Anita was right. Everyone in the Legal Department would take it upon themselves to try to test the new boss. Just a week ago, they were making small talk with me in the breakroom or stopping by my office to show me a picture of their kid kicking a soccer goal. Now, I was the enemy, the sellout.
I followed the runner down in the park as he cleared the slides, then the swings, before heading toward the pond. A cold day for a run, but the guy was making headway through the park. A steady, competent runner. Probably a marathoner. I suddenly felt like a fraud in this office, little shards of doubt cutting away at my confidence. How could I be expected to handle the morass of legal matters for a corporation like Houghton? Quarterly board meetings? Supervising a group of people, some of them almost half my age and the majority of whom I didn’t even like? My next thought, Maybe I shouldn’t be in this office. But I told myself it’s just the grating and incessant voice of impostor syndrome. I have every right to be in this office.
“Pretty nice view, huh?” Anita said.
I’d nearly forgotten she was in the room with me. I finally swiveled back around in my chair and gave her a lukewarm smile. “Yeah, pretty nice if you like breathtaking vistas,” I muttered with about as much enthusiasm as a teenager on test day.
Anita fancied herself the “Mama Bear” of the Legal Department. She walked around to the side of my desk and peered down at me like a disciplining parent. “Okay, spill it. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, really.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” Anita said, glancing down at her blouse to check on the button situation.
I leaned in toward a bright bouquet of yellow roses, blue hydrangeas, and lavender sitting on my desk. I closed my eyes for a second and inhaled the pleasant floral scent. “By the way, thanks for the flowers. Very nice, but you don’t have to buy flowers for my office.”
“Oh, it’s no big deal . . . it’s just a six-dollar garden medley from Kroger’s. Besides, this office needs a personal touch. Something to show that a real live person works in here.”
“You’re full of jokes today.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“No,” I replied as I fished through my desk drawer for an ink pen. People asking me personal questions was always off-limits, especially in the office.
“Why don’t you have anything personal in your office? A picture? A plaque? Something.”
“So you’re asking anyway?” In all the years I’d worked in office settings, Anita was the first person to bring this up.
“I mean, this office is beautiful, but there’s nothing in here that tells anyone you work in here. Even when we were downstairs in Legal. Nothing. I know you’re not married or anything. But what about a vacation picture with your girlfriends? A picture of your dog or pet hamster?” she asked.
I rummaged through my pencil tray for a few seconds more, trying to think of something clever to say. It had never been my intention to create an emotionally sterile office environment. I guess it just came along with who I was—Martha Littlejohn’s daughter. I had learned a long time ago to compartmentalize the different areas of my life—family, work, friendships—into various little boxes, standing side by side but never touching one another. It made it so much easier to grapple with all the pain and memories. It was my version of therapy without the two-hundred-fifty-dollar-per-hour price tag.
I grabbed a blue ink pen and clicked it a few times to make sure it worked, closed the drawer, then looked squarely at Anita. “To answer your question, this is an office, not my living room mantel. I don’t line the walls of my kitchen with legal memos, and likewise, I don’t particularly care to fill my office with mementos of my personal life. Work is work and home is home. Any other questions?”
“No, ma’am.” Anita raised her eyebrows and gave a fragile smile. “That should do it.”
Maybe I came off like a first-class bitch, but at least I had put the subject to bed permanently. A ping of guilt hit me. Anita was one of the few decent people around here. Nosy or not, she meant well, unlike some of the others in the Legal Department who were either clawing to get ahead or backstabbing and conniving to keep others from getting ahead.
“Well, anyway, I just hope we aren’t going back to the eighteenth floor anytime soon,” Anita said. “I love it up here. The chair at my desk feels like it was custom-made for my butt. And have you seen how the breakroom is stocked? I never have to buy another Diet Coke or Snickers again in my life.”