To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Seven: Paranoia and Phone Calls

"Gioconda" (Mona Lisa) by Leonardo da Vinci, (c. 1503-1506), stolen 1911, recovered 1914 - value $850 million

Chapter Seven

Do others ever look back at the decisions they've made, at least the ones they can remember making, and think about the ones made without realizing?

Some moments offered clear-cut opportunities for decisions; easily identifiable as a choice needing to be made and therefore requiring conscious effort. Choice A versus choice B. A blueberry scone versus a cinnamon roll. Going left versus right. Staying for another drink versus going home.

But some moments offered decisions in the dark, so subtle it wasn't until they were looked for in the past they could be dug up. They weren't recognized as decisions until after. Maybe they couldn't be remembered at all, no matter how hard one searched. Regardless, their impacts remained as far-reaching and permanent as the ones that were. The decision was made; there was just no way to know at the time.

Those delicate moments when decisions were made without realizing were often the moments the most change was begun.

Perhaps it was just the butterfly effect, forever cascading and monumental, yet as fragile as the wings of a fluttering flower. Yet, for some reason, I never thought so. It'd always felt different to me, an entirely separate phenomenon. I could never explain why.

What do I call the fall of a butterfly I never knew existed?

If a butterfly lost its wings, and no one was around to see, did it ever have them at all?

I liked to think I didn't have many of those moments, that I always knew when I was making a decision. Other times, I realized I made more decisions than I could ever know in the course of a day, and found myself somewhere unexpected, wondering what had possibly led me to where I was.

Which, at that moment, was in front of a flustered photography assistant. He, like myself, was probably wondering why on earth he was spending an otherwise splendid Wednesday morning this way.

"Ma'am, Mr. Leehaven only wants to speak to Mrs. Whitehill. He won't speak to anyone else."

He must not know Geraldine if he's calling her 'Mrs. Whitehill'.

The poor guy was a little younger than me, probably closer to Carrie's age, and looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was clearly at the beautiful stage of internship or entry level assistance where nerves could cause profuse sweating, if only one's body contained any water. Interns were almost entirely coffee and stress; they were more likely to cough up caffeine than practice a form of self-care like hydration. In cases like that, instead of profuse sweating, splotchy complexions and padded purple circles under tired eyes decorated their appearance. Dave looked to be walking the fine line between all of it.

By these hints, I surmised he must be on the newer side of Jon's team.

It was based on the crazed look in his eyes that hovered between exhaustion and feral desperation, a look unique to workplace pressure. I both pitied and applauded the man. I hadn't quite experienced the same before, but I'd been an intern once. The difference was I'd always had a safety net I tried very hard to ignore, and it'd saved me from nervous breakdowns of the caliber the intern threatened. I'd been an intern, but I hadn't suffered as one.

"I hear you, Dave, but Geraldine isn't available. Look, I've known Jon since he could hardly afford a polaroid. Get him on the phone and tell him Ellie Vackyer can talk to him instead. He knows me."

I was trying very hard to remain patient. Dave didn't deserve my irritation, and was clearly driven by anxiety and ambition, but I was tired of repeating myself. I didn't see the issue. None of the Whitehills were available, but if Jon was that desperate to speak to someone, I could at least try to temporarily smooth things over.