Erin, Girl

by Sandra Cunha

  She doesn’t stop, except for a split second to grab a red folder on her desk before continuing towards Bradford’s office.

  I’m right at her heels.

  “What’s this?” Bradford asks in alarm as we both burst into his office.

  “Bradford, I must speak to you, urgently—in private.” Carol turns and shoots me the death glare.

  I flinch.

  “Of course. Erin, please give us a moment,” he says, a mixture of surprise and concern washing over his face.

  I hesitate.

  If I leave his office, I know there won’t be any way to unspin the web that Carol is about to weave.

  I need to defend myself.

  But what could I possibly say? I have no defence. Not in their eyes, anyway. So I nod my head and walk back slowly to my desk.

  And then, I wait.

  Almost two hours later, Bradford appears at the entrance of my cubicle. “Erin, please come to my office,” he says, without making eye contact with me.

  Inside his office, waiting for us, is Michelle from Human Resources. I haven’t seen her since the day I interviewed for this job, nearly five years ago. Carol is nowhere to be seen.

  Glancing down at his desk, I see my crumbled flyer. Crumbled, but completely legible. I also see the opened red folder. I’m close enough to make out it contains a bunch of timesheets, filled with row-upon-row of “time in” and “time out”; confirming my suspicions Carol was tracking my whereabouts.

  Bradford notices me staring down at the folder and immediately closes it. I, obviously, can’t be trusted. I take a seat beside Michelle.

  He closes the door and sits down. After clearing his throat, he says, “This will go a lot easier if you’re honest with us.” He still can’t meet my eyes for more than a couple of seconds at a time.

  Bradford’s not the best boss, but he’s been (somewhat) nice to me in my years here. So I tell them the truth—most of it.

  I leave out the real reason why I started the errand service. Instead, I say I was bored and wanted something fun to do.

  They decide not to press charges. I never thought that was a possibility. But because I used company resources and time, I could’ve been charged with theft on top of being fired.

  Afterwards, they give me five minutes to grab my personal belongings. Michelle watches me the entire time (so I don’t steal any more of those company resources), then escorts me to the elevator, taking my security pass away before I get on.

  And just like that, I’m unemployed.

  I ride the elevator down in a daze, only being jolted back to reality as it pings open at ground level.

  That’s when I see her.

  Carol is standing in front of me with a coffee cup in her thin, veined hands. She shakes her head at me in disgust.

  As I walk past her, I look down to avoid making eye contact.

  I’ve never been more ashamed in my life, nor have I ever had a greater sense of relief.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WAIT, WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

  I knew there was a chance this might happen, but I didn’t actually think it would happen.

  Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe none of this is real.

  I pinch myself.

  No, not dreaming.

  Fuck!

  I hated working there, but I always imagined I’d get to leave on my own terms, not theirs.

  Why couldn’t I have picked up those stupid flyers?

  I let myself get caught. I’m such an idiot!

  What do I do now? Where do I go?

  Home. I’ll go home. I need to lie down in my walk-in closet as soon as possible.

  I make my way to the subway. It’s fairly empty at this time, so I take a seat. I’m not worried about Suit Guy seeing me sitting anymore.

  Reality is quickly setting in. No one will hire me with this mark on my resume and without any work references. Five years of my life, eliminated from my record.

  How will I pay my rent?

  There’s still the errand service. I wasn’t planning on continuing it once Project Coco was over, but I guess I’ll have to keep it going.

  I look at my bag on the seat beside me. It’s laying on top of a small box of my personal belongings from my former cubicle. I know how I could get some extra money, but I won’t do it, not after everything that’s happened.

  There’s no way I’m selling my mom’s bag.

  I worked so hard to get it. I lost my job because of it. I can’t lose it, too. Or else, all of this would’ve been for nothing.

  When I get home, I’ll call Betty. She’ll know what I should do. I’ll apologize, and everything will go back to the way it was between us. We’ll figure this out together. With my plan in place, I close my eyes and take some deep breaths. I’m so emotionally spent that my head starts to bob up and down.

  The last thing I hear, as I nod off, is the subway operator announcing that the train will be turning back at Davisville station, due to a mechanical issue. One stop short of my own station.

  Can’t a girl catch a break?

  I must have been out for a while because when I open my eyes again, I see we’ve arrived at Davisville station. I remember the announcement and dash out of the train as the doors are closing, making it out just in time.

  I need to call Betty. I have to talk to someone. She won’t be leaving for Boston for a few more hours.

  As I reach into my bag for my phone, I’m met with air. There’s no bag at my side.

  Where’s my bag?

  Panic takes over as I try to remember where I left it.

  Did I leave it behind at work?

  They rushed me out of there so quickly, maybe I forgot it. I couldn’t have—wasn’t I just looking at it?

  I spin around on the platform. The train is beginning to pull away from the station. My heart races as I see the bag laying on top of the box through the window. I attempt to pry the doors open, but the train is picking up speed. I run alongside of it, but I can’t keep up.

  And then, the train is gone.

  My mom’s bag is gone.

  From somewhere deep inside of me, I let out a scream. I think I’m going to pass out.

