Yesterday's Years

November 4, 2017 The photograph on the desk had been there since Jordon M. Lancaster moved into the office. He’d been working at Scarlett Publishing for about five years, starting out as a simple editorial assistant, but it was only ten months ago that he’d made the jump from copy editor to commissioning editor. The upgrade in accommodation gave him a previously unavailable opportunity to add a few personal touches to his workspace, the most important of which was this photograph. Measuring 12 centimeters in height and 8 centimeters in width, and framed in silver metal worked into an intricate lattice border, the photograph itself was a simple snap of an attractive, distinguished-looking, middle-aged lady. Dark brown hair fell in soft curls about her chin, and merry blue eyes shone with a youthful light. Her smile was wide and gentle, communicating both a motherly kindness and a wisdom that comes only with maturity. The lady’s name was Joanne Lancaster, Jordon M. Lancaster’s own mother — and her portrait had earned its place of honor on his desk in the most heartbreaking way imaginable. The photograph was a painful reminder of the mother he’d lost; every time he looked at it, it made his heart ache. Even after over a year, Jordon still could not think of Joanne without sorrow — and if his gaze happened to fall on her portrait while he was working, it always took him several seconds to compose himself enough to continue. Given the effect the photograph had on him, Jordon would have been wise to remove it from his office, but instead, he stubbornly held on to it, refusing to even reposition the frame so he wouldn’t glimpse it so often. Jordon told himself he deserved every twinge of grief and every stab of guilt it gave him. After all, what kind of son could not even make time for his sick mother? * May 17, 2016 “Do you have to go?” Jordon’s eyes softened as his mother’s fragile hand wrapped around his own, but his expression remained resolute. “I’m sorry, Mom, I’m working on a tight deadline. Scarlett wants the manuscript perfect by Monday.” “It’s just proofreading, isn’t it? Doesn’t Scarlett have lots of copy editors?” “They do, but I’m the best.” Jordon gently slipped his hand out of Joanne’s grasp and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be back to see you tonight. I promise.” “Don’t work too hard.” Joanne was already falling asleep, the pain meds combining with her own cancer-stricken body to exhaust her. “I like working,” Jordon murmured quietly. His gaze lingered on Joanne for a moment longer before it moved to his father, sitting in the most comfortable chair that the nurses had been able to find. Jonathan Lancaster had been a near constant presence on the oncology floor of John Hopkins Hospital since his wife had been admitted full-time for ovarian cancer. “She seems a bit better.” “You caught her on a good day,” came the response. Jonathan sighed heavily. “Son, I don’t think she has a lot of time left. I know Scarlett keeps you busy editing books, but try to come by a bit more often? She misses you.” “I’ll try. But I really can’t stay now — I still have a lot to read through for the current manuscript.” “I understand. Go on, then — you don’t want to be late.” Jordon nodded, then he turned and walked out of the ward. Four hours later, his brother called to tell him Joanne’s heart had stopped. * November 4, 2017 As a commissioning editor, Jordon’s responsibility differed from when he had been a copy editor. Instead of picking through manuscripts with a fine-toothed comb, he was now the one who decided whether or not the manuscript warranted such picking. Only after he had approved a manuscript for publication did it go to one of Scarlett’s many copy editors for proofreading. Jordon was midway through a particularly intriguing manuscript and starting to seriously entertain the thought of signing the author when his eyes strayed left, and his mother’s joyful face scattered his concentration. Jordon shook his head and turned back to his laptop screen, but although his eyes read the words, his mind wandered. After several minutes of attempting in vain to recall what he’d been thinking about the story, he gave up and switched the tab to check on the publishing schedules of already accepted books instead. A few minutes of plain numbers and simple judgments (on schedule or not, and if not, why) ought to restore his concentration. As it turned out, today was just not a good day for concentration. It was proving spectacularly difficult for the normally disciplined Jordon to keep his thoughts on the right track. In frustration, he closed the lid on his laptop. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to work today. Jordon loved his job — he’d worked hard to reach this level and enjoyed every minute of it — but lately he was starting to wonder if he had been too devoted to his career. The guilt of leaving his mother the day she died still haunted him, and with recent events…well, some of his life choices were not resting easy with him right now. A knock on the door interrupted his brooding. Without waiting for an answer, Wesley Fields, his close friend and Head of Design at Scarlett, let himself into the office. Wesley noted the closed laptop right away, as it was practically unheard of for Jordon not to be working. “Taking a break?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “Can’t concentrate,” Jordon replied shortly. Wesley understood. “Yeah, I don’t think a lot of people can really keep their focus today.” “More than you’d think,” Jordon disagreed, a tad sharply. Wesley pretended not to notice. “Really? Half my department is working slower than usual — which is a problem, because I’ve got about a dozen different deadlines to meet — but I can’t bring myself to push them right now.” “Brett and Kara haven’t looked up from their screens for the past two hours.” Jordon gestured at his fellow commissioning editors visible through the glass walls of his and their offices down the hall. