Her dad walked into her room and leaned in the doorway. She looked over at him, her lip pouting and brow furrowed. “What?” he asked.
“Why does no one want me?” she wailed.
He walked in and sat on her bed. “How bad do you want it?”
She scoffed. “Very bad! Obviously. I went to college and studied this stuff for four years. I worked my butt off and spent a slave-labor summer in Paris working in the fashion industry. I know I could do this stuff, but they’re not giving me a chance.”
“Sweetheart, thousands of college graduates all over the world can say this same thing. What sets you apart? How hard are you willing to work? How many rejections are you willing to take to get to that first ‘yes?’ No one’s going to hand you a career on a silver platter. You’ve got to earn it. Now, are you going to give up before you even really get started?”
She sighed. Adulthood was hard. Her life had always just sort tripped along. Happy childhood, great parents, good schools, solid friendships. A little bit of heartache, but not much. Now, this. Rejection. Having to prove herself. Working to make a mark in the world. “I guess I sound like a spoiled brat, don’t I?”
He smiled and reached over to caress her hand. “I know you better than that. You are going to do this, Jasmine. You are going to get a job in the fashion industry and you are going to build a career doing what you love. And you’re going to be successful. But! It’s not going to happen all at once. And it’s not going to be easy.” He stood up. “Persevere, dear. Anything worth achieving is going to take work, rejection, adjustments and finally, success.”
She sniffed. “How long till we get to the success part?”
He laughed, waved and left her room. She was kidding, of course, but not really. She wanted to skip over the hard stuff, and get right to the reward. But she guessed it wasn’t going to happen that way. Fine. She’d suck it up and go through the steps.
* * *
“Dear Ms. Malone, we appreciate your interest in employment with our company. To be eligible for further consideration, please submit a fashion photo portfolio, featuring at least a half dozen original designs.”
“Please submit a video featuring runway models wearing your design.”
“Please submit a video of yourself expanding on where you see yourself in the fashion industry, both now, and in five years’ time.”
Jasmine exploded with a scream, took the handful of emails she’d printed out from perspective employers, and threw them in the air, watching them cascade down around her. The latest batch of emails from her job search were trickling in. Although they weren’t rejections, they weren’t job offers either.
Her dad appeared in her doorway, his tie loose around his neck. “What’s the matter?” His voice was calm but she caught the trace of panic in his eyes.
She pointed to the white papers spread around her. “They all want something different. They all want the world!”
He studied her for a moment, then her meaning seemed to sink in. He took a few steps into the bedroom, and crouched down to pick up the discarded pages. He read them each with a frown, then looked up at her. “You could look at the bright side. They could’ve rejected you outright. The fact that they’re asking for more means that you’re still in the running. You’re competitive.” He handed the papers, now organized in a neat stack, calmly to her.
“Or they could’ve just extended a job offer. That would’ve been the brightest side.”
He smirked. “Don’t forget: step by step. Hard work, rejection, adjustments, and finally, success. You’re moving from rejection to interest. What did you do to make that happen?”
She considered for a second. “I searched the fashion industry websites, refined and perfected my resume. I called and talked to some of my classmates to find out what they were doing that I could try.”
He nodded his approval. “Good. You’re doing the work. Building a career is worth the effort.”
She quieted. He had a point. But why were her friends who graduated in engineering, computer science and actuarial, all posting on social media that they’d gotten jobs already? Nobody required them to do any extra work to be competitive. They just coughed up a job offer with a lot of numbers following the dollar sign. Why was the fashion industry so different?
“I guess you’re right. But seriously? This stuff is going to take some time.”
“You’ve got nothing but time right now. Your job search is your full-time job. Work at it eight, ten hours a day like you would a job, and you’ll develop this stuff before you know it.” He pointed at the papers. “You do, uh, have some original designs, don’t you?”
She puffed out a breath. “If I can find them. I had to draw original designs for my Senior Seminar class, then actually sew the garments. I’ve got at least ten of them. Somewhere.” They were in boxes packed from the apartment. But had those particular boxes ended up in Pawleys Island, or here in Pittsburgh? She had no idea.
He smiled a tight closed-mouth smile. “The presentation of them — the videos, the photos — they’re an exercise in creativity. Which fortunately, you’re really good at. Take your time, brainstorm, consult with friends, then put something together. Once it’s all polished up, you can submit them. That’s how you stand out from the others, sweetheart. That’s your ace in the hole. I have faith in you.”
She sniffed. Dad: the all-business, smart-as-all-get-out parent. She could always count on him to raise the bar high and expect the world. Her whole childhood had been like that. He was a doctor, for goodness sake. How much more demanding could his career be? He’d set a solid example for her — both her parents had — of working hard to build a career that you loved. He was being supportive, encouraging, but not giving her any excuses to slack off.
“I can’t really expect any sympathy from you, can I, Dad? Not a bit?”
He chuckled. “Sympathy is overrated. Hard work and determination is what gets results.”
“Okay. I’ll take a deep breath to keep from hyperventilating, and get to work. One at a time, take the time to do it right.”
