The Hole in the Middle Read Online Free PDF Page A

adorned with a riotous paisley in pink and tangerine. He is tragically single, but I just know there is a perfect man out there for him, someone who loves theater and fine restaurants and will overlook the fact that his hair is thinning as quickly as his middle is thickening.
    â€œNot your best day?” he asks. “Have you even checked your e-mail yet?”
    â€œIs there anything urgent?” I ask.
    â€œProbably not super-urgent,” he says. “Although Erica’s head is going to explode if you don’t sign off on the Family Care Center press release today.”
    â€œNoted,” I say. “Have you seen it?”
    â€œIt’s fine,” he says. “It’s all boilerplate except paragraph six. That’s the only part you have to read.”
    â€œCan you e-mail it to me?”
    With a flourish like a conjurer, he whips a few pieces of paper out from behind his back. “I just happen to have it here,” he says. “Since I had a feeling that you may be a bit behind on your e-mail.” He grins, flips over the first page of the document, and places it in front of me, pointing to the relevant paragraph. “Just read this,” he says. I do what I’m told.
    â€œIt’ll do,” I say. “Tell her to issue it, with my apologies for the delay.”
    â€œDone,” says Geoff. “I’m heading down to grab a coffee. Can I bring something back for you?”
    â€œYou’re an angel,” I say. I don’t have time to run downstairs, and in any event, I need to stay as far away from Nigel as possible. “Hot tea, please. With lemon.”
    Geoff looks concerned. “Are you sick again?” he asks. I shrug and Geoff shakes his head. “Has it occurred to you that your body might be trying to tell you something?” he asks.
    â€œIt can get in line,” I say.

    At ten past one, I’m walking as quickly as I can with the binders in my arms. I’m late, of course; I’m always late these days. I can remember a time before I had children when I was always early; I have a mental picture of myself standing outside the movie theater, waiting for friends, checking my watch every thirty seconds starting at the appointed hour. Back then I thought chronic lateness was a character flaw, evidence of a profound self-absorption. Now I regard it as a mark of efficiency. Imagine how much time you would lose if you were early for everything. I read once that economists say if you travel for business you should miss one out of every three flights; the repeated close shaves save you more time than the occasional missed flight loses you. I like this justification; the alternative theory is that I can’t get my shit together to be on time for anything anymore, but I don’t like that one as much.
    Overall, though, I’m feeling a little more in control of my day now. I’ve spent the last two hours plowing through sixty-three e-mails: thirty-two of the for-your-information variety requiring no comment from me; twelve requiring a quick review and approval; one from the convener of my book club; four reply-all messages from other members of the book club; one from Jamie’s class parent about volunteering for the winter fair; four from my mother; and nine that, to be honest, I haven’t dealt with yet and have re-filed in my inbox. But I’m fifty-four e-mails lighter, and that can only be a good thing. I’ve even found twenty minutes to look at the binders and have managed to affix brightly colored sticky flags on a few random CVs to demonstrate my enthusiasm for the process.
    I push open the door and get my bearings. I recognize a few familiarfaces from the hospital’s medical staff and administration: Carolyn Waldron, the head of oncology; Marvin Shapiro, the director of medical research; Anusha Dhaliwal, the head of the nursing staff; and Patti Sinclair, the patient liaison officer, responsible for running