« Why isn’t it? »
She didn’t have an answer.
She said, before she hung up, « He told me you’d signed something.
Before.
He said the divorce was ‘mutual.' »
« I was on a vent*lator, Vivienne. »
« …I know.
I saw the chart.
I read it in the NICU.
I just didn’t want it to be true. »
Day twelve, Odalys — the NICU nurse — stopped me in the corridor outside the nursery.
« Mrs. Kane.
The father’s attorney called the floor this morning.
Asked whether the babies could be ‘released to the paternal grandmother pending the mother’s evaluation.' »
I held the wall.
« What did you say? »
« I said the mother was standing in front of me holding a bottle, and that I’d been doing this nineteen years, and that in nineteen years I’d never once released a baby to a grandmother who hadn’t asked its name. »
« She hasn’t? »
« Nine minutes, Mrs. Kane.
I timed it.
She looked at the monitors.
She didn’t look at the cards on the isolettes. »
Odalys handed me the bottle.
« I wrote that down too.
Everybody on this floor writes things down now.
Dr. Farouk started it. »
Day fourteen, I went home.
Not to the house — Ruth had said, « Don’t go to the house; the house is his name and he’ll use the locks the way he used the fax machine. »
To my father’s.
The one he’d left me, on Halloway Street, that Barrett had called « the little place » and never once spent a night in.
The babies came on day nineteen.
Discharged, three at once, in three car seats that a NICU nurse named Odalys had shown me how to install « the way that doesn’t hurt anybody, » and I put them in my father’s front room, in the crib he’d built for me in 1990, which I’d found in the attic, and I sat on the floor between the three of them and said their names.
« Josephine.
Marchetti.
Isabel Marchetti Kane. »
Three names.
He hadn’t asked.
Ruth came on day twenty-two.
« The special meeting’s on day thirty.
Nine a.m.
The boardroom at Kane Logistics.
Harlan’s been fighting the notice for two weeks, and a judge said, on Friday, the sentence I’m going to have framed. »
« What sentence? »
« ‘Counsel, the clause is on page thirty-one of a document your client signed in the presence of a witness.
The court is not in the business of rescuing a man from the last page.' »
« And Barrett? »
« Barrett’s been trying to sell.
Twelve percent, to a fund, to raise the four million.
He can’t.
Class A blocks it.
He’s spent the last week finding out that his company can’t do anything without asking a woman he told a doctor he’d divorced. »
« Isabel, there’s one more thing.
Day thirty is also Barrett’s engagement party. »
« His what. »
« To Petra.
The ‘is it done’ woman.
His mother’s hosting.
Saturday evening.
Fifty people.
Vivienne booked it the week you were in the ICU. »
I sat with that.
« Same day as the meeting. »
« Nine a.m. and seven p.m.
Your father would’ve called that tidy. »
« Ruth.
I’d like to go to both. »
PART 4
The special meeting took eleven minutes.
Boardroom.
Kane Logistics.
Seven directors, Ruth Adler as trustee with forty-four percent of the Class A vote, Harlan Voight with a face like a man who’d read page thirty-one too late, and Barrett at the head of the table in the suit from the hallway.
And me.
Day thirty postpartum.
In a wheelchair, because Dr. Farouk had said « you can walk, but you’ll walk better on day forty, » and I’d decided to take her advice on everything.
« Article Seven, » Ruth said.
« Triggered on the fourteenth at 4:52 p.m.
The trust exercises its rights.
Motion one: removal of the chief executive. »
« Isabel — » Barrett said.
« You can’t just — »
« Motion two: the trust’s capital call, four million, converts to equity at the current valuation, which takes the trust’s stake from forty-four to sixty-one percent. »
« Harlan, DO something — »
« Mr. Kane, » Harlan said, quietly, « I’d advise you to sit down.
I told you nine years ago to read Joe Marchetti’s paperwork.
You said you weren’t a details guy. »
The vote was not close.
At the door, Barrett stood, and he said the thing.
« You’ll run it into the ground.
You’ve never — »
« Barrett. »
« What. »
« Their names are Josephine, Marchetti, and Isabel.
You’ve had thirty days.
You didn’t ask. »
« I — »
« See you at seven. »
Vivienne Kane’s house had fifty-two guests that evening, a tent, a banner that said BARRETT & PETRA, and — because Vivienne did not do anything small — the same string quartet from my wedding.
I recognized the cellist.
He recognized me.
He stopped playing for a full bar.
I came at seven-fifteen.
Not with the babies.
With Ruth, and Dr. Farouk — who had asked; « I wrote it down, Mrs. Kane; I’d like to be in the room where it’s read » — and a folder.
Vivienne met me at the tent.
« Isabel.
This is not — »
« Vivienne, it’s an engagement party.
Your son’s engaged.
I’d like to say something about that, since he’s said something about me to a doctor, a records clerk, and an HR department. »
Barrett was mid-toast.
Of course he was.
« — and to Petra, who’s been my rock through the hardest month of my — »
« Barrett. »
Fifty-two people turned.
