Shatterproof (5 page)

T
he snow has stopped and the sun is edging over the horizon as I pull out of the condo’s garage. I barely slept a wink, with my mind racing in tighter and tighter circles. My brothers would tell me to chill, that everything will work itself out, but I’m simply not wired that way. All I can do is try to keep Baxter from blabbing about the proposal before Reuben makes the partnership offer. If Reuben thinks my priorities have changed, he’ll put me on the “mommy track” long before that’s an issue. It’s unfair—hell, it’s illegal—but it’s the reality of NTA.

I’m an hour ahead of schedule, and the traffic on Bayview Avenue is so light that it shouldn’t be a problem to beat Baxter to Reuben. After Rueben’s regular Monday conference call, I’ll pop in for a chat and subtly mention the birthday party. I’ll let him know that my family pressured Noah into proposing but that we chatted afterwards and decided it isn’t the right time.

Once the partnership paperwork is signed, I’ll figure out how to handle the situation with Noah. Surely if I’m working mostly in Toronto and spending more time with him, he can manage to tune out his ticking clock for awhile. Maybe I’ll invite him to move into the condo. As a gesture. He can rent out his house.

I stop at a red light and the sun hits the windshield in a bright burst. That’s when I see it:  a chip, just to the right of my sightline. It must have happened last night during the storm, when I was crawling behind a snow plow and salt truck. The chip is small, but there’s a tiny crack emanating from it already. I run my finger over the spot from the inside, but the glass is perfectly smooth.

Behind me, someone honks. The light is green.

Taking a deep breath, I press the accelerator. It’s lucky I’m not superstitious. Otherwise, I’d be worried that a chip in the windshield is a sign that my life is cracking around me.

Rational people don’t see signs in chipped windshields.

Rational people do, however, get chips repaired immediately, because cracks can spread and put the entire windshield at risk. The Lexus dealership is only a few minutes from the NTA office on Bay Street. I’ll drop off the car and walk from there.

As I exit onto Richmond Street, I see a sign for Jiffi Auto Glass. Although it’s just after 7 a.m., two cars are pulling into the lot and the small office appears to be full. If it’s that popular, it must be good.

Slowing to a crawl, I read the lettering under the company name: 
Chips and Cracks Disappear like Magic with Wonder Glass™.

A horn honks behind me again and I decide to turn in. I can catch a cab to NTA and still be well ahead of Baxter.

Inside Jiffi’s dingy office, there are five people ahead of me waiting to talk to the petite, silver-haired woman behind the counter. Her nametag reads “Vera.”

“Close the door, hon,” Vera calls. “It’s a cold one. Scrunch up, everyone.”

I pull the door shut behind me and Vera goes back to her murmured conversation with the man at the front of the line. Finally he passes her his keys in exchange for something I can’t make out, and leaves smiling.

The next customer is an attractive woman wearing a dramatic black cape. Her conversation with Vera is just as long and just as hushed. What’s so complicated about saying, “My windshield’s chipped. How much will it cost, and when can I pick it up?”

There are two people still ahead of me when I get close enough to the counter to tap my fingers on it impatiently.

Vera glances over at me with startlingly blue eyes. “Relax, hon,” she says. “It’ll only be a few minutes. Have a coffee.”  She gestures to a carafe at the end of the counter.

I shake my head, resisting the urge to point out the sign on the wall that reads, “Fast, Efficient Service.” Instead, I dig out my Blackberry to keep my hands busy. This kind of delay drives me crazy at any point, but today it’s nearly unbearable.

Half-life
: 

1
:
the time required for
something to fall to half its initial value;

2
:
a period of usefulness or popularity preceding decline or obsolescence.

Nice. Yet it turns out the average life expectancy for women in Canada is 83 years. With a few keystrokes, my brothers could have verified that I have several years to go before reaching the half-way point.

Still, it suddenly feels like every second counts now, and I’m wasting too many of them in Jiffi Auto Glass. At this very moment, Baxter is choosing the perfect tie for betrayal—perhaps adorned with tiny scythes, like the Grim Reaper’s—and twisting it into a full Windsor knot to choke the life out of my career.

When my anxiety spikes into the red zone, I step out of line and head for the door. Now I don’t even have time to drop the car at the dealership.

“Wait,” Vera calls after me. “It’s almost your turn.”

“I’m late for work,” I say.

“But what about your windshield?”

“It’s just a tiny chip.”