“That’s my girl.” He lifted his hands to finish tying his tie without even looking in a mirror. “I’ve got a hospital fund-raiser tonight, so I won’t be home till late. I had the ladies stock the fridge and freezer so help yourself.” He winked at her and left. She heard his voice as he walked down the hall. “Work hard and don’t freak out!”
She laughed at his choice of words. Maybe raising a daughter had taught him a few things after all.
Suddenly, he was back in the doorway. “I was just thinking — do you need any equipment? A good camera? A video camera?”
“Oh. I assumed I’d use my phone. But maybe that’s not high enough quality.”
“I don’t know. Look into what you need, but I was going to offer you — it’s several years old — more than several, actually. But I have a pretty good camera and it has video on it. It’s in a box in the guest bedroom closet. Feel free to look.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
He left again. They were getting along fine, her and him. Despite what he’d done to Mom, he was her dad, and he was trying. Maybe Mom wasn’t ready to forgive him yet, but she supposed she was. Kind of a passive forgiveness while avoiding talking to him about it. Because it wasn’t her business, was it, the sorry state of her parents’ marriage. Talk about awkward. That conversation would definitely fall into the category of TMI.
She spent the next half hour researching the employers’ websites to see if they required any particular type of film or video. Writing down the information she uncovered online, she wandered down the hall to the guest bedroom and opened the closet door. All that hung there were off-season coats and sweaters, and a few boxes on the high shelf.
She tugged at first one box, then the other, hoisting them off the shelf and onto the floor. Squatting down, she dug into the first box. It contained a variety of objects, all seemingly unrelated. Old loose photos from family vacations the three
of them had taken when she was little. Copies of wedding photos, her dad young and handsome, her mom gorgeous and youthful in her long white gown.
Tears threatened and she scooped up all the wedding photos and set them aside. She refused to let herself become derailed by staring at the youthful, happy versions of her parents, deep into their eyes. Could she detect anything there? Could they possibly predict the outcome of their marriage? Twenty happy years, then, kaput?
No. The time to mourn her parents’ marriage was not now. Still …, she sighed. It sure was weird coming home from college and not having both of them there.
No camera here. But something odd caught her attention. In a bottom corner of a box was one of those accordion-style folders, an old brown container secured shut with an elastic band. She pulled it out and held it up to her nose. The musty smell of it was prevalent. Whatever it was, it had been here awhile.
Carefully, she unwrapped the elastic band, pushed it aside and opened the flap. She reached in and pulled out a handful of papers. A half dozen yellowed newspaper clippings and a few official-looking papers. She placed them on the carpet and scanned the clippings first. They were in chronological order, so she began to read.
They appeared to have been clipped from the Pittsburgh Post Gazette. Dateline: June 9, 1968. Headline: Infant Found, Abandoned in Phone Booth.
“This morning, an infant was delivered to Allegheny General Hospital. The infant was discovered lying in a basket placed on the floor of an enclosed phone booth on the corner of Penn and Fifth Avenues in Pittsburgh. The infant was female, in relatively good health, although slightly dehydrated, and upon examination by medical staff, is estimated to be approximately two days old. The infant is currently admitted to the newborn nursery at the hospital. The man who delivered her, who will remain unnamed, demonstrated full cooperation with hospital authorities, and is not considered a suspect of any wrongdoing at this time by Pittsburgh Police Department.”
Jasmine frowned. What were these papers doing here? What relationship did they have to her family? Who had clipped them and why? One thing jumped out at her immediately. June 9 was two days after her mom’s birthday of June 7. But 1968 — was that her mom’s birth year? She paused to do some quick math in her head. If it wasn’t exactly her birth year, it sure was close. That would make this baby 47 years old now. Isn’t that about what Mom was?
She pulled out the next clipping and read. Dateline: June 10, 1968. Headline: City of Pittsburgh Wants to Help Phone Booth Baby.
“Public interest in our story run yesterday about a two-day old baby girl abandoned in a phone booth in downtown Pittsburgh and delivered to Allegheny General Hospital, ran very high. By noon yesterday the hospital had received over two hundred phone calls inquiring as to the health and status of the baby, and in addition, the newspaper had fielded a hundred calls. Pittsburgh police are investigating the abandonment and hospital officials are pursuing next steps with the city social services office. Due to public interest, a donation fund has been opened, and Pittsburgh residents with the desire to help the child can donate money, diapers, clothes or formula. Go to your local branch of Citizens Bank and make your donation. Once the fate of the baby is determined, all donations will go with her.”
Jasmine flipped to the next clipping. A few days had gone by before another article was published. The next one was dated June 14. Headline: Fate of Phone Booth Baby Determined.
“Allegheny General Hospital officials, working with Pittsburgh Police and Pittsburgh Social Services, have decided to place the abandoned phone booth baby girl, previously reported on June 9 and June 10 into adoption eligibility through social services. Although public interest in adopting the healthy baby girl is high, Social Services announces that they will go through their normal processes for adoption. First priority will go to candidates who have previously completed the necessary paperwork and interviews, and been approved by the social services adoption authorities.
