Chapter 22 · The Office Donuts (Reprise)

The donuts came in on a Thursday, in May, in a long pink box that had been carried up the studio stairs by a junior illustrator named Jamal, who had, that morning, finished the final spreads of his first solo book and was, in the way of junior illustrators, slightly drunk on the small, unfamiliar joy of having completed something.

"Donuts!" Jamal sang, into the studio, holding the box over his head. "Donuts! Donuts! Donuts for the Rabbit's Notebook!"

The studio cheered. Sam came out of his office. The art director put down her pen. Pavlina, who had been making a third pot of coffee in the kitchen, stuck her head out and said, "¡Mi amor!" though she was Bulgarian and used Spanish only when extremely happy. Jamal set the box on the long oak table. He opened it. The studio leaned in.

There were twelve donuts. There was a glazed. There was a chocolate frosted with rainbow sprinkles. There was an apple cider crumb. There were two Boston creams, side by side, like brothers. There was a maple bar. There was a pink one with a small, ridiculous unicorn drawn on it.

Ellie, at her desk, smelled them from across the room.

Her body — the old body, the body she had been rebuilding for seven months — leaned. There was no other word for it. The animal that had, for years, lived in her chest and tugged her, every morning at ten-thirty, toward the corner shop, leaned. The smell of warm yeast and warm sugar and warm fat hit her, and her shoulders, almost involuntarily, turned toward it.

She did not get up.

She did not, for a long second, do anything. She set her brush down. She put both her palms, flat, on her desk.

She breathed.

I see you, she said, in her head, to the animal. I see you. Be quiet for a minute. Let me think.

The animal did not, immediately, be quiet. The animal said, They are right there. They are right there, Eleanor. Pavlina is going to hand you one. You will hurt Jamal's feelings if you do not eat one. It is one donut. It is one donut. It is one donut. Look at the unicorn.

Be quiet, she said again, and, very gently, thank you for coming. I know you. We have been together a long time. I am not eating a donut today.

The animal — and this, she would think later, was the thing the past seven months had taught her — got quieter.

Pavlina, with the box, was making the rounds. She came to Ellie's desk. Ellie stood up.

"Pav."

"My darling. Sprinkles? The unicorn?"

"Pav — I'm not eating donuts anymore. Not — not today. Not most days. I have a thing I'm doing for my health. You know."

Pavlina blinked at her.

Ellie watched, quickly, for the small, hurt look. It did not come. Pavlina, instead, looked her up and down — a long, slow, evaluating look, the kind a Bulgarian grandmother gives an idea she is, herself, considering — and Pavlina, after a moment, said:

"You look strong."

"Thank you."

"My sister-in-law. Diabetes. She did the same thing. She is sixty-four. She is alive."

"I'm glad."

"Don't apologize, my darling. You are sensible." She turned her shoulders, with the box, and addressed the studio: "Eleanor is sensible!"

The studio laughed. Jamal, in the middle, lifted a Boston cream. Sam took the maple bar. The pink donut with the unicorn went to a junior named Gretel, who, at twenty-four, was the only person in the room who could, at that age, eat a unicorn donut without qualm.

Ellie sat back down. She picked up her brush. Across the room, the studio chatter went on. The animal in her chest, still slightly disappointed but no longer arguing, settled, the way a dog settles in front of a fire.

A coworker, Brennan, who had been at Hartwood & Marin for four years and who was, on his good days, the studio's resident pessimist, drifted past her desk on the way to the coffee.

"Marin."

"Brennan."

"Pav says you're not eating donuts."

"I'm not."

"Are you on, like, one of those —"

"Yes, Brennan."

"Like keto?"

"No."

"Then —"

"Brennan, I have a liver thing. I'm cutting sugar. I'm fasting in the mornings. I'm walking. It's working. Please don't make this a thing."

There was a moment when Brennan considered making it a thing. She watched it happen, on his face. He was a man who liked, when uncomfortable, to make things into things. He looked at her. He did not, today, make it a thing.

"Hey," he said, after a moment. "Marin."

"Yeah."

"You look really good."

"Thanks, Brennan."

"Like — you look — you look like you, but, like —"

"Brennan."

"I'm trying!"

She laughed. Brennan walked off. She did not, for the rest of the afternoon, look at the box.

At ten past three, Pavlina came by her desk again with a small Tupperware.

"My darling," Pavlina said, "I made you a snack."

"Pav —"

"Hush. Almonds. Walnuts. A small piece of cheese. A little fruit. No sugar. Eat it at three-thirty. It is good for the brain."

Ellie took the Tupperware. She did not, this time, say thank you. She kissed Pavlina on the cheek. Pavlina, with great dignity, smacked her on the shoulder, said "Eat!," and went back to her office.

That night, Ellie wrote in the app:

Day 198. Office donuts. Did not eat one. Pav made me a snack. Brennan was — Brennan. The animal in my chest came up and then sat down. It is getting smaller. Or — no. It is not getting smaller. It is the same size. I am getting bigger.

The coach, beneath this, replied:

Yes. You are.