by Claire Adams
“You can just buy a company like that?”
“Not like that. I’d have to talk to the owner and get them to agree, but I’d give them a good deal. Most people are honored at the chance to sign a contract with me.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I make their dreams come true. I give them advertising, employees, new locations, everything they need, and I’m generous. If run right, restaurants take off. There’s a lot of money to be made.”
“You give people the chance you never had.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She took a sip of her drink. “It’s like you told me how you slept in the back of your ice cream parlor. You’re giving people like you the chance to make something of themselves without having to sacrifice everything.”
“I guess you’re right. I never thought about it like that.”
“You’re helping people. It’s admirable.” Mercedes spooned a drizzle of curry on her plate and took a bite.
The food was amazing, creamy, savory, and tangy, with a hint of spice. It was made fresh, with real ingredients, not the paste they sold in grocery stores like everywhere else. It was a difficult process, and they took their time perfecting it. With my help, they were able to maintain a small, high-profile client base and spend their time focusing on the food. That was how the owner wanted it, so we made it happen.
I leaned back when I finished. She took one last bite. “I can’t eat anymore,” she said. “That was too good.” She pushed the rest of her curry bowl away.
“I knew you’d love it here.”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” she said.
“Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I just thought that since I wasn’t with Tony, you might not want to do business.”
“Mercedes, I want to see you no matter what.”
Her cheeks went bright red, and she held her head down. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to worry, you know.”
“About what?” She took a sip of water, then looked up at me. I met her gaze.
“I can pay for your father’s treatments,” I said. “It’s no problem.”
“No,” she said firmly.
“I know a hospital in Monaco. They have best the oncologists in the world. They can do a lot more than a local hospital.”
“No,” she said again.
“Mercedes, you don’t have a choice.”
“I mean it. I won’t let you pay for my father’s treatments.”
“I’ll book an appointment this week. He might not have to go through anymore chemo.”
“Jake, I like what you want to do. I love it, but I’m not a charity case. I’m an independent woman. I can’t have you spending thousands of dollars on me every week.”
“It’s not charity,” I said. “This is your father’s life we’re talking about.”
“It’s too much,” she said.
“Not for me.”
“Jake, it just doesn’t feel right.”
I nodded. “Fine, just think about it. I’ll let it drop for now.”
I helped her up out of the booth so we could leave. I wasn’t going to give up. If there was a chance that I could get her father into a decent facility, I was going to make it happen. Public hospitals were cesspools of corruption and crime. They worked the staff ragged and treated the patients like crap. He needed personal care, one doctor with one patient. I could save his life.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mercedes
I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I felt like I was moving between realities. In one, I was wearing a $10,000 gown, sitting with a billionaire in his bright red sports car. In the other, I was sitting at home watching my father die.
It was taxing, moving between these two worlds. It took a lot of effort to walk in the door when Jake dropped me off. My father was laying on the couch, snoring, and my mom was working late. He’d gotten so small that we could carry him when he needed it. I picked him up to carry him into the bedroom.
Normally, he would’ve woken up and shouted. Now he just rolled over and grunted. When I sat him down, I pulled his breathing mask off the bedside table and sat down next to him so I could slide his heart monitor on his finger.
I leaned across the bed to turn it on, and I felt a sob roll through me. No, I couldn’t do that. There was no point. I’d just end up going to bed crying like so many nights before. I wasn’t going to do it anymore. I’d mourned the prospect of his death already.
I turned on the machine and stood up to walk out. I wanted to say to myself that everything would be okay, but it wouldn’t, not if he died. I knew exactly what would happen. My mother would be leaning over the kitchen table with her head down sobbing. She’d lose her mind if I didn’t stay by her side. We’d have mother and daughter dinners and sit on the couch together every night watching movies. But it would be empty.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to spend time with her. It was this house. When he died, it’d be like a chunk was torn out of it. Every time I walked in, I’d see his bedroom door just past the kitchen. Now it was open so we could hear him and come running if necessary. Then, when he died, we’d close it, and nobody would go in there.
That gaping hole would always be foremost in our minds. My father would live in the quiet moments, while my mom puffed her cigarette. We’d never talk about him. It would be too painful, but I’d see my mother staring off into space, her eyes would fall to the ground, and suddenly, he’d be there, haunting her. Haunting us both.
That’s why it was so hard to come home after spending the night with Jake. We were constantly hustling, trying to keep things together so that my father could survive. We took on the responsibility of taking him to his appointments and making sure that he took his meds. Every time we made a mistake, we left the house late, or we slept in, it was like we were failing him.
That hustle got to us. We were running around, stretching ourselves thin, thinking that if we just worked hard enough, if we made sure to do everything right, he’d be okay, because we simply couldn’t accept that he could die no matter what we did.
