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“I’ve heard gossip about what happened with you and Dylan McAlister. You helped him get his mojo back. You have a gift, Evelyn. You’re able to help powerful, broken men heal. It’s a unique combination of skills that restores their confidence.”
“I don’t know…”
“I do,” she says. “This is your breakout. It’s big money, not only for Ma Maison but for you. If we market this correctly, your debt disappears, you’ll never worry about taking care of your mom or sister. Take a few days and think about it.”
I didn’t see this one coming. “I’ll think about it,” I say. “But don’t hold your breath.” I text Amelia on my way home on the el.
Evie: Need to talk.
Amelia: We’re getting ready for a Halloween party. Come with us.
Evie: Didn’t think I’d be home in time for Halloween. Don’t have a costume.
Amelia: I’ve got something from last year. Just come over.
We hit a Halloween party at a club west of the Loop. The place is popping. The DJ spins Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller.’ Victoria and Amelia are dressed as super heroes. They’re smoking hot in their spandex and bustiers. Guys are practically salivating as we elbow our way through the crowd. I, on the other hand, am a Tootsie Roll. “I look like an idiot.”
“You look adorable,” Victoria says as we move past the dance floor toward the back of the place.
A vampire guy squeezes past me and flashes his fangs. “I’d take a bite out of you.”
“Be gone with you, Boris,” I say.
We edge up to the bar. Amelia flags down the bartender, thrusting her recently enhanced Wonder Woman cleavage in his direction. “Three Black Magic Cocktails, please.”
“Coming right up, Diana,” he says.
“What do you think?” I ask. “It sounds kind of crazy, right?
“It sounds smart,” Victoria says. “Get everything in writing. A contract. I’ve got an attorney you can run it by.”
“But… ” She was supposed to agree with me. She was supposed to say this was a ridiculous, terrible, crazy idea. “I’d miss teaching. What if quitting St. Matthew’s Elementary and working at Ma Maison is a horrible mistake?”
“Then you go back to teaching,” Amelia says, lifting the cocktails off the bar and passing one to each of us. “I put in my resignation last week. I’ll be working full time at Ma Maison too. I second Victoria’s lawyer referral.”
I spend all weekend thinking about going to work at Ma Maison full time. Quitting the day job sounds so weird. I meditate on it a few times. I hit the gym and ask God for clarity before I start working out. You’d be surprised how many answers come to me after I clear my mind. In the middle of running my third mile on the treadmill I realize it’s okay to shift gears. It’s okay to let go of the familiar path.
I quit my job as a teacher on Monday and feel some of the same ‘quitter’ feelings that had ping-ponged inside Andrew Courtland. I won’t tell Ruby or Mom I quit until it comes up in conversation. Besides, I don’t know what to say I’ve replaced my job with.
“Corporate consulting,” Victoria says a few nights later when we hit a movie. “I told my family I took a job as a consultant for Fortune 500 companies. That explains my wardrobe and why I’m always busy in the evenings.”
“A part of me is freaking out that I might be able to earn enough money to sleep at night,” I say. “Enough money to reach for the check when we go out for a beer and burgers. It all feels oddly uncomfortable.”
“You might get used to it,” Victoria says. “You ever go to therapy?”
“A long time ago.” I think of all the therapists I saw after the car crash but I don’t really want to talk about that.
“You’d love my shrink,” Victoria says, and messages me his contact information. “He’s non-judgmental, insightful, a safe harbor in a storm.”
I would love a safe harbor. I start therapy with Victoria’s therapist just in time for more Ma Maison referrals to come in. And with my new empathic ‘specialty’ comes money. Big money. Crazy money. Debt-erasing money.
At times the work is glamorous. I wear beautiful clothes. I stay in gorgeous homes. I converse with high powered, interesting people. Other times it’s crawl out of my skin uncomfortable. I wade through these men’s destructive feelings. I wear their pain. I cry their tears. I tremble with their fear.
But I keep digging through their messed up beliefs and core wounds, doing my best to find the breakthrough they need. At the end of the day I don’t heal these men. They heal themselves. They just need a push in the right direction.
Every few weeks Madame raises my rate as well as my clothing stipend. The work’s emotionally exhausting. And finally, three months later just when I think I’ll never hear from him again, Dylan McAlister contacts Ma Maison. He’s got a gig in Vegas and wants me to fly out, and join him for the weekend. I practically fall onto my knees and cast a prayer up to the heavens, thanking God for finally taking my call.
“Madame?” I ask. “Did you give Mr. McAlister my new rate or the old one?”
