Thirty Days: Part One

by Belle Brooks

  “Great. I’ll get them in the morning,” I shout.

  A light breeze rushes across moist skin. My feet pick up pace as I run to Bertha. Safety.

  “In through your nose, out through your mouth,” I repeat three times before feeling a sense of relief to be out of there.

  I drive. Home was where I intended to go, but it’s not where Bertha stops. She glides with ease, pulling up under a large tree. The smell of fresh air in the open space is refreshing. Peace and tranquillity wraps around me comfortingly as I stroll past a lake, stopping briefly on a foot bridge to ask myself, “Why here?”

  Cemeteries normally give me the heebie-jeebies, but not Buderim Lawn. This place is my security—it’s where my dad now lies.

  Nestling down beside a small squared rock on the ground, I run my fingers over chiselled letters.

  “Fletcher McMillian.” How I miss hearing this name.

  Roses and azaleas surround the stone, and as I close my eyes, the smells of the flowers and sounds of the birds chirping above us help me picture his face, a face I haven’t seen for nearly seven years. I see those same green eyes, the ones gifted to me, his narrow lips, curly brown hair, and bearded chin. How I miss him.

  “Hi, Dad. Sorry it’s been a while.” A sudden ache fills my chest. “So how have you been?” I pause as if expecting an answer. The laughter that follows tells me just how uncomfortable I am. There haven’t been many times I’ve sat and spoken to Dad since his death, but the times I have come here were when I needed him the most. “So, yeah. Life,” I mumble, confused. “Well, you’re not missing much. Mine has personally gone to crap. I did get a new job today, so I guess that’s something?” I fidget, rolling a few strands of loose hair around my fingers. “I’m not good at this. Hell! The last time my lazy arse visited I was howling like a baby. You probably didn’t understand a word I said. Sorry for springing that on you.” My mind drifts away to the last time I was here.

  ***

  “Dad, you need to be here right now. You can’t be gone anymore.” I cried, holding Bella tightly in my arms as tears streamed down my cheeks. “Please, Daddy! It’s not fair. I can’t survive this.”

  Bella escaped my breakdown, opting to lie in the garden under the shade of a fern. The afternoon glare from the sun was harsh. It pierced my eyes with a burn, causing more tears to fall.

  “He said he loved me. He asked me to marry him. I’d bought my dress. It was perfect, Daddy, one you would have wanted to walk me down the aisle in. Mike has taken everything. He has stolen his words back. He’s not allowed to steal them back, is he? Why doesn’t he want me? What did I do? Tell me. What did I do? Please!” Sounds resembling a wounded animal wailed from my mouth.

  I needed my dad to save me, and he couldn’t. I laid my head on the patch of grass in front of the garden and sobbed. My heart was broken, and I was homeless. No longer a girl with a fiancé because my love was not enough.

  “Daddy, make this pain stop. You’re supposed to protect me. He’s broken your little girl’s heart,” I pleaded. There was a long pause. “Answer me!” A piercing scream followed. “Daddy, please.”

  ***

  My head shakes, snapping me back into reality. It seems like a lifetime ago, yet that day is one that will never be erased.

  “I was okay after that day, Dad. You would have been proud. Tough skin got me through.” Sighing, I wonder how in the world I’d managed to move on and kept going and then how the hell I ended up such a mess now. “That is until six months ago. Everything changed. Mike is getting married, and no, it’s not me. Maybe I should gift his new bride my unworn dress…what do you think?”

  Visions of Dad laughing hysterically make me smile.

  “Yeah, you’re right, not such a great idea.” Cynical laughter drifts on the breeze, my laughter.

  “Hi. Sorry, are you okay?”

  Turning my head, I’m greeted by chocolate-coloured eyes, a stubbled chin, and wavy charcoal hair. My mouth gapes open.

  “Sorry for interrupting you.” His head shakes. “You were laughing incredibly loudly and not many people do that in cemeteries. It’s pretty odd.”

  My mouth closes. Words hard to find.

  “Talking to said laughing lunatic in cemeteries is probably not a smart move, either,” I reply through clenched lips.

