Boundaries (23 page)

“Your mother. Two years before you were born.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

The frost in her chest has turned to icicles. She empties her mind. She throws out everything—fear, hope—everything except what she is doing at that very moment. She concentrates on filling the kettle with water. She brings it to the stove, she lights the stove, she takes the two mugs to the coffee table.

“And then she had you.” Her father walks back with her to the living room.

They kept the secret of the tumor blooming in her mother’s breast hidden for years. Why shouldn’t they have kept this one? “Four before me?”

“Four in less than two years.”

“In less …” Anna trails off.

“That’s why she loved you so much. You survived. You made it. She says you are a fighter. You’re her fighter daughter.”

Air rushes through Anna’s nostrils. It fills her lungs until her chest hurts and she is forced to release it.
Loved you
so much?

“She almost died with the last one.” Her father is sitting on the armchair facing the couch.

“The last one?”

“Before you. She lost a lot of blood. I had to give her some of mine.” He chuckles, a grim sound that ends with a sigh. “I didn’t want her to try again.”

She is prepared for secrets but not this one. “You didn’t want me?” Her voice is strained.

He does not hear her. “She wanted to try again,” he says. “She wanted you. I couldn’t stop her.”

“But me?” It was
he
who saved her, giving her hugs and kisses when she was a child, telling her she was beautiful even when she was scrawny and unattractive, when her body refused to blossom with the curves that rounded the breasts and hips of her teenage schoolmates. “You didn’t want me?”

He hears her now. “Oh no,” he says. “I wanted you the minute you were born. You were a beautiful baby.”

“And before that?”

“I was afraid she would die.”

Anna has taken three tea bags from the canister, but she puts only one in each of the mugs. She lifts the kettle from the stove and fills the mugs with hot water. She hands one of them to her father. The water in it has turned light brown, not dark, the tea not as strong he would want it.

“How much sugar?” she asks. He wants two teaspoons. She puts one in his mug. “And milk?” He says he has opened a can of evaporated milk. It is in the refrigerator. She takes out the carton of milk she uses with her cereal and pours some into his mug.

Her father sips the tea she has given him. He does not say a word. She knows he has noticed the difference in the taste, but he continues to drink the tea as if it is to his liking. These are the courtesies she has been taught at home: You do not offend the host. The host has gone through a lot of trouble to please you. But she has not gone through a lot of trouble to please her father. She has been spiteful, petty, childish.
He did not want her
.

“Your mother is a good Catholic. She follows the rules.” Her father stirs his tea. He does not like it, but he does not complain. “To the letter,” he adds and looks up at her.

In the Catholic high school she attended on the island, abandoned to the convent by parents who could not feed them, Irish nuns had taught her mother that the doctor must save the unborn child. The mother is God’s instrument, His way of giving human life to the soul. The mother’s life does not count when she is giving birth to the soul. She is merely the vehicle.

“I am a convert.” He has stopped stirring his tea. “I did not grow up in the religion the way your mother did.

I don’t agree with all the rules. Your mother said the pope was infallible. On matters like this, he knew best, she said. But I wanted my wife. I didn’t want her to die.”

“So you didn’t want her to try again?”

“She lived. You lived. That’s all that mattered.” He sips the tea, grimaces, and puts the mug down. “After that, she was careful with you. She wanted you to be strong. Like her.” His eyes soften and he smiles at her. “A mother bird knows she has done her job well when her babies fly out of the nest on their own. We are proud of you, Anna. You have made a life for yourself. You are a fighter.”

SEVENTEEN

A
fighter? She barely raised a murmur of protest when Tanya Foster announced that she would be working for Tim Greene, a man who just days ago was her assistant. Did she fight back? Did she shout out angry words at her?
Where will that leave me?
That was all she said, her voice like a child’s begging for fairness on the playground. But the strong always win. Even the child in the playground knows that. Either he caves in or he learns to fight.

