I'm Fine and Neither Are You

“But you and the therapist have a plan for dealing with that if it does happen?”

“Is there something you feel like I’m not doing, Penny?” His voice was even, but there was no mistaking the anger flashing in his eyes.

“I’m just worried about Cecily. As you know, I have some experience with this.”

“Right, because your mom left,” he deadpanned.

Although Sanjay and I had often had dinner with Matt and Jenny, our friendship had never really taken flight as a foursome. Which was fine—I didn’t need my best friend’s husband to be my friend, too. But up until that point, I had never actively disliked him.

“I am trying to do right by your daughter.” My voice warbled, and I could feel myself getting shaky—confrontation wasn’t really my thing. In fact, I would have preferred jogging down Fifth Avenue in my underwear to having this conversation.

“And you think that makes one of us,” he said.

“Those are your words, not mine.”

He sighed, looking suddenly deflated. “I’m doing the best I can, Penelope. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“I know you are,” I said. “And so am I. You’re the last person I want to be arguing with right now.”

He gave me a skeptical look. “If this is your idea of an argument . . .” I was about to respond when he glanced over his shoulder again. “Not to change the subject, but there’s something I wanted to ask you.” His tone had softened, and I felt myself relaxing.

“Anything.”

“I’ve been getting a lot of emails from Jenny’s readers. And you know Tiana, Jenny’s assistant?”

I nodded.

“She says people on the internet are saying things. They want to know why Jenny hasn’t been posting. People don’t know she died, but they’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“Right.”

“I was wondering if you could write something—like a final post explaining that she passed, maybe asking for privacy. Something that honors who she was but puts an end to the questions. Since the two of you were so close and you’re a writer, I thought it would be nice if you were the one to do it.”

Was I a writer? It had been so long since I’d thought of myself that way that I was surprised to hear him say it. “Of course, I’d be happy to.” Well, I wouldn’t necessarily be happy to write something completely vague and possibly untrue about Jenny’s death. But if that’s what I had to do to protect Cecily, then that’s what I would do.

“Tiana sent me the log-in info and posting instructions, so after you write it, I can post it. It’s no rush—maybe in the next couple of weeks if you can find the time.”

I looked at him. “I’ll find the time.”

For months, I had been talking to a woman named Nancy Weingarten about donating millions of dollars to support women in medicine at the university. The following Monday it was finally time to seal the deal, which would be the biggest of my career. That was, if I could actually seal it.

As I walked Nancy to the conference room where we were meeting, I found myself thinking about my conversation with Matt. Had he asked me to write something on Jenny’s website only so we’d stop arguing? Given his tendency to hit the road when he and Jenny were fighting, I knew I wasn’t the only one who was conflict averse.

Still, what he had said—that he didn’t know how Cecily was doing because she was at camp all day and he was spending his free time doing paperwork—was like a splinter wedged beneath my skin. I could only seem to ignore it for short bursts of time; sooner or later, it would have to be dealt with.

I sat at the long mahogany table, looked across at Nancy Weingarten, and began the talk I’d prepared.

But as I thanked her for her time and consideration, again my thoughts flitted back to Matt. He could change the subject all he wanted. He could try to avoid me all he wanted. My pushy questions and I were not going anywhere. I may have failed Jenny in myriad ways, but I would do this one thing for her.

“Penelope.” Russ’ voice sliced through my thoughts.

My eyes suddenly refocused. “I’m sorry, Russell, what was that?”

“Penelope,” he said slowly, as if I were new to the English language, “Ms. Weingarten was asking us to confirm that we would use the Weingarten Family Fund verbiage on all materials relating to the scholarship. Can you weigh in?”

“Absolutely,” I said, but my tone didn’t exactly project confidence and competence.

Nancy Weingarten had been among the first women to graduate from the university’s medical school, and had gone on to get her doctorate from Harvard before creating a new therapy for rheumatoid arthritis that had completely changed the way the disease was treated. Much of her life had been an uphill battle, she told me in an earlier meeting, and she suffered no fools.

Now she was across the conference table looking at me like I was insufferable. “Absolutely you can weigh in, or absolutely you’ll use my name on all things related to the scholarship?” she rasped.

“We’ll absolutely use your name on all materials,” I said, sitting up straight in my chair.