  “Miss, are you okay?”

  I see the familiar uniform and realize it’s one of the subway employees. “I left . . . I left . . . my . . .” I’m too out of breath to get the words out.

  “Did your mom not get off the train in time?”

  “Huh? What?”

  “It sounded like you yelled, ‘mom.’”

  I stare at him in disbelief. “I did?”

  “Well, it was more like, ‘mommy.’ That’s what it sounded like, anyway,” he says, blushing.

  I’m losing my mind. I’m also losing time. “No, it was my bag. I left my bag on the train. It has my whole life in it. Is there any way you could stop the train at the next station, and I can go grab it? Or maybe someone can get it for me before it’s taken? Please, you have to help me!”

  “I’m afraid that’s against policy, but you can fill out a missing items report—”

  “A missing items report? I don’t have time for that. I—I have to go!” I’ve already wasted too much time talking to him. I need to catch the train before it gets to the next stop.

  I climb up the stairs and run out of the station, down Yonge Street as fast as I can. I’m running, even though I know it’s pointless. There’s no way I can get to the next station before the train leaves; I’m already out of breath. But I can’t stop running. I won’t stop running.

  My ankle, on the other hand, disagrees, and I fall face first onto the hard pavement.

  I hate these fucking ankle booties!

  Sprawled out on the sidewalk, I admit defeat. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down.

  When I straighten up, I come face-to-face with a place I’ve spent years avoiding, even though I passed it at least twice a day on my subway rides to and from work. I always blocked it from my view or closed my eyes as the train went by before
heading into the dark tunnel. It had become an ingrained reflex.

  But my defences are down now, and I can no longer avoid it.

  I know where I need to go, and it’s not some subway station.

  Crossing the road, I enter through the gated archway. I’m not sure I remember where it is anymore. I haven’t been here in years. My feet seem to remember, as they take me the rest of the way there, down the winding paved paths.

  I approach slowly and see the gravestone Betty picked out by herself. I was only here for the funeral service. It was such a small gathering. I wished more people could’ve come. And then, I never came back. I couldn’t come back.

  In the beginning, Betty would invite me when she was going for a visit, but after I’d given her the hundredth excuse of being busy, she stopped asking. And we never talked about it.

  There are some flowers planted in front of the gravestone, so she must still come here on her own.

  I read the engraving:

  Elizabeth Rose Bettencourt

  October 10, 1961 – October 12, 2008

  Loving mother to Erin and Beatrice

  Yesterday was her birthday. I was so preoccupied with getting the bag that it never crossed my mind. And tomorrow marks the five-year anniversary of her passing.

  Five years without an “I love you.”

  Five years of being caught between her life and death.

  Five years of nothingness.

  IT’S NOT FAIR!

  She was all we had, and she was taken away from us.

  I can’t pretend anymore. A tear rolls down my face, then another.

  There’s a thunderous roar above, followed by rain, cold and heavy. Under its protective covering, and after years of holding in my tears, I let myself cry. I finally let myself cry.

  My mom is gone.

  Some time later, I’m awoken by one of the Mount Pleasant Cemetery security guards.

  “The cemetery is closed,” he says. “Looks like you’ve been here a while. You okay, miss?”

  I must be quite the sight: my arms are embracing my mom’s gravestone, my legs are banged up from my fall, and my clothes are soaked through.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You don’t know if you’re okay?”

  “No. I never know how I really feel. I’m always pretending. It’s like . . . It’s like I’ve become a stranger in my own life.”

  He gives me a puzzled look; probably thinks I escaped from the local loony bin. But then, he helps me to my feet and offers me a ride home when I tell him where I actually live.

  EPILOGUE

  A year (or so) later . . .

  I WENT TO the cemetery every day for a month after that. We had a lot of catching up to do. And now, I go whenever I want to talk to my mom, or if I need a quiet place to think. It’s so peaceful there, even though it’s in the heart of this big, busy city.

  I finally allowed myself to grieve for my mom properly, if there’s a proper way to go about it. I guess we each have to find our own way.

  But I didn’t want it to be true, so I denied it to myself. She was all Betty and I had. She gave up so much for her girls. I never got to thank her for everything that she did for us.

  The Chanel bag was a symbol of her former life: a life that didn’t include raising two small kids on her own; a life where her dreams could still come true. Maybe I subconsciously thought that if I got the bag back, somehow I’d prove it had all been worth it. That she hadn’t had to give up everything for us.

  Even though I finally realized that my mom wasn’t her Chanel bag, I still filed that missing items report. I wanted my own things inside of it back.

  The bag was never found.

  In many ways, I also lost a part of myself on the subway that day. I lost my identity—literally, my I.D. was gone—along with my apartment keys, some money, and a lipstick. Oh, and a packet of gum. I hope whoever took my bag, thoroughly enjoyed that packet of gum. My relationship with my smartphone came to an abrupt end, too. That really hurt.

  But mostly, I lost the old Erin; the one who had stopped living her life.

  After the security guard dropped me off, I got Larry, the superintendent, to let me into my apartment. He changed the locks, but I didn’t feel safe staying there. And there was only one other place I could go: Betty’s.