“Notice: as required by the social services process, the true parent(s) of this baby is hereby put on notice that they will have ten days to claim their baby, with proof of parenthood, before they relinquish their parental rights to the City of Pittsburgh.”
The final newspaper clipping was a short one, not an article, but an entry in a listing of adoption notices. It read, “Baby girl, one month old, legally adopted by Ken and Adele Somers of Pittsburgh. Child is named Leslie.”
Jasmine sat back on her heels, her mouth dropped open. Her mother was the Phone Booth Baby from 1968! She’d been somewhat of a minor celebrity in their city, to say the least. And someone had gone to the trouble to save this documentation about it. Her Grandma Adele, most likely.
She flipped through the rest of the papers in the accordion file: a police report from the original investigation. She scanned through it. Pretty routine, all the information showing up in the newspaper articles in some manner. All except … the name of the Good Samaritan who found her mother, and took it upon himself to take her to the hospital where she would be in good hands. The paper had left his name out of it, maybe at his request. But he was one of God’s helpers who had done the right thing. His name was Paul Mason. And that was all the information listed about him.
She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer of thanks to God for His servants on earth who carried out His work, people like this anonymous Paul Mason who found a baby girl in 1968 and took time out of his day to carry her to safety.
Next was the paper program from Leslie’s baptism and christening ceremony in July, and finally, an old black and white snapshot of her mom as a beautiful baby in a flowing white gown, being held in the arms of both her Grandma Adele, who lived in Arizona now and her Grandpa Ken, who had died when Jasmine was just twelve.
Exhausted from her impromptu trip down memory lane, Jasmine laid back on the carpet and closed her eyes. Her mom — abandoned as a baby and adopted by Jasmine’s grandparents. Why had she never heard this truth? A family secret that was never revealed? What the heck …?
Chapter Seven
The elementary school year hadn’t ended yet in South Carolina, so Jasmine had to wait till at least 4:00 before she could call her mother. In the meantime, she searched the remaining boxes in the guest room, and located the camera Dad had referred to. It was a beauty. Probably top of the line the year he’d bought it, like everything else he bought. He’d probably gotten interested in photography as a hobby and tried it, before losing interest and storing the camera away in his closet.
She peered through the view finder and gave it a few sample clicks. He was right — it took some great digital photos and video. She wandered outside and took some close-ups of flowers, the mailbox, the condo, textures of brick and grass and wood. It would be a good tool in fulfilling her job search requirements. By late afternoon she had collected several hundred still shots and a dozen videos that she was happy with, and her abilities with the camera had moved beyond the novice stage.
When she placed the call to her mother’s cell phone, she closed her eyes and pictured the beautiful location where her mother was. Pawleys Island, South Carolina was a tiny island off the coast of Myrtle Beach, the lifelong home of the Harrison family, now her family as well. Hank and his first wife had raised their family there — a son, Jeremy and a daughter, Marianne, who still were living their own lives there. Jasmine treasured her new siblings resulting from Mom’s second marriage. And having the excuse for frequent trips to the beach now that school was over was just an added bonus.
There were plenty of places to stay, beachfront. Mom and Hank’s huge oceanfront house on stilts, The Old Gray Barn. They got married there in a fun surprise wedding last fall that Hank had planned. As in Surprise! You’re getting married in front of your friends and family, just eight months after your divorce. The man had guts, since he’d never officially asked her before he gathered all the important people in their lives together. He must’ve just been sure she’d say yes. And she did.
The Old Gray B
arn had tons of bedrooms, and she knew she was always welcome there, and it had the added bonus of family history. As a child, Leslie, along with her parents and cousins and aunts and uncles used to gather there for family reunions at the beach.
If she wanted a change of scenery, or if she detected the need to give the newlyweds some privacy, she could always get a room at the Seaside Inn, a lovely beachfront inn run by Marianne and her husband, Tom. They not only ran it, they lived there with their daughter Stella. It was so homey and inviting with its big great room where guests gathered for socializing, the huge back porch where Marianne offered coffee and muffins every morning so guests could soak in the sun and the sound of ocean waves, and its delicious three meals a day served in the dining room, cooked by probably the best bunch of chefs of southern cooking in the entire state. At least, Jasmine thought they were, from what she’d tasted. Man, what those cooks could do with some shrimp, grits and cornbread.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Jasmine! Good to hear from you. Just getting ready to leave school.”
“Are you doing a countdown yet?”
“Of course I am. Nine full school days left, plus a half day, and then, an hour.”
Jasmine laughed. Her mom had taught school for over fifteen years, but she was just finishing her first year at Pawleys Island Elementary. Amazingly, she found kids on a small coastal island to be similar to kids in big-town Pittsburgh.
“How’s the job search going?”
Jasmine sighed. “I have a lot of work to do. I have to make videos and take stills of people modeling my clothes.”
“Wow.”
“So, question for you. Did you bring boxes home from my apartment?”
“Yeah, a few.”
“Would you mind looking through them? Somewhere I have about a dozen garments that I designed and made for Senior Seminar — original designs. I need to find the drawings and the garments themselves and see if I can use them for what these companies are asking me for.”
Bridge to Fruition Page 7