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He sounded annoyed with himself. “Brett and Kara weren’t involved in yesterday’s…fiasco.” Jordon shot his friend a disbelieving look. “A fiasco? Seriously?” Wesley sighed. “Don’t be difficult. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. And you were there when it happened. It’s no wonder you’re distracted.” “It doesn’t make sense,” Jordon muttered. “I didn’t even know her. Why should it distract me?” “You’re kidding, right?” Jordon frowned at him. Wesley sighed again. “Jordon, you watched her die. The rest of us only heard about it after the fact, but you were with her while she was dying.” “I didn’t know her.” “Even so, she was another human being, and you saw her life end. Even you’re not cold enough to stay unaffected by that.” Jordon looked affronted. “I’m not cold.” “I know you’re not,” said Wesley. “You just come across that way because of your single-minded focus on work.” “There’s nothing wrong with being proud of my career,” Jordon retorted. Recognizing the strains of a familiar argument, Wesley quickly changed the subject. “I didn’t come here to nag you, Jordon. I came to talk to you about the funeral.” That gave Jordon pause. “The funeral?” “It’s tomorrow. Six o’clock.” “And you’re telling me because?” “You should go.” “What?” “You should go,” Wesley repeated. “Wes, I didn’t know her from Adam,” Jordon said again. “It wouldn’t be right to attend her funeral.” “Nothing about this is right,” Wesley snapped. “She was only twenty-eight, Jordon — twenty-eight! That’s a full two years younger than you and me — and neither of us would say we’re even half done living. And the way she went just makes it worse.” “Just call it what it was, Wes. She suicided.” Wesley flinched. “It’s times like these that I wonder why we’re friends.” “Wes…” “Sorry.” Wesley held up his hands. “I didn’t mean that.” “Yes, you did.” “Yes, I did,” Wesley admitted. “I do wonder why we’re friends, but for some reason, I like you. I know you’re not as uncaring as you seem to be, but it frustrates me when you can’t see that work is not more important than people. I thought for sure after your mother —” “Wesley.” Jordon’s voice was a low growl, dark and full of warning. Wesley stopped himself, aware that he had gone too far. Jordon’s eyes blazed with some intense emotion that Wesley couldn’t quite decipher, but his angry expression and clenched fists were easy to interpret. “s**t,” the illustrator muttered contritely. “I’m sorry, Jordon. That was a low blow.” Jordon forced himself to calm down. “Out.” Wesley backed out of the office, but he paused at the door, as if debating whether to risk more of Jordon’s wrath by saying one more thing. “Look, man,” he said gently, “just…think about it, okay? I know you didn’t know Rhee, but like it or not, you were the one with her when she died. I think her family would want to talk to you. You’re the only one who can give them some closure.” Jordon wanted to retort, once again, that he hadn’t known the woman, but Wesley was already gone. * November 3, 2017 Jordon sighed in annoyance when his cell phone rang, interrupting his reading of a particularly engrossing manuscript. Reluctantly, he pushed off from his chair and made his way to the coat stand in the corner behind his desk to fish his phone from his jacket pocket. He didn't need to glance the caller ID to know that it was a personal call — although his clients had his cell number, they only ever called his work telephone during his office hours. “Hello.” “Hey, Jordon,” greeted the voice of his younger brother, Jeffrey. “Listen, Dad wants to know…” The rest of his words were drowned out by the static that was notorious in this part of the building, which was the reason Jordon referred all his clients to his office phone. “Jeffrey, I can’t hear you. Hang on a minute.” He set the phone on his desk momentarily while he lifted his coat from the stand and shrugged it on. Picking his phone back up, he exited his office and made his way to the nearby stairwell that led out to the roof. After a quick jog up two flights of stairs, he pushed open the door to the roof and stepped out into the chilly autumn air. “Jeff, are you still there?” “Yep, I’m here. Can you hear me now?” “Yeah, I’ve got better reception here. What were you saying?” “Yeah, so Dad wants to know…” For the second time in as many minutes, Jordon didn't hear what their father wanted to know, because his eyes happened to spy a small, dark-haired figure huddled against the opposite rooftop entrance, facing the park that lay next to Scarlett Publishing. Though the park was especially gorgeous in the fall, with its trees displaying glorious reds, yellows, and oranges, Scarlett employees rarely came out to the roof just to look at the park in the middle of the morning when most of them had work to do. Jordon was therefore highly skeptical that whoever it was had come out for the view. “Jeff, I’m going to have to call you back.” Without waiting for a reply from his brother, Jordon ended the call, but he kept the phone in his hand as he walked towards the figure. As he got closer, Jordon thought that he recognized the person leaning against the wall. “Ms. Pierce?” The young woman weakly lifted her downcast gaze, blinking uncomprehendingly at Jordon, and he saw that it was indeed Rhiannon Pierce. Rhiannon was one of the illustrators who worked under Wesley in the Department of Design, and