Paula blames her for distancing herself from the Caribbean immigrant community. There is strength in numbers, she tells her. It is easy to kill the lone wolf, harder when he’s with his pack. Perhaps she should have sought ties with the Caribbean immigrant community. She should have become involved in their clubs, in their political organizations. Then she would not have been alone. It would not have been so easy for Tanya Foster to dismiss her, to push her aside. African Americans have their clubs, their political organizations. They come out in numbers to fight for one of their own. But she is not one of their own. Tim Greene is one of their own.

It is too late now to ask for help, to go to the politician in her neighborhood, the one with Caribbean roots. It is too late to say to him: I need your help. I’ve been pushed aside. I’ve been passed over for someone who has less credentials than I have, who has not worked as hard as I have for the company. Equiano profited from my hard work; they made money because of me. But even if it were not too late, even if it were not after the fact, after Tim Greene has been given the position that should have been hers, Anna knows that she still would not seek the help of a politician nor would she use her affiliation with a club or an organization in the community to secure her job. Her father’s repugnance for the slightest whiff of cronyism or nepotism has been drummed into her head.
Earn your way through your
own merit
. That is his unshakeable conviction which he has passed on to her. There is dignity, he says, in achieving success because of your hard work, not because some big shot opened the door for you.

And there is no free lunch. At some point the politician or the person you assumed to be your altruistic benefactor will present a bill. You’ll have to pay. The piper always gets paid. Now or later. Later, you’ll have no choice. The price could determine your very survival.

America is a bowl of salad, Paula has said to her. The ingredients brush against each other, but they are selfcontained, each an individual unit. “To which unit do you belong?” Paula asked her.

When Paula prodded, she answered: “I belong to the human family. It does not matter the human’s shape, size, or color, I am part of his club, his organization. That is the group to which I belong.”

And to this Paula responded: “The family you belong to sees your shape, your size, and your color, and makes the distinction. Whether you want to or not, you are seen as a black woman in America, and when it suits America, you are a black Caribbean woman immigrant.”

Her mother seems to know this. In spite of the praise she heaps on the nurses and doctors who treated her in the hospital in New Jersey, she declares she wants to go home. This time she means back to her island, to her own people, her own doctors in her own country.

They are having breakfast the next morning when she makes this announcement. “Your father and I have decided to leave by the weekend,” she says.

Anna immediately thinks she is the cause. Perhaps she has not made them comfortable enough. Perhaps she should invite Paula to dinner to keep them company. She could come home early and take them to the park. On the weekend they could go to a museum, or to a concert.

“That isn’t it,” her mother says. “We … I want to go home.”

Home
. She says the word with complete assurance. “We belong at home now,” she says.

Belong
, not merely to the human family but to a specific community, a specific place. She longs to be there.
Be
: it is the place where she locates her identity, where she is herself.
Long
: it is where she yearns to be.

Anna tries to convince her that she is not well enough to go home now.

“Your father will be with me,” her mother responds.

Anna reminds her that she will need another round of chemotherapy and radiation.

“I have an oncologist back home. Dr. Ramdoolal will take care of me.”

“I don’t think this is wise,” Anna says. “Don’t you think you should finish your treatment here?”

“That’s not what your mother wants.” Her father puts an end to any possibility of compromise.

Anna calls Paul Bishop. He is not surprised. In fact, he approves. Anna is appalled. Her mother cannot be well enough to travel. Paul Bishop tells her that medicine may be a science but it is also an art. Your mother knows the secret of the art, he explains. He has done all he can. “Your mother knows better than I do how to heal herself,” he says. When Anna protests again, he tells her he will drop by to talk to her mother later in the evening. Then he lowers his voice. “I want to see you, Anna. I miss you.”

The same deathly silence greets Anna when she arrives at work. The buzz of office chatter comes to an abrupt end and the clatter of computer keys echoes off the walls. Everyone is suddenly busy, occupied with some urgent task. Anna opens her office door. Immediately her eyes zoom to the gaping absence on her desk. All the manuscripts are gone, the ones she plans to read that she had placed in a pile next to her phone, the ones on the other side of her desk, in front of her pencil holder, that she has already edited. She spins around. The ones on her shelves are gone too. Those are the manuscripts she has rejected but has yet to send letters to the writers.

