Proposal
737 Words
Eli," she said. Her eyes went up to meet mine. They were filled with something that might have been pity. "Did you write this proposal?"
"Yes. I already said that."
"Did Marcus help you?"
"No. Marcus isn't even here. He left. I wrote it."
Patricia opened to the title page. She showed it to the executive next to her. Then to the others. They all looked at it and then at me. A silent communication. A consensus being reached without words.
"Eli," Patricia said, "this proposal has Marcus's name on it. It was submitted to me two weeks ago with Marcus as the lead."
My stomach dropped. Not metaphorically. It felt like a physical sensation. Like something inside me was falling.
"No," I said. "I wrote that. I can show you the emails. I can show you my work. I can show you the process."
"Can you?" Patricia asked. It wasn't hostile. It was curious. Like she was genuinely asking if I could produce evidence.
I pulled out my laptop. My hands were shaking. I could see them shaking and I couldn't make them stop. I opened my email. I searched for "Henderson." There were dozens of emails. All addressed to me. All from me. All about the Henderson account. All with my analysis and my strategy and my recommendations.
But the subject lines were different than I remembered.
"RE: Henderson - Marcus's thoughts" appeared at the top.
"RE: Henderson - assistance required" appeared below that.
I scrolled through them. All of them were asking for input. All of them were responding to Marcus's leadership. All of them had me in a supporting role.
"That doesn't make sense," I said. "I wrote these. These are my thoughts. These are my emails."
"You wrote them in response to Marcus," Patricia said. She wasn't mean about it. She was being kind, which was somehow worse. "You're part of the team supporting Marcus's direction on this account."
"No. I'm the lead."
"No, you're not."
The words hung there. Simple. Definitive. Absolute.
"I am," I said. My voice had become something strange. Not quite hysteria. Not quite desperation. Something in between. "I'm the lead. I documented everything. I kept records. I have it all in a notebook."
The executive to Patricia's left, a woman with grey hair who I'd seen in the hallway but never spoken to, looked at Patricia with an expression that contained everything. Everything about what they thought of me. Everything about the problem I was presenting. Everything about what they'd decided.
"Eli," Patricia said, "I think you should take the rest of the day. Maybe go see someone. Occupational health. They can help. If you're experiencing confusion or stress—"
"I'm not confused," I said. But I was. I absolutely was. I was confused about emails I'd written. I was confused about a proposal with a name on it that I could see but also couldn't. I was confused about my own life.
"I'm going to give you the number for our employee assistance program. They have counselors who specialize in work-related stress. Why don't you take the rest of the day and think about reaching out?"
I closed my laptop. I stood up. Everyone at the table watched me like I might do something unpredictable. Like I might suddenly become dangerous or unstable or completely unhinged. I was none of those things. I was just confused. I was just scared.
"I wrote the proposal," I said one more time. But it sounded like a question now. Like I was asking them to confirm something that I was no longer sure of myself.
Nobody answered. I left the conference room. I walked down the hallway. I could feel their eyes on me even after the door closed. I could feel them having a conversation about me without words.
At my desk, I opened the notebook. The notebook with all my evidence. All my documentation of my existence. My name. My history. My proof that I was real.
I looked at the pages. Looked at the handwriting. Looked at the accumulation of Thursday and Friday and Saturday and Sunday. And something shifted in me.
What if none of it was real?
What if I'd been documenting a fictional version of my life? What if I'd been recording things that never happened, moments that never occurred, conversations that existed only in my head?
How would I even know?
- Writer
