buffet, filled their bellies with baked goods and cured fish and drank
at least a bottle of champagne on their own. They appeared rested and restored from
their holiday, and I thought this might be the time to say a few words.
“I think I owe you all an apology, especially Mom and Dad. When the company structure
changed, I didn’t fully consider the ramifications of my actions, nor was I sensitive
to my parents’ feelings about the manner in which I handled the transaction. While
I still do not regret my decision to buy out the company shares from my siblings,
I must admit that all of myactions since then have been immature, lacking in leadership, and utterly pointless.
Please accept my apologies. I hope we can restore the office to its previous state
of mutual respect.” 11
“Anyone need a nap?” my dad said, tossing his napkin on his plate and stretching his
arms in a long, leisurely yawn.
“I’m in,” Mom said, not even considering clearing the table. “Thanks, Isabel. That
was an excellent spread.”
After my parents ambled up the stairs, Vivien said, “Maybe the champagne was a mistake.”
Viv carried a stack of dishes into the kitchen; I turned to D, hoping for an explanation,
guidance, anything.
“People forgive at their own pace,” D said.
“Maybe you could take them to church with you sometime and speed it up. I hear forgiveness
is really big in those places.”
“So is humility,” D said.
“Point taken,” I humbly said. Right now D was my only real ally (otherwise known as
not-an-enemy) and I couldn’t afford to lose him.
• • •
In the days that followed, my parents came to work sporadically and rarely did any
actual work. Mom collected office supplies for a decoupage project she’d decided to
embark on; Dad made long-distance calls on the company line; Mom filed her nails (she
apparently kept her nail file in her desk drawer); Dad played marathon games of Plants
vs. Zombies; Mom handled her online shopping. Occasionally one or the other would
answer the phone, always with the same line: “Isabel Spellman Investigations. How
can we help you today?” If the client was an old friend, my parents would lead with
the ugly truth.
“Our daughter participated in a hostile takeover. Yeah. She’s now the boss. You think
you can trust family, but you can’t. What do you need, Bob/Jim/Tony/Sally? Olivia
and I are always here to help. You have our cell numbers, right?”
Since direct communication was fraught with conflict and I had no idea what work my
parents were doing for the clients who were in their purview, I would occasionally
phone their clients, pretend I had misdialed, make small talk, and ask if I needed
to relay any messages to the unit. That’s how I learned that my folks were indeed
handling the bare bones of their casework. That’s also how the unit learned I was
checking up on them, when I accidentally “misdialed” a client twice.
While the memo business got off to a bad start, I had to keep it in operation because
when I spoke to my parents they would often not even register that I was in the room.
Some days it felt like being a ghost. My attempts to draw my parents into conversation
covered a range from banal to sensational.
“Some weather we’re having.”
“Did you see the 49ers game last night?” 12
“Did you read about the triple-murder cannibalism case in the Netherlands? All connected
to bath salts, I hear.”
Sometimes I’d snow them just to see if they were listening.
“Did you hear Princess Banana has measles, mumps, and rubella?”
Mom would promptly call my brother’s house, learn otherwise, engage in a chatty conversation
with D, and then take an early lunch or leave the house and not come back until the
end of the workday.
As far as I was concerned, the worst had passed. My parents were accomplishing some
work after hours. I’d find database research and
at least a bottle of champagne on their own. They appeared rested and restored from
their holiday, and I thought this might be the time to say a few words.
“I think I owe you all an apology, especially Mom and Dad. When the company structure
changed, I didn’t fully consider the ramifications of my actions, nor was I sensitive
to my parents’ feelings about the manner in which I handled the transaction. While
I still do not regret my decision to buy out the company shares from my siblings,
I must admit that all of myactions since then have been immature, lacking in leadership, and utterly pointless.
Please accept my apologies. I hope we can restore the office to its previous state
of mutual respect.” 11
“Anyone need a nap?” my dad said, tossing his napkin on his plate and stretching his
arms in a long, leisurely yawn.
“I’m in,” Mom said, not even considering clearing the table. “Thanks, Isabel. That
was an excellent spread.”
After my parents ambled up the stairs, Vivien said, “Maybe the champagne was a mistake.”
Viv carried a stack of dishes into the kitchen; I turned to D, hoping for an explanation,
guidance, anything.
“People forgive at their own pace,” D said.
“Maybe you could take them to church with you sometime and speed it up. I hear forgiveness
is really big in those places.”
“So is humility,” D said.
“Point taken,” I humbly said. Right now D was my only real ally (otherwise known as
not-an-enemy) and I couldn’t afford to lose him.
• • •
In the days that followed, my parents came to work sporadically and rarely did any
actual work. Mom collected office supplies for a decoupage project she’d decided to
embark on; Dad made long-distance calls on the company line; Mom filed her nails (she
apparently kept her nail file in her desk drawer); Dad played marathon games of Plants
vs. Zombies; Mom handled her online shopping. Occasionally one or the other would
answer the phone, always with the same line: “Isabel Spellman Investigations. How
can we help you today?” If the client was an old friend, my parents would lead with
the ugly truth.
“Our daughter participated in a hostile takeover. Yeah. She’s now the boss. You think
you can trust family, but you can’t. What do you need, Bob/Jim/Tony/Sally? Olivia
and I are always here to help. You have our cell numbers, right?”
Since direct communication was fraught with conflict and I had no idea what work my
parents were doing for the clients who were in their purview, I would occasionally
phone their clients, pretend I had misdialed, make small talk, and ask if I needed
to relay any messages to the unit. That’s how I learned that my folks were indeed
handling the bare bones of their casework. That’s also how the unit learned I was
checking up on them, when I accidentally “misdialed” a client twice.
While the memo business got off to a bad start, I had to keep it in operation because
when I spoke to my parents they would often not even register that I was in the room.
Some days it felt like being a ghost. My attempts to draw my parents into conversation
covered a range from banal to sensational.
“Some weather we’re having.”
“Did you see the 49ers game last night?” 12
“Did you read about the triple-murder cannibalism case in the Netherlands? All connected
to bath salts, I hear.”
Sometimes I’d snow them just to see if they were listening.
“Did you hear Princess Banana has measles, mumps, and rubella?”
Mom would promptly call my brother’s house, learn otherwise, engage in a chatty conversation
with D, and then take an early lunch or leave the house and not come back until the
end of the workday.
As far as I was concerned, the worst had passed. My parents were accomplishing some
work after hours. I’d find database research and
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