  He smiles—it’s a smile dentists dream of: straight white teeth behind big lips. The heat intensifies. The breeze that was wafting with ease across my back is gone.

  “Touché.” He crouches down on bare knees beside me. Leaning close to my face, he whispers, “I wish more people had a good laugh in places like these. I mean, if they’ve lived a great life, why not be happy?” His head shifts back, yet he’s still close enough that I see every detail of his chiselled face. The scar on his left cheekbone is no longer than a fingernail. I notice the shape of his nose, which is rounded at the end, and the smell of his breath, freshly picked mint.

  “Trust me. I’m not happy about this. I’m laughing because my ex-fiancé is getting married and, well, I was just telling my dear dead dad here that I was thinking I could give my unworn bridal gown to his new bride. It’s funny because he would have found that beyond abnormal. I’m just about to tell him about my dog, Bella, dying. Would you like to stay and join in on that heartbreak, too?”

  He stands abruptly, and I notice how tall he is as he rubs his hands along the legs of his beige cargo shorts.

  “I’ll leave you alone,” he mutters before leaving me in peace.

  “Wow. Damn! Now that man was all kinds of fine.” I’m almost speechless. “Dad, did you send him over here? Come on now, love and Abigail don’t go hand in hand, you know that. Well, you would if you’re looking down on me like dead people are supposed to.” Taking a long inhale, I’m unable to fathom why that man approached me. That was too weird. Taking a moment to digest what just happened, I listen to the musical melodies being performed by the native wildlife.

  “Bet you like it here. I would…so anyway, Bella died,” I continue. “I failed at that, too.” Dropping my head, I wonder why I was chosen to receive this hex. “What’s the antidote for eradicating bad luck?” Frustration fills my words. “Does it take a handsome prince riding in on a stallion to save me, like in the fairy tales you used to read? Or a potion made by witches? I’m serious. I need to get rid of this shit, because honestly, Dad, I can’t do this anymore.”

  Talking through the latest crap in my life has helped. I spilled information on everything, from my newest panic filled moments, to the new job that commences next morning. I didn’t forget to include my unpaid leave situation. Maybe talking to a rock is better than any person.

  Kissing my palm, I place it softly against the stone. “I love you, Dad. Until next time. If only you could talk back, how different my life would be.”

  Strolling back to Bertha, the gardens begin to grow darker as night encroaches. The blue light on my mobile is flashing when I get back into the car. Sammy. Four missed calls and messages from my phone service, but I don’t bother listening to them, opting to just call her back.

  “Abi, where are you?” she snaps.

  “Visiting an old friend.”

  “Who?”

  “None of your business. I got the job. I start in the morning, so no need to come by and wake me at lunch time. You might actually get to do your job, hey?”

  “Always a smart mouth, aren’t you?”

  “Whatever do you mean, Ginger?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me, Dorothy.”

  There’s a pause. Looking out Bertha’s windscreen, I can’t help but think of the strange man who interrupted my time with Dad.

  “Do you want to do dinner tonight? A celebration?” Sammy’s voice seems hesitant.

  “I do not,” I reply promptly.

  “Fine.”

  “Well, you go off and sulk now. I’m going home.”

  “You can do this, Abigail.”

  At least one of us is hopeful. “Goodbye, Samm
y.” I hang up.

  Can I do this?

  Repetitious

  First day.

  Nobody likes the first day of a new job. Well, that’s probably not true. My first day as a teacher was exhilarating. This, on the other hand, feels almost cruel. Who wants to work in an office typing dictation? Not me. I’d rather be teaching it.

  I fling the alarm clock as far as the cord allows before it crashes to the ground. “I don’t want to get up,” I moan. “How does it keep working? Can you not be beaten to death, you stupid annoying noise maker?”

  Apparently not. Its attack on my ears continues until I switch it off on my way to the bathroom.

  The mirror is fogged with steam after a long shower. As my hand makes circular motions against the glass, my reflection stares back at me.

  Foundation application is definitely vital…swollen and dark bags frame my eyes.

