Chapter 46
46
Wednesday 5 October
8:00 a.m.
I will tell no one about what happened yesterday. It doesn’t mean anything. And what we almost did, I think? What were we about to do?
8:05 a.m.
OK, I’ll just tell Linda.
8:08 a.m.
Shit, I have a department meeting that’s due to start at 8:30 a.m.! Shit! How could I have forgotten? My priorities are all over the place!
8:45 a.m.
Arrived at the office after a surprisingly smooth MRT ride and ran to Resilience, the conference room where the meeting was being held. Saw through the frosted glass that the room was full and there was no way to slip in unnoticed. Panicked, before realizing my best defense would be to pretend I had an even more important meeting with a client. Ducked into the adjoining conference room (Dedication) and called Linda. She could be my alibi.
“You bunch of nerds. You guys are
so
into each other, just get it on already.”
“No, we aren’t.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, we aren’t.”
Of course, this sophisticated exchange went on for some time,
after which Linda, being completely shag-crazy, started egging me on to “jump Suresh’s bones and taste the rainbow!”
Only Linda can pervert the tagline of Skittles.
But there will be no tasting of any candy. I must be strong. Back when I was sticking to the Life Plan, things were easy. Smooth-going. I didn’t constantly doubt my every move. It was just when I started going off-piste that my life started coming off the rails. All Tiger Moms want and know what’s best for their children. Look at the Kardashians. Everyone knows that Kris is the one conducting the orchestra so to speak, and look how successful they are. They might even be happy!
If I stick to my Life Plan, my life will be the best version of itself. And that is what I want.
10:10 a.m.
Meeting next door is done. Saw my colleagues drift past my room. I stood up and made sure they saw me on the call through the unfrosted bits (I was still chatting with Linda), making threatening sounds and waving my arms. My junior, Xi Lin, flashed me a thumbs-up sign, which I returned. I should have been an actor, clearly.
10:45 a.m.
A DEFCON 2 situation (“last bottle of water while stranded in the Sahara, with what could either be an oasis or a mirage one day’s crawl away, and you have only one arm left, but at least you still have an arm” kind of catastrophe) has developed. Jin Li, Mong’s secretary, called me in a panic.
“It’s bad,” she said, her anxiety mixing with her years of hardened PA professionalism in a disconcerting mash of cheery anguish. “He’s got dengue—again.”
“Aww fuck,” I said, worried. I couldn’t be mad at Mong anymore. “How
is
Mong?”
“You know that getting dengue for the second time can be deadly, right?”
“Yes,” I said, full of contrition.
“Well, he’s stable, but they are monitoring him closely, something about critical platelet counts and needing a transfusion and his rare blood type, but his helper is with him. She’s taking good care of him.” There was a loaded silence between us, before Jin Li said, almost apologetically, “His ex-wife and children are, well, indisposed.”
“Right.”
“But his parents are also with him.”
“But they must be like . . . what, eighty?”
“Older,” she said. “They had him when the mother was close to forty. He was the ninth child.” She coughed and said, “Apparently she’s volunteered to give blood, in case they run low.”
Seems like Mong came from a line of fighters—he would make it through, right?
Right?
Come to think of it, there were no guarantees when it came to Mong. Who knows what other horrible chronic illnesses the man was hiding from us: he was the kind who would be perfectly capable of working through Ebola while ensconced in an isolation ward, just so he wouldn’t infect the rest of the team, even as his brain started leaking through his nostrils . . .
“Can we do anything? Like run a blood donation drive?”
“It’s OK, dear, the blood bank is good for now.”
“Let me know when he’s out of ICU so I can visit him, OK? Just . . . just keep me updated as to how he is,” I said, trying to keep it together. I was this close to bawling: the man was family. He basically taught me almost everything I knew and made me the lawyer I was today. I’d spent more time with this man over the past few years than
any member of my biological family—
and it was the same for him.
If I ever got married, he would have to walk me down the aisle. He had no choice.
I realized that I was crying silently and held the phone at arm’s length so I could blow my nose without giving my feelings away.
“I will,” Jin Li said. “But, ah”—sounding embarrassed—“he told me that the only thing he cares about right now is the VizWare file. So . . . you know: close the deal. Make sure Charleston Jr. and, by extension, Chapel Town, are on board.”
I did. I arranged with Chapel Town to get the return tickets to Omaha, where I would meet the elusive Charleston Wesley Jr., son of the founder of the coinvestor Chapel Town Investments, one of the largest family offices around. I would sign them just so Mong would get better. Even if it meant playing nice with goddamn Langford-Turdy-Bauer.
And maybe, just maybe, I could redeem myself and make partner. I still want that. Right?