“Cracking?” she asks.

“Slightly,” I say. “You can barely see it.”

“Well, you can’t ignore that. We’ve got the best liquid polymer on the market. Seals chips and cracks like new.”

My hand is on the door now. “Well, maybe I’ll stop by on my way home.”

“Don’t leave it too long, hon. The smallest chip can turn into a big ol’ spider web of trouble. The faster we get at it, the better.”

N
TA covers three floors of a high rise on Bay Street. The windows are walled off by offices inhabited by partners and senior project managers. The rest of each floor is filled with a maze of cubicles holding the worker bees.

Normally, I’m in so early that the gentle buzz of the hive hasn’t really begun. But today, many of the junior consultants are already at their desks because they’re getting out early. There’s a launch party tonight in a nearby hotel for the postal service project.

I’ve always found the hum of the hive soothing. It gives me a feeling of belonging, of being part of something bigger than myself. Scott and Jaz call me the “the last of the company girls,” and I suppose that’s not far off the mark. Although I’m not blind to NTA’s shortcomings I’ve never wanted to wander from job to job, as many of my peers have done. Nor do I envy my brothers’ laid-back approach to their careers. Jaz is a software designer who shows up to work at 11 wearing jeans. Scott is in sales, and averages a job change per year. They’re 31, and I keep expecting them to lock into something, but it hasn’t happened yet.

My brothers would never have survived the NTA inculcation. The company deliberately captures people young to mould them. The first year is almost entirely about training, an intensive program designed to suppress individuality and encourage groupthink. The approach is so effective that most people don’t notice the spirit has been sucked out of them until years later, if ever. Staff progress steadily up the ranks, with money and responsibility increasing at a seductive rate. The only perk NTA
doesn’t
offer is generous vacation. Too much time away from the hive, and conditioning fades.

I’ve been told by Reuben and other partners that I’m one of NTA’s best and brightest, and I flatter myself that it’s true. My projects always come in on time and under budget. I’m known for an almost military-like precision in staging implementation and deploying staff. It’s a discipline gained by measuring myself against over a hundred people with similar backgrounds and skills.

Along the way, I’ve developed a shell that didn’t exist when I arrived. In my early years at NTA, I’d occasionally break down in the restroom when things went wrong, but that hasn’t happened in a very long time. In fact, I suspect I’m viewed as tough, even cold. I don’t waste much time worrying about what people think of me—other than my superiors, and even then only to a point. It’s the work that excites and energizes me.

By the time I reach my office, I’ve absorbed enough of the communal energy to call out a cheery hello to Sherri, the administrative assistant I share with Reuben and a few others. Sherri is my closest pal at NTA. She’s smart and thorough, but has no interest at all in growing in the company. As a result, most people see her as part of the furniture. I’ve always valued the support staff, and Sherri regularly goes above and beyond to help me.

Today, she beckons and whispers, “Baxter’s in with Reuben.”

“Already? Why?”

She shrugs. “It wasn’t in the calendar. Reuben came in early and Baxter was already hovering.”

My stomach sinks. “Is the partner meeting still booked?”

“Lunch at Canoe,” she says. Giving my arm a reassuring pat, she adds, “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

But as I slip the key into the lock of my office door, Baxter emerges from Reuben’s office. He’s wearing a jaunty cranberry tie that I can’t help viewing as a red flag, especially given the spring in his step.

“How’s the first day of the second half?” he calls.

It takes me a moment to realize he means the second half of my life. “Feels exactly the same,” I call back. “Did it feel any different for you?”

He smiles, his forehead immovable. “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

I hide out in my office until Baxter is gone. Then I poke my head into Reuben’s doorway and find him with the phone to his ear. Seeing me, he shakes his head and gestures to close the door.

Sighing, I retreat to my desk and switch on my laptop. Work has always had a calming effect on me, and hopefully today will be no exception.

Reuben leans back in his leather desk chair crosses his legs, one ankle firmly planted over the opposite knee. It feels like he’s creating an additional barrier between us, as if the desk weren’t enough. Then he crosses his arms over his belly. Fully barricaded.

This can’t be good.

“How was your weekend?” he asks, looking out the window. It’s 4 p.m. and the sun is low in the sky, but Reuben just got back from lunch. Judging by the extra color flooding his face, they finished the meal with scotch.

“Fine.”  I decide to take a direct shot at the barricades and see if I can blast through. “How was the partners’ lunch?”