that was the only reason Jordon remembered she even existed. She had done book covers for some of his clients, but half the time he had to remind himself of her name — she was so timid and unassuming that she tended to fade into the background without even trying. Up here on the roof, however, Jordon saw, perhaps for the first time, Rhiannon’s pinched, pallid face, sagging shoulders, and lackluster hair. He took in the way her clothes hung on a body too thin and the heavy bags under her eyes, visible even under her minimal makeup and plastic-framed half-rimmed glasses. Her expression was one of utter despair; she was the picture of abject misery. An opaque water tumbler rested beside her. “Hello,” she mumbled dully. “Ms. Pierce, what are you doing on the —” Jordon froze as he caught sight of the empty pill bottle rolling in the breeze next to Rhiannon. He stared at her in shock. “Ms. Pierce, did you…” Rhiannon made a movement that was meant to be a shrug, but was more of a slight twitch of her shoulders. “It seemed the right time,” she murmured softly. Jordon gaped blankly at her for several seconds, before the severity of the situation sank in. He hastily lifted his phone to his ear, already dialing 911. “Please don’t,” Rhiannon said softly. “Ms. Pierce, if you think I’m going to allow this to happen, you’re sadly mistaken.” “911, what’s your emergency?” “Hello, yes — someone’s attempting suicide.” Jordon bent down and scooped up the pill bottle to read the label. “She’s swallowed some sleeping pills — I don’t know how many, but you should hurry. Scarlett Publishing, 1112 Willow Street. We’re on the roof.” He stowed his phone back in his pocket and crouched down next to Rhiannon. “The paramedics are on their way. Just…hang on.” Rhiannon closed her eyes. “What’s the point? No one will miss me.” Jordon picked his words carefully. “Ms. Pierce — Rhiannon,” he said, as gently as he could, “I’m sure there will be someone to miss you.” “Name…one.” Rhiannon’s breathing was getting shallower. “Uh…” He floundered. He didn’t know the first thing about this woman; how was he supposed to know who cared about her? “Your parents,” he decided. That was quite safe, right? “Dead.” Shit. “Um…siblings?” “None.” Her voice was barely a whisper; she was slipping away. Panicking, Jordon threw out the first name he could think of. “Wesley! Wesley will miss you.” There was no response. Jordon’s heart dropped to his stomach. “Rhiannon? Rhiannon, wake up.” He nudged her shoulder — gently at first, then harder, and harder, until he was literally shaking her from head to toe. “Rhiannon! Rhiannon!” * November 4, 2017 With effort, Jordon pulled himself from the memory. He flipped his laptop open and aggressively threw himself into the manuscript he’d been reading earlier. It was slow going — he read at half his usual speed because he kept having to backtrack to plot details he’d forgotten from earlier in the story — but through sheer determination, he managed to get through the rest of the novel in three hours. He took a break to rest his eyes, and his gaze, once again, shifted to his mother’s portrait. And because Joanne and now Rhiannon were both people he felt he’d failed, the photograph drew his thoughts once more to yesterday. It was truly ironic that while he hadn’t been present at his own mother’s deathbed, Jordon had stayed with a near-stranger as she slipped away. The paramedics had arrived within minutes of Rhiannon losing consciousness, but by then she had already stopped breathing and they had been unable to resuscitate her. They were confused — sleeping pills didn’t work that fast — until one of them sniffed Rhiannon’s water tumbler and realized that she had been carrying alcohol in it, which had expedited the process. Clearly, she’d known what she was doing, which made Jordon wonder how many times she’d tried this before. He couldn’t understand what could make one wish to take one’s own life, let alone deliberately and purposefully act on the desire to die. He knew a great many people suffered from depression, but he’d never personally known anyone who’d been suicidal. It made him ponder what could have happened to Rhiannon that made her so miserable, and whether anything could have prevented her from downing an entire bottle of sleeping pills with a tumbler full of wine. Hell, if he’d gone up to the roof earlier, maybe he would have been in time to stop her. And although logically he knew he had no way of knowing that this sad little creature on the periphery of his working life was planning her own demise, part of him still felt guilty. Maybe if he weren’t so focused on work to the exclusion of almost everything else, he would have made more effort to get to know his colleagues, Rhiannon included. He might have spoken to her more often, made her feel that she was appreciated — he recalled now many instances when he had only briefly looked at illustrations she must have spent a great deal of time on and delivered curt comments before going right back to whatever he was doing. Had he been less self-absorbed, he might have noticed the telltale signs of her depression, and the warning indicators of an impending suicide attempt. However, it was too late now, and — just like after his mother died — all Jordon could do was regret. Well, actually, no…that was not quite true. Jordon drummed his fingers on his desk, weighing the pros and cons. After several minutes of this internal debate, he finally sighed and reached for his cell phone to dash off a quick text to Wesley. What time is the funeral again? Wesley’s reply was instantaneous; he was obviously looking for distractions. 3pm. You coming? Jordon hesitated only a second longer before typing out his response. Yeah.