I felt like there was no point in going to work or getting up off the couch if he was just going to die. I stayed in my pajamas most days and walked back and forth between his room, the kitchen, and of course, the couch where I spent months flipping through channels and going over ads.
They never brought up the fact that I wasn’t working 16 hours a day anymore. I figured it was because we had far too many other things to worry about. I felt guilty but knew I’d figure something out soon.
Jake was the only person that managed to get me out of my rut, but it couldn’t last. I had to find something that would pull us through my father’s treatments. I took a cup of coffee and my laptop into the living room Monday morning.
Jake probably wasn’t an option, now that I wasn’t working with Tony. I couldn’t expect him to keep spending money on me. It was a free ride. I needed something stable and as stress-free as possible. I had a master’s degree. There was no reason for me to be hustling around a stockroom or answering calls from angry customers.
The problem was that cheap labor was everywhere. People with degrees didn’t have very many options. HR reps didn’t want to hire me because they were worried I’d take their jobs. Places that paid minimum didn’t want me because I was over qualified. They were worried I wouldn’t stay on. Even the jobs I qualified for were wary of me. They needed somebody with experience.
There were options. I knew there were. I did my internship as a receptionist for a small accounting firm. They weren’t able to take me on, but there were plenty of small businesses like that in desperate need of a good receptionist.
The problem was that most of those places were part-time. They didn’t need somebody to come in every day, and many were starting to outsource their work to virtual assistants who could take calls from their homes. My pay would be well over minimum wage, but I’d only end up
coming in three or four days a week.
The job market was tight. People weren’t making money, so hiring was down. There might’ve been more jobs, but they paid less, and they screened their applicants carefully. Three months without work was a hard sell, even with a master’s degree.
Fortunately, I was well-versed in the language and etiquette required to get into an office setting. I had a full closet of interview outfits and resumes on marble-print paper. I was ready. I just had to find the right opportunity.
I pulled up a notepad and started writing down phone numbers.
One job was for a real estate office. There was no name or location, but the ad was simple, all text. That meant that they were probably a small business, so I gave them a call.
“Hello?” a man’s voice came on the line. He sounded like he’d been sleeping.
“Who is that?” A shrill voice rang out on the other end.
“I’m on the phone, Laura.” There was some shuffling around. He covered the receiver, and I waited for a moment. “Sorry about that,” he said when he got back.
“That’s all right. I’m calling about the receptionist ad.”
“Oh, yeah. We just need you to come down and watch the complex during the day, keep an eye on things. We have a really bad drug problem out here, so we need somebody that’s clean. Would you be willing to do a urine test?”
I hung up and went back to the classifieds. I scrolled down and clicked on an ad for a clerical position. There was a stock photo of a woman smiling and a toll-free number below it.
A woman’s voice came on the line. “Hi, this is Trisha.”
“Hi, I’m calling about the ad I saw online for a clerical position.”
“That’s fantastic,” she declared.
“Great, what is the position?”
“How would you like to make $5,000 a week, working from the comfort of your very own home? Please hold, and an agent will be on the line with you shortly.” It was an over-enthusiastic recording followed by a patchy saxophone sequence.
I hung up and went back to the ads. There were more stock photos, ads that offered ‘$60,000’ in bold print, and of course, tons of international numbers. I learned early on not to deal with anyone outside the country.
There was an ad for a nursing care receptionist. Medical was on my list of things I would never do, but answering phone calls wouldn’t be a problem, so long as I didn’t have to change diapers or shower paralysis victims.
The woman that answered was sobbing. “Hello,” she said.
“Hi, I’m calling about the receptionist position.”
“Oh, really?” She went from sobbing to furious. Something hit the receiver. “You’re replacing me!” the woman shrieked in the background. I was conflicted. It was probably a solid opportunity. “I can’t believe you’re doing this!”
“You want to leave right now?” a man asked.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be. After everything I did for you? You said we’d be a family.”
“Things just aren’t going to work out, I’m sorry,” he said.
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’m going to call your wife, and there’s not one thing you can do about it.”
The receptionist picked up the phone. “He’s got a tiny dick and a huge ego. You can have him.” She hung up.
There was a position at the library, but they only offered minimum wage, and their hours were terrible. It was a nice dream, but it wasn’t worth it. I moved on, past more sales jobs. There were jobs for door-to-door knife salesmen, vacuum pyramid schemes, and tons of cosmetics jobs.
A legal firm, Morris and Hoffstead, was hiring a receptionist. The workload would be high. It was a specialty position. I’d have to learn their computer systems, and how to work with their case files, but I knew I could handle it.
Their address was on the ad, so I pulled up the street view. The firm was in a high-rise downtown. It was a real job and a solid opportunity.
