Page 7 of The Fate Factor

Vi sets her tea down after one sip, folding her hands in her lap. “Noel,” she says. “Are you happy with your work?”

I freeze, the chocolate burning my tongue before I remember to swallow. I can’t tell if she’s asking me if I’m fulfilled by it or happy with it in the sense that maybe it could be better. “If there’s something I could improve on…”

“It’s not your skill,” she says with a short shake of her head, and the pitiful smile that follows smacks me with the realization that,oh, I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office.

“It’s just that lately, I feel there’s a distinct lack of emotion in your designs,” she continues. “They’re a bit matte. No shine. No shimmer. I don’t have to tell you that art is… Well, it’s inherently emotional.”

“Of course.” I nod confidently, but I’m swallowing too much to pull it off.

Vi taps a nail on the side of her mug. “How are you feeling after your grandmother’s death?”

Matte, I think.Unemotional.But I have the good sense not to say that out loud after having just been accused of it in a way that sounded a lot like:You’re losing whatever value you bring me. Instead, I smile and give her a cheery, “I’m doing fine. Everything is fine.”

Her brows draw together, and I get the immediate sense I’ve given the wrong answer. I picture a surgeon studying an X-ray, exclaiming, ‘By God, there’s no heart in this rib cage!’

My stomach drops so fast I’m woozy from it. If Vi can see this little…problemI’m having, well, it’s worse than I thought.

It’s been happening a lot lately, the feeling of looking at a blank page where some emotion should appear. The overwhelming urge to slap my cheeks to see if I’m awake or merely in the midst of a lucid dream. The truth is I made it through Nana’s funeral without shedding a tear, zipping around like a robot, fixing flower arrangements, making tea and mini sandwiches for the guests. Comforting Mom. When it was over, I slept for twelve hours and woke up feeling like it had been twelve years.

Thinking back on it is like catching the low hum of a siren in the distance. A warning of things to come. That’s when Kate started calling more. Watching me with an expression not unlike the one Vi’s wearing now whenever we’d Facetime. Asking me if I was absolutelysureI didn’t need her to come stay with me for a while.

Of course I’d never put her out that way. But also, I wasn’t sure I wanted her close enough to see how off kilter I was. It’s much easier to sugar coat from three hours away.

Now this blankness I’ve been battling is affecting my job.

My mind immediately begins its monthly tally of all the bills Mom left me with when she took off, and a hundred lines of worry start to knot together in my belly.

Vi sets her teacup down and leans back in her chair. It makes an embarrassing squeak, but she’s far too sure of herself to notice. “Ned Majors is leaving,” she says. “He’s moving to New York January one to work forThe Times.”

“Oh. That’s great for him.”Ned’s the only graphic designer on staff at Brickstone and very deserving of a gig like that. We all have a favorite medium, and Ned’s in love with graphics the way I’m in love with paint. The other three designers, including me, are varying degrees of freelance, which means I make my own hours, but I also buy my own health insurance.

Vi cocks her head, studying me. “I want to give you his job, Noel,” she says. “But I’m not entirely sure you want it.”

“I do,” I blurt, but I can hear how it sounds, hollow and reactionary.

Vi’s asking me a question that amounts to: Do you want to be able to pay your mortgage? Feed yourself? Of course I want it.Sound like you want it, Noel.

I force my smile bigger. “I definitely do.”

The span of time before Violet speaks again is the full gestation period for the anxiety forming in my chest.

Finally, she folds her hands on the table and says, “I want you to take some time off.”

“I… what?” Is she offering me a job or firing me? “Whatever is wrong with me, Vi… my designs, I’ll fix it.”

“This is not a punishment, Noel. It’s a gift. To you and the artist I know you are. And an investment in the designer I know you’ll be for me once you work out whatever has you blocked.”

My stomach sinks at that word, the acknowledgment that this is, indeed, a professional problem. An artist who’s blocked is like a pianist with broken fingers. Useless. She’s saying I used to be someone who deserved this promotion. Now I’m not.

My fingers curl into the skirt of my dress. Every one of them has permanent wrinkles in the same spot from this habit. “How long?”

“I won’t be assigning you new work until the end of the year.”

She must notice the way all of my muscles seize because she holds a hand up. “ButI’m asking Marj to process your final payment for all of your current jobs in advance to cover the time. Three months. You’ll come back and tell me if this is what you want.”

“I don’t need a break to figure it out.” But her patient smile tells me she’s made up her mind, and I blow out a resigned sigh. “Okay. Of course. If that’s what you think.”

“I do.” She squeezes my wrist, then stands to leave. “Keep the hands working, Noel. Your heart will catch up.”

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