  “Coverage will fix this.”

  Sleeping was not a success last night. I did manage to get a few hours, but the way my body is moving, it feels more like five minutes.

  “Bad hair day. Of course it is,” I groan, tying matted locks into a messy bun. “Shit! Note,” I remember aloud before leaving for work.

  Mum,

  Have a job. Start today. Sorry I didn’t take your calls last night. Calling twenty times will not make me answer. Stop trying. Will be home after 5:00 p.m. Not looking forward to it. Don’t be surprised if I’m fired and home earlier. Hope you’re having a night off soon, you look like crap.

  Love, your darling and favourite daughter, Abigail xx

  ***

  Indicate left. Swerve into limited space. Stop.

  Indicate right. Swerve into even smaller space. Stop.

  This is how the trip to work went down. Add in some huffs, swear words, and beeping, and after thirty minutes I’m there.

  “Morning traffic sucks,” I say, pulling the hem of my uniform back below my knees as I exit Bertha.

  “Did I even do this stupid scarf thing right?” I wonder aloud, looking at my image in the automatic doors. They open to Asher standing behind the counter. She looks much too happy for this early in the morning. The hands on my watch read 9:04 a.m. Yep. Late. Why would I, of all people, be on time?

  “Good morning, Abigail. I hope you’re well rested. We have a busy day today.” As she looks up at me, her smile beams. “Come over here.” She signals, so I drag my feet behind the counter. “Let me fix this for you.” Her long, manicured nails pull the scarf from my neck. She loops it and then places the gavel pin in the centre. “Good. Now put it back on,” she orders, fiddling for a bit before declaring that it’s perfect. “Are you ready?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Level two. You need to go to Jasmine’s office. She’ll be waiting for you. Tell her I had forms you needed to fill out, which caused your delay.”

  “But I didn’t fill in any forms.”

  “Exactly. But you will be later.” Asher winks before placing her hands on my shoulders and turning me in the direction of the lift. “Off you go. Chop, chop.”

  As the lift door opens on the second level, I’m greeted by a scowling face…Jasmine’s.

  “You’re late. This will be the first and last time, Abigail.”

  “Yep. Gotcha. I had forms to…”

  “Don’t speak like a bogan. That will not be tolerated here,” she interrupts.

  “Sorry.”

  “There is a list on your desk of today’s morning duties. If you need me press six and then the hash key on the phone in your office. This is my internal number. On your desk, in a red folder, you will find...” She stops speaking and looks over her shoulder. “Please keep up, Abigail.”

  I hustle until I’m back beside her again.

  “As I was saying, in the red folder on your desk is documentation that needs copies printed. There is a blue folder under that one. Put the copies into that and then put both folders on my desk.” She stops again. “Abigail, are you understanding this?” She rolls her eyes.

  I guess she’s always an uptight cow. “Loud and clear.” The urge to salute her is strong, but my hands stay by my side.

  “Good. Both folders on my desk. Here is your office.” She opens a light-coloured wooden door. “On a sheet of paper I’ve laminated and secured to your desk is an internal phone directory. Do not, under any circumstances, call Mr. Sims. Understand?”

  “Clearly.” Looking around the small space, I sigh. Is it home time yet?

  Two filing cabinets, a black table, and what appears to be a fake fern in a ceramic red pot complete my office. Jasmine must see my reaction to the dullness.

  “You can decorate it however you like. Bring in a picture of your boyfriend or something to look at.” Her disinterest is obvious.

  Sure thing. Because I have one of them. “Thank you.”

  “Get to work.” Her tone is harsh.

  I have a feeling I’m going to hate Jasmine.

  Sitting down on a high-backed chair, I inhale a deep breath. “Photocopying. You can do this, Abi.”

  I hug the red and blue folders against my chest as I walk down the corridor, which seems longer than yesterday, in search of a photocopier. There’s a door to the left that has Jasmine’s name embossed on it in big bold letters. The next one along says ‘Anetha Springs’. No idea who she is. Rosetta Cutters’ name is on the next door. No clue as to her identity either. “Where is the bloody photocopier?”