When I called, a recording came on the line. “Thank you for calling Morris and Hoffstead. Please listen carefully as our menu options have changed.” The voice was mechanical, which meant they had the money to pay for a decent phone system. “If you know your party’s extension, you can dial it at any time.” They had multiple lawyers, another good sign. “If you’re a client calling about custody proceedings, please dial one. If you’re a member of the courts, please dial two. If you’re calling about probate, or all other inquiries, please remain on the line, and somebody will be with you shortly.”
I crossed my fingers when the hold music came on the line. This could be it. There was no guarantee, but I had a feeling, a good one. So long as I was professional and presented myself well, I knew the place would take me.
“Thank you for calling Morris and Hoffstead. This is Brenda. How may I direct your call?” The woman sounded middle-aged, professional, and a little stern. It was obvious that she took herself seriously.
“Hi, Brenda. My name is Mercedes, and I’m calling about the ad I saw online about a receptionist position.”
“Okay,” she said simply, leaving things open. She was testing me.
“How should we proceed?” I asked.
“You’ll need a bachelor’s degree or higher and two years of relevant experience.”
“Will an internship be enough? I was a receptionist at an accounting firm.”
“You’d have to check with HR, but we’re more than willing to take your resume and go from there.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there this afternoon.”
“Great,” she said. “We’ll see you then.”
I hung up and moved on. I had a good feeling about the firm, but I wasn’t about to run out the door with only one number in hand. I moved on and scrolled through more listings.
The bigger companies didn’t seem to be posting in the classified ads. Most of them required you to go to the website and use their outdated search engine to see if there were any positions. The chances of finding something that way were slim, though.
I found an ad for a non-profit. They didn’t say what the place was called or what they were doing, but I took it down, nonetheless, and moved on. Medical was starting to become more of an option. There was a doctor’s office hiring downtown, right next to the legal building, which meant I’d save on gas.
When I called, it was a recorded message that told me the number was no longer in service. I wrote their address down with a question mark next to it. Once I got to the bottom of the list, I was feeling pretty satisfied. There were three solid leads, more than I usually got.
I pulled out my blue pussy bow blouse and slacks and drove downtown. The business district was a collection of high-rises in a three-block radius, with food carts and small cafes stuck in between them. I had to park three blocks away to get to the legal office. By the time I got into the building, I was covered in sweat, and the pits on my blouse soaked it up.
Everything about the place screamed prestige. It was a 50-floor, all-black building with tinted windows, and a globe spinning atop a fountain at the entrance. I took a moment to sit on a bench, smooth my hair, and check my lipstick before I walked in.
I had to be confident. I walked into the building without hesitation and strode up to the front desk, where a young woman was waiting at the ready. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, my name is Mercedes, and I’m here to inquire about the receptionist position.”
“It’s the third floor, second door on the left.”
“Thank you.”
Elevators were located to the right. The doors were gold, set against black and green marble. The Human Resources office was in a small, square room, devoid of decorations and frills. The receptionist was skinny, with long blonde hair and a full face of exaggerated makeup. She reminded me of a leather Barbie doll.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m here to drop off a resume.”
“All right.” She took it and went back to her computer, so I turned
around to walk out. “Have a seat,” she said.
I did. There was a magazine rack between two chairs on the wall behind me. They were all old cooking and fashion magazines, so I pulled out my phone and started reading the news while I waited.
“What do you mean?” A woman was sobbing in the room behind the receptionist’s desk.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave,” a man said loudly.
“You’re kicking me out?” Her voice was louder, more panicked.
“Ma’am, if you don’t leave, I’m going to have to call security.”
“No,” she wailed. “You can’t do this to me.” Her sobs grew louder and louder while the receptionist stared at her computer monitor as if nothing were happening.
A man ducked his head out the door. “Call security.”
“Yes, sir.” The receptionist picked up the phone.
“Sorry about that,” the man said. “Are you the applicant?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good, I’ll be right with you. We just have to deal with this.”
“Okay.” I turned back to my phone, pretending to look at it while I listened to the drama unfold. The door to the office was open now. I could hear everything.
The woman still sobbed. “You can’t let them take them from me. Please, I’m begging you.”
The receptionist spoke quietly into the phone with her hand cupped over the receiver. “Yeah, she’s freaking out. Get here quickly.”
“I don’t deserve this,” she said between sobs.
“You have to calm down,” the man said.
“No, this is wrong. I can’t take this. I have to have them. They’re my babies. My babies!”
“Ma’am…”
“No!”
A man, the size of a black bear, walked into the room. I would’ve pushed past him to run out the door had he not been blocking it when he walked up to the desk.
“Back there.” The receptionist pointed at the door behind her.
“Got it.” The guard could barely fit behind the desk.
“Don’t worry. He won’t be long. We’re almost done.” She turned her attention back to her computer with a placid look on her face.