“Good.” She narrowed her eyes and lowered her bifocals to examine me. “And how will you promote the scholarship?”

I smiled—I knew this part like the back of my hand. “We plan to announce it via the university’s news channels, and work with local, state, and national media to spread the word.”

I had just opened my mouth to continue when Russ interjected: “We’ll also include it in the materials we send to prospective and current students.”

How had I ever been attracted to this underminer, even for a second? “As well as media outlets that cover health news and research,” I said pointedly.

Russ smiled at Nancy. “As you may have guessed, we put all of this in the case statement for you to noodle over.” He parroted Yolanda so expertly that I almost expected him to squawk. Beside Nancy, Yolanda was nodding with narrowed eyes, pleased.

“Penny,” said Russ, like this wasn’t my presentation. Maybe it wasn’t anymore. “The case statement?”

I opened the folder I had put together that morning and retrieved a glossy, freshly printed brochure I had personalized for Nancy.

Except the document was the generic version we offered to anyone who donated more than five thousand dollars. I had grabbed the wrong document from my desk.

Tears began pooling behind my eyes, and I blinked in panic. In addition to abject humiliation, crying in front of my colleague, supervisor, and the biggest donor of my career was a guarantee I wouldn’t have the opportunity to make the same mistake twice.

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I said to Nancy. “I just realized that’s not the document I prepared specifically for you.”

“But we can get it to you today,” said Russ.

“Thank you, Russell,” said Yolanda, whose fire-starter stare was seconds away from igniting my eyebrows.

Nancy held up her hand. Then she looked at me expectantly. “I don’t need a piece of paper. Ms. Ruiz-Kar, can you tell me about the type of students who will benefit from my scholarship?”

I could, I realized with relief. Better yet, I didn’t need a brochure to do it. “Absolutely,” I said. “Let me tell you about Leticia Alvarez, a first-generation college graduate whose family immigrated to the US from El Salvador when she was just five years old. Leticia, who will begin her first year at the medical school this fall, has been a stellar student her entire life. But she’s not your everyday high achiever. You see, she and her family lived through the 2001 earthquakes that ravaged El Salvador. Leticia’s mother was killed after being crushed by a building, but Leticia’s family says she’s the reason her younger brother, Eduardo, survived.”

I paused and was pleased to see that Nancy had leaned forward to listen. “At just five years old, she managed to pull him out of the rubble and care for him until they were reunited with their father two days later. Leticia says the experience inspired her to pursue medicine. She hopes to practice emergency medicine, ideally working with a relief organization like Doctors Without Borders after her residency.”

“Good,” said Nancy. “Tell me more.”

Yolanda’s email was at the top of my inbox when I returned from walking Nancy Weingarten out of the building.

See me.

I sighed, knowing she would berate me for not batting it out of the park. When I reached her office, the door was open. She waved me in.

“Right. Well, let’s talk that through. We want to ensure best practices . . .” It took me a moment to realize she was on the phone. She continued for another minute while I stood there, then hung up without saying goodbye. Her body remained facing her computer as her head swiveled to me. “What happened back there?” She didn’t give me a chance to answer. “We discussed giving Nancy Weingarten the deep dive! We agreed to engage her on the granular level! That was . . .” Her head pivoted toward her computer, and she began to type. After a minute, she stopped as abruptly as she began and turned back to me. “Dean Willis was counting on this. You’ll have to tell him yourself—I don’t have the bandwidth for it this week.”

“Nancy is ready to finalize the endowment,” I said.

It was true. After everyone had filed out of the conference room, I had attempted to apologize to Nancy about the brochure and my uneven performance.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” she said, waving off my words.

“But I am,” I stammered.

She eyed me from behind her glasses. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Do you have children?”

“Two. A daughter who’s eight and a son who’s six.”

Nancy gave me a wan smile. She was short and lean, with narrowed, knowing eyes that gave her a wizard-like quality. I hadn’t done the math, but I was fairly sure she was already well into her eighties. “I had a feeling you might. I have three myself. I almost lost my mind until they went off to college. It’s hard to work and have children, even if your husband helps. Which, unfortunately, mine did not. But as you know, things were different back then. I was the only woman on our block who had a job.” She patted my arm. “Penelope, dear, can I give you a bit of advice?”