Carolina Kahele turns her face to the corner and grabs a tissue from her pocket. A sudden burst of tears seems to have sprung up from nowhere and for no purpose except to smudge her mascara.
What else is new?
She’s in a constant state of emotional flux these days. Her fifty-four-year-old self has gone soft on the inside. Most nights she cries after work. Yesterday, she cried through her morning shower. This afternoon, she cried in the car all the way to the party.
Right now, she might be crying tears of joy, her love for Emma and Portia so overwhelming she can’t hold back. But it’s equally plausible that she’s crying because the sandals she’s wearing pinch her toes.
There’s just no telling.
Her friends have long described her as one part Hawaiian aloha, and one part Portuguese man-of-war. As Fern says, “She’ll give you her last bite of bread if you’re hungry, but step on her tail and she’ll put you in the hospital.” To Carolina, that’s just bluster. She’s intense, yes. Loves her family and friends deeply. Is maybe a bit of a workaholic. Has been told by both her trainer and her doctor she needs to learn how to listen to her body.
She doesn’t abuse people; she runs, exercising until the anger and stress dissipate. Every year, she completes a dozen or more marathons, trains seven days a week, and keeps a physical therapist in her text app. Physiological Prozac, she calls it. Homeopathic Xanax.
And yet, she can’t find a mascara capable of withstanding her recent mood swings.
This soft inner part, she tries not to show anyone except Queenie, her partner of twenty years. He’s six feet of doughy data analyst nerd, and Carolina adores him. Born Theodore, his cut cheekbones and sandy hair make him a dead ringer for Steve McQueen, the ’60s screen star who raced his Ford Mustang up and down the hills of San Francisco in Bullitt. Queenie is all anyone has called him since high school.
“I’m heading to the bar,” he says, hand at the small of her back. “Want another glass of wine?”
She swipes at her eyes and stuffs the tissue away. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay.” Queenie plants a kiss on her forehead. Norah Jones sings “Come Away With Me,” ghostlike among the guests. Carolina smiles.
She is exhausted.
Happy to be here with her friends.
Celebrating Portia. Celebrating love.
Thankful for the big dopey nerd she’d chosen for herself.
But achingly, disconcertingly tired.
The tears threaten again, but she lacks the energy to boost them up and over her lids. They dry where they sit.
When she no longer feels at risk of melting, Carolina makes her way back to their table. Everyone is gone except for Andi, and she’s half-asleep with her face propped on her hand. Carolina quietly pulls out a chair and sits without disturbing her friend. The quiet could do them both good.
A few weeks ago, Carolina’s mother caught her tearing up during a family dinner and has talked nonstop ever since about menopause. “You’re just like me, Carolina, and I never cry. Except for three times in my life—the six months after you and your sister were born, and the five years it took me to get through the change.”
Carolina doesn’t believe her. Mainly because her mom does cry—specifically, every time she asks if she and Queenie are ever going to get married. But also, because Carolina doesn’t have five years to waste being a wet puddle on the floor.
Especially not at work. Carolina is a VP at a Silicon Valley Fortune 100 tech giant. She’s a power performer leading a team of sixty, the biggest team on the corporation’s biggest initiative, MAVERIK. There have been some hiccups. Every project has them. But her business stakeholders love her. They trust Carolina. They sing her praises to the higher-ups. One says he’ll quit if anything ever happens to her.
As if reading Carolina’s mind, Andi opens her eyes and yawns. “So what’s up with you these days? How’s work?”
“Out of control.” It’s her standard answer, and always true. “But no busier than your job.”
“Ugh. Tell me about it.” Andi has a crimson imprint on her cheek where her wedding ring dug into her skin. “How’s the new boss? A woman finally, right?”
Carolina reports directly to the CIO, a woman named Sandra whom the CEO personally wooed away from a competitor six months ago. “Yeah, and I don’t know whether I like working for her or not. I can’t get a read on where I stand.”
Since her arrival, Sandra has already overseen one reorganization and is hinting at another.
“I have a hard time trusting anyone whose motto is ‘do more with less’ but also wears eight-hundred-dollar shoes.” Sandra owns the suede buckle pumps Carolina had tried on at Neiman Marcus but refused to let herself buy. “Far be it from me to criticize another woman’s style, but it’s bad form to call layoffs ‘a necessary cost reduction’ when you’re walking around with a car payment on your feet.”
Andi stifles another yawn. “You worried about your job?”
“I don’t think so. My stakeholders would throw a fit if anything happened to me. But I would like to know if I’ll be expected to achieve the same standards with fewer and fewer resources.”
There’s a morale hangover that follows every layoff. Employees silently debate whether they want to give so much of their energy and time to a company they can’t trust. Productivity slips, sick days rise. Carolina knows this, which is why she did her best to support her team through the last transition, telling them what she knew as soon as she knew it, and treating them with the respect they deserve. She’s only just managed to get her numbers back on track.
No wonder she’s emotional.
Andi says, “I need to find myself some caffeine. You want anything?”
There are so many things Carolina desires. Some work stability. A new attitude. The ability to make like a duck and shake off whatever keeps sending up tears. “No, I’m great, thanks.” She straightens her back and fails to find something witty to say. “Just be back in time for the toasts or Emma will kill us.”