Page 1 of Love In Translation
One
Four months had passed since her hot-mic incident went viral—the start of her downward spiral—but to Rheo Whitlock, it felt like yesterday.
It was obvious her boss didn’t feel the same way.
Nicole’s on-screen gaze was unflinching. Her boss was running short on sympathy. “You do realize you’ve been on medical leave for sixteen weeks now?” Nicole demanded.
Rheo’s face flamed and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from apologizing. Oh, she knew exactly how long she’d been stuck in this level of hell. She vividly remembered the day Nicole and the work-appointed psychologist suggested she take some time to get, in layman’s terms, her shit together.
Admittedly, gathering said shit was taking longer than anticipated. Getting through the day was still a challenge—concentrating enough to finish any type of project was impossible, and emptiness accompanied her everywhere. Work-related burnout wasn’t fun.
“When do you think you might be ready to return to work?”
And there it was, the question Rheo had been dreading since she got the email asking her to attend an online meeting with her manager earlier this morning. Next week? Next month? Six months?Never?Rheo didn’t know, and couldn’t guess, when she’d be mentally, and emotionally, ready to go back. And the only way to test whether she could handle a high-pressure situation requiring nerves of steel was to jump back into the job. She would either do what she’d once done best—real-time, on-the-spot interpreting—or she’d freeze. If she blanked, she’d embarrass herself, Nicole, her colleagues in the Spanish section, and her employer, the United Nations Interpretation Service.Again.
Oh, and there was also the chance of her causing an international incident. Hopefully, she’d stop short of starting World War III.
After the hot-mic incident, she would always be known as the interpreter who screwed up. During one of the most important General Assembly climate change debates in decades, she’d castigated political leaders for their inaction, thinking her mic was off.
The viral video triggered her steep fall from grace. Since just the thought of interpreting for high-level politicians or trade ministers again made her heart race and her throat close, Rheo suspected she wasn’t anywhere near ready to go back. “Nicole, I’ll get back to you with a date as soon as I can.” It wasn’t the answer her boss wanted, but it was all she could give.
As soon as Nicole’s face faded from her screen, Rheo leaned back in her chair and placed her bare feet on the corner of the desk, flayed and fried. Rolling her head to release the knots in her neck, she tipped her head and inspected the ceiling. An enormous spiderweb flowed from the top of the overlarge oil seascape to the corner of the molded ceiling.
She should do some cleaning, but she didn’t have the energy.
Rheo wiggled and popped open the button of the denim shorts digging into her stomach. Maybe she should start cutting back on cheese. And wine. And chocolate. She’d picked up a few pounds and wasn’t sure she’d fit into any of the sleek suits and pencil skirts she wore for work...
Ifshe went back to work.
She so wanted to return, but she wasn’t ready. Had she lost the skills she possessed before she, as her ex liked to say, screwed the pooch? Which she’d done extremely well, because Rheo never half-assed anything.
A planner and a perfectionist, she treated her life as a project to be micromanaged. Unlike her messy, frequently chaotic, and disorganized childhood, her adult life ran with the extreme efficiency of a Swiss clock. She had goals, objectives, deliverables, risks, and countermeasures and hit all her milestones with startling accuracy. Unfortunately, she’d also sabotaged her career with equal proficiency in the aftermath of the hot-mic incident.
In the days following that humiliation, her colleagues picked up errors in her translations,twice. Another colleague caught her sobbing in the ladies’ bathroom and gleefully told her coworkers she’d lost her edge—an accurate but, God, so humiliating observation. Then, as her faux pas hit the news and social media, garnering millions—freakin’ millions!—of views, her brain short-circuited and her words disappeared while she translated for the Spanish finance minister during a high-level trade delegation.
All her words—she was fluent in Spanish, German, Italian, and French, and could converse in Portuguese and Romanian—wentpoof. One moment she could translate and speak what she’d heard while listening to the sentences that followed, and the next she couldn’t ask for directions in any of the many languages she could speak.
Her phone beeped with a message, and Rheo pounced on it, hoping for a distraction. She wrinkled her nose when she saw Nicole’s name on her grubby screen.
I’m being pressured by the higher-ups about finding a permanent replacement for you, Rheo. I’ve insisted on allowing you time to recover, but the max is six months. If you don’t return to work in two months, you will be replaced.
Nicole didn’t understand the concept of pussyfooting around.
Don’t make me look for a replacement, Whitlock.
Rheo flipped her phone over, then over again. This wasn’t the life she’d planned. Gilmartin, Washington—the town of outdoor adventures—wasn’t where she should be living for any length of time.
Paddy, her grandmother, didn’t know she was here, squatting in her vacation home without her permission. Neither did the rest of her family, for that matter. Her van-life-loving, adventurous parents, and her extended family all thought she was still happily ensconced at the UN. And because she was stingy with personal information, they believed she and Callum, the boyfriend none of them had met, were still together.
They had no idea the life she’d planned was a soggy mess.
Sitting here in this town she loathed, she felt six again, confused, disoriented, and alone.
Needing a distraction, Rheo moved across the room and sat on the built-in seat of the bay window, stretching her long legs. The road ended four houses down, and at the T-junction, one of the many extensive forests surrounding Gilmartin started. Through the thick tree trunks, she caught glimpses of the always impressive Columbia River glinting in the summer sun. Like so many other towns situated on the river, Gilmartin possessed old-time charm and was often described in travel brochures as quaint and quirky.
Nature lovers raved about this part of the country and gushed over the snow-capped mountains, the emerald-green lush and thick forests, fast-flowing rivers, and sparkling blue lakes. Just the kind of place that the rest of her family couldn’t get enough of. But Rheo’s heart ached for the sliver of Prospect Park she could see from her bedroom window and for her tiny windowless cubicle in the UN Plaza building.
Unless you experienced it for yourself, no one understood the adrenaline of stepping into a UN interpretation booth. The booths overlooked the impressive rotunda of the General Assembly Hall. She was always conscious of the importance of the events playing out in the impressive room and in the smaller meeting rooms scattered throughout the building. Within those walls, she and her colleagues had to quickly and accurately translate decisions, discourse and opinions.