You'll never amount to anything‎.' He flung it in my face like a stinking rag." Now she was angry. "I can remember walking back to my room on the unpainted plywood floor muttering, 'You bastard, I'll show you.'

"Let's go back to where we started, can we? Who are you?"

For the first time she understood the question. "I'm not nothing. I'm not, I'm not!"

Sanford squeezed her hand. "You've fought really hard for that, haven't you?

"I have! I've been on a crusade."

"To negate the negation?"

"Exactly!" she said. In her mind she had pronounced herself guilty any time she fell short, guilty as charged by her father—of worthlessness. Despite her soaring career and the considerable talents and abundant energy that drove it, self-doubt hung around like a summer heat wave in a big city, moist, heavy, and foul.

"Another thing I'm not: I'm not that little girl anymore, that poor cursed suffering little girl. The curse is lifting.

"Who am I? I'm a devoted mother, a doting mother. Uh, maybe a bit too doting—whatever that's about. I'm a loyal wife whose love for her husband has been stopped up. Because…." He waited. "Because…there was something wrong with me and I didn't want him to see it." Tears rolled down her cheeks. Ashamed, he thought but it didn't need saying.

"No excuses but my father had a hard life. I'd like to think he had it on the tip of his tongue to say, "I didn't mean it, EmmaJean; don't take those hurtful words to heart.'" Now her eyes had gotten wet again.

Sanford recalled how reluctant she had been at the start. He'd had the passing thought—wishful thinking, he felt at the time—that if she could possibly come to trust him, it might carry over.