  I used the spare key she’d given me to get in. The look on her face when she came home later that Sunday from her Boston weekend and found me sitting on her couch, eating her dulce de leche ice cream, was priceless. Betty has the best ice cream stash.

  I apologized for the things I’d said, and then she apologized for the things she’d said. I told her exactly what had happened from the beginning. We cried for my mom, for our loss, for everything we couldn’t change.

  Poor Betty. She has her own issues to deal with, and yet mine always seem to take priority.

  So we’re best friends again. I don’t know that we ever truly stopped. We love each other unconditionally if not slightly temperamentally.

  I ended up giving notice on my apartment. I couldn’t afford it without having a stable job, and I kind of wanted that chapter of my life done with anyway. Betty said I could stay with her rent-free as long as I applied half of any money I earned towards paying-off my debt. That girl has a one-track mind.

  But it’s working, I’m almost there!

  One day, I plan to pay her back, too. It’s the right thing to do. In the meantime, I help out by cleaning the place and cooking the occasional meal. (I’m not a total mooch.)

  The drawback of living with Betty is that she doesn’t have a second bedroom; I sleep in her condo den. It’s not much bigger than my old walk-in closet, so I had to get rid of a bunch of my things before I could move in. At first, I didn’t think I’d be able to do it. But once I really looked through my stuff, I realized how much junk I’d been holding on to. I kept picturing Mr. Kim’s apartment; that motivated me to get rid of certain items I may not have otherwise.

  I felt so free afterwards, as though it was another necessary step to my fresh start. I needed a blank slate.

  As for Erin Girl, I got spooked after that last errand. I was sort of glad I lost my phone and wouldn’t be getting any more calls about a “job” from Frankie. So I ended it. I never enjoyed running errands. I was only in it for the money. And I’d already spent too many years doing something I didn’t like for the money; I didn’t want to fall into that trap again.

  But I’m not a complete fool, either. Without having any immediate job prospects, I kept Mr. Trader as my sole client. I needed that guaranteed seventy-five bucks a week. A couple of months later, he clued-in that spending that much money to have someone fetch your lunch was kind of ridiculous. It was good while it lasted. And maybe it lasted as long as it did because he was holding out hope that one day I’d show up in the superhero costume on my old Erin Girl flyers.

  Eventually, I managed to find a job as a barista at a coffee house near Betty’s place. It seems fitting somehow. I love it there, but a girl can’t pull espresso shots forever. I have dreams again.

  When I was sorting through my things, before moving in with Betty, I came across my mom’s old sewing machine. I thought about donating it, but then, I remembered how she’d taught me to sew. I used to spend hours making tiny outfits for my dolls. I even made some of my own clothes in high school. So I kept it. And then, I used it.

  I reinvented a dress I already owned to spruce up my wardrobe, given that my shopping days were on hold for the foreseeable future. I got so many compliments on it, I thought maybe I could reinvent a couple more and sell them. They did sell.

  And so a new business was born!

  I opened my own online shop and named it, Lady Bettencourt, on behalf of my mom, my sister, and me. Now I make the dresses from secondhand clothes I buy from thrift stores. There are three designs I reproduce that have been named after my favourite ladies: The Lizzie, The Betty . . . and The Gabby. (Who knew Coco Chanel’s real name was Gabrielle
.)

  Maybe the business will take off and I’ll become a huge success, or maybe I won’t. It doesn’t matter because I’m having a lot of fun with it; something that was lacking in my former working life. It feels as if I’ve been given a second chance to reinvent myself, kind of like my dresses.

  For someone on the outside looking in, it might seem as though I’ve drifted off course. But the truth is, I’m finally getting back on track.

  I was never meant to sit in a cubicle all day with those grey walls closing in on me—I’m getting claustrophobic just thinking about it. (Although, I may invent cubicle wallpaper for those that have to.) I took the first job that was offered to me after my mom died, and then I got stuck there. I was a round peg trying to fit into a square hole . . . or is it the other way around? Whatever. I was never going to fit. I was just going through the motions. I may have been there physically, but my mind made only the occasional appearance.

  When we were kids, Betty would make me play Monopoly with her for hours. I never wanted to buy Park Place or Boardwalk; I was only ever interested in Kentucky Avenue. I don’t know why, but it sounded like a place I might like to go. So if I got to buy Kentucky Avenue, I felt I’d won the game.

  Life is like that for me again. I do what sounds interesting to me, not what others think I should find interesting.

  Although I may not know exactly where I’m headed in the future, I know where I’m headed today. Today, I’m seeing my first-ever film at the Toronto International Film Festival—and not just stalking movie stars and pretending I’m famous.

  But, um, I may be walking around Yorkville at this moment, wearing dark sunglasses. Old habits are hard to break. Except, the Starbucks has been replaced with an organic apple, thanks to Mrs. O’Connor. (Some things do change.) I’m finishing a single loop of this hamlet within a city before going downtown. Apparently, that’s where most of the celebrity action happens now. (And sometimes change is forced on us.)