  “Abigail, have you completed that task already?” Jasmine’s voice projects loudly.

  “Umm. Well, no. I’m looking for the...”

  She holds her finger up and then huffs.

  How am I supposed to know where the hell it is, I want to yell, but don’t.

  “Level one.” She scowls, as if it’s obvious. “Abigail, see the frame there?” Her long pointed fingernail points to the wall beside the lift.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, read it. It’s a map of the building.” Her eyebrows rise as her lips purse. “Move along.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  I clutch the folders in my now angry hands as I take the lift. “God, what a witch,” I mutter, mad as hell. “It’s on level one. You should know that, because you are super human and know where everything in the entire world is. Why is she such a mega bitch?” For a split second I think about the possibility of video cameras in the lift, but find myself actually not caring if there are. She’s a witch.

  Asher is busily working when I enter the level, and her head peaks over her shoulder as my heels clomp loudly against the flooring.

  “That’s the staircase,” she informs as my hand reaches for the first doorknob I see.

  “Oh, okay.”

  “It’s this door here.” She points to the door not far from her desk. “Rough start?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You’ll get used to Jasmine.”

  “If you say so.”

  Ringing.

  “That’s the switch. If you need anything I’m extension one, just don’t forget to press hash after.” Her fingers push a button on the side of the headset she has placed over neatly groomed hair. “Good morning, Sims, General, and Klein Attorneys at Law, Asher speaking.”

  The copier is large with many buttons and trays.

  “What the? It can’t be too hard, Abigail.” Encouragement is what I need. “Manual.” Looking in cabinetry along the walls, I’m unable to locate any manuals. It’s okay, don’t panic.

  Removing the industrial-sized staple from the first lot of documents, I begin the task at hand. The papers on the first pile look to be at least fifty pages long.

  “I pity the fool who had to prepare these.” It dawns on me that I’m probably going to be that idiot. Wing it, Abigail.

  Before long the papers begin disappearing on one side and then sliding out on the other. The machine is making noises like it should.

  “Way to go me.” I applaud, removing the next staple with the tip of a pen I find next t
o the copier. I‘m alerted to an issue when I hear beeping—long beeping.

  “Probably out of paper,” I scoff.

  Red lights flash from the control panel. The noise becomes more urgent.

  “Shit,” I yell when I see crumpled pages. “That’s just fucking great. I’ve fucked the fucking document. For fuck’s sake, why does this fucking shit always happen to me? Why? This is bullshit,” I scream out while pressing buttons frantically and fighting paper that is clearly jamming.

  “Wow! Bad day?” a voice booms from behind me.

  “This piece of shit machine just ate these fucking documents. Why the fuck is it beeping?” I whine before realising where I am. Oh crap!

  He’s laughing.

  I’m so getting fired. Turning around huffing and puffing, I’m greeted by chocolate-coloured eyes, a stubbled chin, and charcoal hair. There’s a scar on his left cheekbone, no longer than a fingernail. My mouth gapes open. I try to close it, but can’t, so I stand there staring at lips that form the perfect smile.

  “It’s you.” My voice cracks before sounding hoarse.

  His smile broadens. “And it’s you,” he says simply, rolling a piece of paper up and sliding it inside his navy business jacket. He makes a fist with his hand and brings it down on top of the machine.

  I jump, startled. “So that’s how you fix this piece of crap?” I swallow hard.

  “No. You just press this button here. The one that says STOP.” He points to a red button. “The thump was just for effect.”

  “Oh. Here I was thinking you were Arthur Fonzarelli.”

  “Arthur who?” He lifts an eyebrow in confusion.

  I try to explain that this man is a television character in a show my mother liked to watch called Happy Days. I know I’m not making any sense, mainly because he stares at me blankly.

  “Don’t worry, doesn’t matter.” I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I wrestle with the paper jammed in tightly.

  He leans in close to my face, his breath smelling like freshly picked mint as it rushes by my nose. “I know who ‘Fonzie’ is.”

  The smile that follows makes me weak in the knees. My heart starts racing as his fingers brush mine.