Page 6 of Salty, Spiced, and a Little Bit Nice

“You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your career.” I pointed at Stewart. “I’ll make sure HR and the Department of Labor hear about this. You won’t be able to get a job anywhere in the financial services industry. I hope she paid you enough to last you the rest of your life, because you’re going to need it.”

With that last parting shot, I turned around and stormed out of his office.

An hour later, I arrived at the headquarters of Pang Food Industries. Iloathedcoming to this place, and in the twenty-five years since my parents started the business, I could count the number of times I’d been here on one hand. The first time was when I was seven, when I’d been too sick with a cold to go to school. Twenty-one years later, the memory was still fresh in my mind, as if it had only happened yesterday. They’d ushered me into an empty meeting room with my stuffed penguin, two Famous Five books, a bottle of water, and some rice crackers. The cleaners had found me wandering around after hours, because my parents had been too busy and had forgotten they’d stashed me there.

Then everything changed when I was nine.

My unexpected type 1 diabetes diagnosis completely redefined my life. My mom had been annoyed with me because I’d been waking up multiple times in the middle of the night feeling thirsty and running to the toilet almost every hour because I’d been drinking so much water. I started to lose a lot of weight and was constantly exhausted and irritable, which she’d blamed on my lack of sleep. That went on for a few weeks, until one afternoon after school, when I’d vomited violently while I was at Naomi’s house.

Naomi’s mother, unable to reach my parents, had rushed me to the ED, where the nurses and doctors took (what had felt like) gallons of blood samples. By the time my parents arrived two hours later, the doctors had returned, wearing very serious looks on their faces, and told me that I had type 1 diabetes. My mother had argued with them, disputing the results and demanding another round of blood tests, while Naomi’s mother had given me a bone-crushing hug (everyone in their family was a tight hugger), whispering that everything would be okay. But I had no idea what it meant. Or how life would never be the same.

Because it had gone on undetected for a while, my blood sugar was off-the-charts high. The doctors told me that I was in diabetic ketoacidosis, which meant that my body didn’t have enough insulin to process the blood sugar into energy, and started to break down fat instead, releasing acidic chemicals called ketones. If I hadn’t been diagnosed and treated when I was, it could have been fatal. I had to spend a week in the hospital, hooked up with IV fluids and insulin to bring my glucose levels down, while learning new terms like “hypoglycemia,” “basal insulin,” and “bolusing.”

The doctors had also said that the diagnosis shouldn’t limit me from doing anything and everything I wanted, that I just had to learn to include my diabetes in my life. Still, it took me a few weeks to adjust, to come to terms with the fact that I couldn’t just open the kitchen pantry and graze on whatever snacks I’d like throughout the day without giving it much thought; or that I’d have to count the amount of carbohydrates and give myself insulin for everything I ate. That I had to always remember to carry a small bag full of glucose tablets, jelly beans, and juice boxes, so I’d always have some sugar ready for whenever my glucose level was low.

My parents had blamed the foods I ate, ignoring the doctors’ repeated explanations that type 1 diabetes was an autoimmunedisease. After that, everything began to revolve around my glucose levels, and every single decision was made based on that. If my level was high, give myself more insulin. Lay off the carbs. Go for a run. If I was low, bring out the emergency apple juice stash from the back of the pantry. I once drank three juice boxes and ate two fun-size packs of Skittles in one sitting after a particularly grueling swimming session, just to bring my levels up. Everything was a balancing act, making sure that I was always within the acceptable range.

It had also transformed my busy, inattentive parents into their current state of workaholic, overprotective, and super-controlling parents. The first thing they’d ask about when they got home at night was my glucose levels. If my mom could somehow take time away from work, she’d stay and hover at the occasional birthday parties I was allowed to go to, to make sure I didn’t eat more than my allotted tiny piece of cake. For the first few years, I relished the newfound attention, secretly thrilled that I was as precious as Eric the Golden Child. Then the overprotectiveness slowly mutated into oppressive and manipulative territory, and now, I’d give anything for them to regress to their old inattentive selves.

Soft instrumental music was playing as I pushed the heavy frosted-glass door and marched into the office, my face grim and my strides determined.

“Ellie! I haven’t seen you in ages.” Mimi, the longtime receptionist, beamed at me, then faltered when she saw me glowering. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to speak to my mother. Where is she?”

“She’s in a meeting,” Mimi said, puzzled. “Would you like to wait?”

“No.” I pushed the transparent glass door leading to the internal offices, ignoring her panicked shouts, and made a beeline towardmy mother’s office. The door was open, so I headed straight for her desk, convinced that I’d find evidence of her bribing Stewart there. Opening her laptop, I entered the password—Eric’s birthday—and did a scan through her emails, files, and folders. Nothing came up, not even when I did a search for Stewart’s name.

I released a frustrated groan. She was 100 percent behind this. Without a doubt. The question was, how could I prove it?

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and my mother appeared at the door. “Ellie? Mimi called the boardroom and said—” She stopped mid-sentence, frowning at me. “Why are you on my computer?”

“Got fired today, Mom. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

The frown turned deeper. “Don’t be absurd. Of course I haven’t.”

“Let’s not pretend you don’t know what I mean,” I said, saccharine ire dripping from my tone. “We both know you’re smarter than that.”

“You’re not making any sense. Have you been getting enough sleep? Maybe you’ve been overworking yourself.”

I wasn’t even going to dignify that with a reply. If there was an Olympic sport for scheming and shaming, she’d be the all-time gold medal record holder.

Another set of footsteps approached, and Eric appeared behind her. “Ellie?” His eyes went back and forth between our mother and me. “Why are you here? What’s going on?”

“I got fired this morning. The official line was ‘company restructuring.’” I made air quotes with my fingers. “Imagine my surprise when my boss mentioned the brewery, something no one outside of this family knows about. Is this your way of making me accept your job offer, Eric? Because it’s not very subtle.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Then it’s her. She paid him to fire me.”

Eric sighed, shaking his head at her. “Not again. Tell me you didn’t.”

I jerked my head up. “What do you mean,not again?”

She shrugged, her face the perfect picture of childlike innocence, while Eric tilted his head, clearly conveying,come on.

“Fine, I paid off your boss, who was more than happy to take the money.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I got you hired at that place, so I certainly can get you fired.”

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