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Chapter Sixteen
Lucy’s asleep in the guest room, and I sit on my bed eating Honey Nut Cheerios straight out of the box.
I make life look easy? I do?
What a joke. That’s the biggest laugh of all.
I munch on another handful of Cheerios. I don’t even know how much I’ve eaten now. A quarter of a box? A half box? All I know is that I can’t stop. I have no desire to stop. I’m going to eat until I pop.
I’ve never found life easy. It’s always been a fight. Push, push, push. Work, work, work. Smile, smile, smile. And I push because I’m afraid. Afraid of everything that’s happened before, everything that could happen again. I work to make sure I won’t be trapped, won’t be lost, won’t be forgotten.
Of course, I don’t let others see my fears. It’d be dangerous. I’d be vulnerable to everyone and everything. As it is, I’m so vulnerable at home.
I love my family. I need my family. I need us together again.
Realizing the Cheerios box is almost empty, I drag myself off the bed, close the box top, and go down the stairs to return the cereal to the kitchen cabinet.
To make sure I don’t eat anything more, I brush my teeth extra long before rinsing with Listerine Whitening.
But in my bed with the lights out, I feel the crunchy crumbs from the Cheerios and my stuffed stomach and am very glad no one can see me now.
The next morning, I call Z Design after Lucy returns to her house. It was nice having Lucy stay over. I enjoyed having company, and I think it was good for her, too.
Just as I planned, my call to Z Design goes to voice mail and I leave a message on their office phone for Susan, asking her to let Marta know I’m interested in the job and would appreciate the opportunity to interview again.
Marta calls me back two hours later. I can hear a child’s voice and TV noise in the background and realize she must be phoning from her house. “I got your message,” she says, her voice crisp, precise, as though we’re back in the conference room at Starbucks. “But I’d like to hear more from you about why you want this job.”
My heart takes a nosedive. I’m beat and feel beat up. I honestly don’t know if I have it in me to razzle-dazzle anyone right now. “I need a job,” I answer slowly, “and this position sounds like a good fit for me.”
Marta is silent at the other end of the line.
I struggle on. “I’m also impressed by Z Design and the quality of your company’s work.” Which is the truth. Earlier today I read every brochure, every document, everything I could about Z Design. I even researched Marta. She came from a prominent Laurelhurst family. I didn’t know that. “It helps, too, that your office is close. I’d be able to work and still be close if the kids needed something. That’s always a worry for me.”
“You don’t mind the clerical aspect? Your position is really a support position for the Z Design team.”
“Not at all. If you think about it, my volunteer work is all about supporting the school and the teachers and the PTA. Most of the work is administrative—photocopies, phone calls, e-mails, and mailings.”
“That’s a good point,” she agrees. “So, were you able to take a look at the benefits package? After three months you’d qualify for medical and dental. We’re working on adding vision to the health plan. We don’t have it yet.”
“I saw that. Right now we’re on COBRA, but that will change.” I pause, aware that my throat is closing. “And I should have insurance of my own. Just in case.”
Marta exhales. “So. Any questions for me? Anything else you want to know?”
I actually don’t have any questions. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’m too overwhelmed. I’m talking about a job, a job with set hours and a detailed job description. A job where I must answer to someone and meet expectations.
I’ve liked my independence.
I’ve liked setting my own hours.
I’ve liked being my own boss.
“No.” I close my eyes briefly, force myself to look forward, not back. “I just . . . appreciate . . . your time, and I know I could be an asset to your company.”
Silence stretches over the phone line. It’s almost as though I can feel Marta digesting and processing what I’ve said. Would Taylor be a good employee? Would Taylor get along with everyone? Would Taylor contribute to the bottom line?
I’m suddenly desperate to fill the silence, to blurt out something stupid, tell her that although we’re not friends, I can suck it up and behave like a professional. I want to reassure her I’m not the diva she thinks I am and, at the very least, confess that if I have issues with her, they’re my issues, not hers. But I don’t say any of that. I’ve already told her I want the job, and I don’t want to be perceived as groveling.
“Taylor, I know we talked about a late November start date, but Susan’s getting pressure to begin her new job sooner. If I hired you, when could you start?”
“Monday.” Then I remember yard duty, lunch duty, reading, office help. “As long as I could sneak away now and then to fulfill my obligations at Points Elementary. I intend to cut back on the hours I volunteer, but I can’t drop everything. I’m the auction chair—”
“I know.” She sounds almost kind. “And I wouldn’t expect you to drop everything. You might need to cut back on some of the volunteer hours to protect your sanity, but otherwise, I support volunteer work. Susan’s pretty involved at Points, too.”
We both fall silent. Then I realize what we’ve just been discussing.
“Are you hiring me?” I ask.
“I think I am.”
“Really?”
She laughs, a deep, throaty sound that matches her crazy camouflage pants and combat boots. “Do you want it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Consider it yours. What if you take the first few days of the week to sort things out at your end, and we’ll look forward to seeing you here Thursday morning at nine?”
“How’s nine-fifteen?” I counter nervously. “Tori’s preschool doesn’t start until nine, and it’ll take me a few minutes to get to your office after. . . .”
“That’s fine. The kids come first.”
My eyes suddenly burn. “Thank you.”
“See you Thursday.”
“Yes, thank you again.”
“Take care of yourself, Taylor.”
I hang up quickly before she knows she’s undone me completely. I’ve been anti–Marta Zinsser so long that I don’t know what to feel now that I can’t be anti-Marta anymore.
Humble? Grateful?
All of the above?
I’m no sooner off the phone than the doorbell rings. I go to the door to find Patti standing there.
“Hey.” She smiles uncertainly and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Can I come in?”
In all the years we’ve been friends, she’s never asked permission to come into my house before.
“Of course.” I open the door wider, gesture for her to come inside. “How’s it going?”
“Good.”
I shut the door, turn to face her. She’s wearing a trench coat, but she doesn’t bother to undo any of the buttons. “Want some tea? I could make a fresh pot of coffee?”
“No. I’m good.” She frowns, her dark arched eyebrows wrinkling. “Taylor—” She breaks off, and her frown deepens.
I wait as she struggles to find the right words.
“I’m hurt,” she says in a rush. “I’m hurt that you didn’t come to me, tell me any of this. Don’s hurt, too. Nathan never said a word, and he and Don go back over twenty years. We thought you were our friends, our best friends—”
“Nathan’s filed for a separation.” I don’t mean to cut her short, but at the same time I can’t bear to be lectured to right now. Maybe it’s not a lecture. Maybe it’s a scolding. But I’m so raw at the moment, so raw that I can’t handle another rebuke or criticism. “We’re not just having marital problems, either. We’re broke. Beyond broke. We’ve lost everything. Inc
luding the house.” I gulp for air, pray I won’t break down and cry. “I didn’t tell you because I . . . I . . .”
Her expression is so bewildered that I want to hug her, tell her it’s okay.
“Patti, I didn’t know how to tell you. I wanted to tell you. But I didn’t know how to say it.” My eyes are watering, and I chew relentlessly on the inside of my lip. “I was afraid if I said these things out loud, they’d be true.”
“I can’t believe it,” she answers, her hazel eyes searching my face. She looks so young all of a sudden. Sixteen, seventeen. “You and Nathan are the perfect couple. You two are still so in love.”
I thought so.
“Maybe he just needs time,” she adds earnestly. “Maybe he just needs space.”
I nod, shrug. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
“So what are you going to do in the meantime? Monica says you have to be out by November twenty-ninth—”