Tim Greene!
He is the one who has removed them. She is certain of this. She drops her briefcase on the floor; she does not stop to take off her coat. She bolts through the door and collides with Rita.

“Where is he? I need to speak to him. Now!”

Rita places her hand on Anna’s elbow. “He’s not here. Come.” She leads Anna back into her office and shuts the door. “Cool down. Think about what you want to say before you speak to him.”

Anna paces the floor. “How dare he! How dare he!”

“Sit,” Rita tries to coax her into a chair, but Anna refuses. “He took my manuscripts. Who gave him permission to take my manuscripts?” The words whistle through her clenched teeth.

“He’s the boss now, Anna,” Rita says. “He wanted to read the books on our list.”

“They are on
my
list. I acquired those books. They are mine to edit.”

“But he is responsible.”

Anna stops pacing. “Responsible for what? I am responsible for my books, for making sure they are well written.”

“And Tim is responsible for making sure they sell well,” Rita replies quietly.

Anna walks over to her desk and slumps down on the chair. Slowly, her energy begins to drain down her neck and out of her arms and legs. It is not despair she feels, though it is something akin to despair; it is the futility of arguing. She has already lost the battle. Her vision for the company, for the purpose of publishing stories, is not the same as Tanya’s; it’s not the same as Tim Greene’s. If she is to stay with the company she has to yield to their vision, she has to do as they say.

“Everything will work out fine,” Rita coos. “You’ll see. Tim called this morning. He wants to meet with you.”

“When?”

“At ten.”

“That’s half an hour from now.”

“I am to call you when he arrives. He wants you to come to his office.”

“His office?”

“Tanya’s old office.” Rita rubs Anna’s neck. “Your shoulders are stiff. You’re too tense. Relax, Anna. Don’t worry so much. Tim needs you.”

Tim Greene is gracious. He leaves his desk and comes to the door when she knocks. He is decked out in sartorial splendor—Brooks Brothers pinstriped navy suit, crisp white shirt, and delicately patterned silk blue tie. When he feigned assistant to her, he took off his jacket. He keeps it on now. He is the boss and his manner of dress declares his status, but like the rich and powerful he adopts an air of informality when he greets her, knowing full well that she is aware of his position and his power over her, over everyone in the company. “How good to see you, Anna.” He holds out his hand.

Anna.
She is Anna now, not boss, not Ms. Sinclair. “Good to see you too, Tim.”

He shakes her hand vigorously. “Come, sit with me.” He gestures to an armchair next to a couch. The office looks different. It is not the same as when Tanya Foster occupied it. “I made some changes, as you can tell,” he says, following her widening eyes.

He has kept the large mahogany desk and Tanya’s Herman Miller Aeron desk chair. If Anna had the slightest doubt, the chair is proof enough that he and Tanya are friends, and probably because they are friends he was hired by the company. Tanya had had the chair adjusted to the right angles to suit her height, the curve of her back, and the length of her thighs and arms. She boasted she could sit in that chair for hours and not feel the slightest cramp in her muscles.

“I had a hard time persuading Tanya to give it to me.” Tim Greene taps the back of the chair.

“I didn’t think she would part with it.”

“She had it adjusted for me.”

It is a fashionable desk chair, a favorite of fashionable heads of companies, and Tim Greene is a fashionable man. Instead of the round conference table with four chairs where Tanya held meetings with her immediate staff, he has created the sort of sitting-room atmosphere one would find in an exclusive men’s club in Manhattan. The couch and two armchairs are covered in dark brown leather and studded to the polished wood frames with round shiny brass nails. The chairs and couch are arranged tastefully around a mahogany coffee table placed on top of what looks like an antique Oriental rug. “Persian,” Tim Greene says when he catches Anna admiring it. “Got it at an estate auction in Long Island.”