by Hazel James
When the timer beeps, I slide on my Finding Nemo oven mitts and retrieve a sheet of snickerdoodles. The running joke is that my right arm is my lucky fin, so the “mommy and me” set Travis got me for Christmas was hilarious and practical; being able to balance hot bakeware has made a world of difference for me.
Singing my heart out to Drake’s Best I Ever Had, I transfer the snickerdoodles to a cooling rack and start on a batch of oatmeal raisin. I’m in the middle of creaming together the butter and sugar when two kids burst through the front door.
“Wow, it smells good in here!” A gapped-tooth girl drops an umbrella on the tiled floor and sniffs her way into the kitchen, followed by a little boy with cherub cheeks and matching chestnut hair. She scans the counters, plucks two cookies from the closest plate, and passes one to the boy. “Who are you?”
I turn off the mixer and close out of Spotify before I can damage their innocent ears. “I’m Leilani. I just moved in.”
“My mommy lives here,” the boy says as he sinks his teeth into his treat. I take pride in the slow smile that spreads across his face until I realize what he’s eating.
“Stop!” He bursts into tears and the girl freezes, her hand inches from her mouth. Before I can explain my reaction, I hear a woman’s voice coming through the door.
“Not even home two minutes and you’re already fighting. That’s a record.” She shifts the groceries in her arm and drops an overnight bag on the carpet, then looks up. Even with her wet hair clinging to the sides of her face, the woman is nothing short of stunning. And in the span of about three seconds, her face morphs from weary to curious to something bordering on murderous.
Here’s the thing about being an amputee… old habits die hard. So when I hold my hands in the air, it’s more like one stump and one hand, which isn’t exactly how I wanted to meet my new roommate. Shit. “Sorry! They grabbed peanut butter cookies and I don’t know if they’re allergic to nuts.”
My plea must work because Mama Bear’s expression softens. “No allergies, unless you count their aversion to bad manners. Bristol,” she says, raising an eyebrow at the girl, “you should know better.”
Crestfallen, the girl mumbles, “Sorry, Mom.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.” The woman swipes her finger in my direction and resumes her path to the kitchen while the girl repeats the same sad apology to me.
“It’s no sweat, kid. Now that I know you guys won’t keel over, you’re welcome to sample anything as long as your mom says it’s okay.” Two sets of pleading eyes find their mother, who’s putting a bottle of coffee creamer in the fridge.
“You can each have two, but only if you promise not to fight with each other for the next hour.”
After a quick glance at each other, the kids shout, “Deal!” and make off to the living room with more cookies.
“Sorry about that. I’m Rebecca,” the woman says, extending her hand, “and those monsters are Bristol and Blake.”
I twist my left hand, a trick I learned in my Life Skills class, and return her gesture. “Leilani. It’s nice to meet you.” To her credit, Rebecca says nothing about my awkward handshake. “Do the kids live here too?” The door to the other bedroom was closed when I arrived. Maybe there’s a suite behind it?
“No, they live with my parents.” She says it matter-of-factly, but her tone and quick glimpse into the living room tell me there’s more to the story. Not knowing how to respond, I just nod my head and return to mixing cookie dough while Rebecca stows the rest of her groceries.
When she finishes, she slides onto a barstool and props her elbows on the counter. “In a nutshell, I have a gambling problem and got evicted twice. My parents were ready to send me to a rehab facility in Arizona when they found out about Operation: OklaHOMEa. They have temporary guardianship of my kids while I focus on getting better.” She pauses to take a chocolate chip cookie from a nearby plate. “I sleep over every Friday and Saturday night, then bring them here on Sunday afternoons while my parents run their errands.”
Whoa.
In my haste to fill out my application, I didn’t put much thought into the problems my roommate would be facing. Rebecca might look like a bathing suit model, but she’s got a pair of lady balls, too. Something about the way she opened up makes me do the same.
“I lost my arm after an accident in Afghanistan,” I say, scooping oatmeal raisin cookies onto a sheet. “I was in a good place mentally after that, but getting breast cancer knocked me on my ass. It’s like… why me? Haven’t I been through enough?
“And I’m so afraid my twin sister is going to get it. So far, she’s in the clear, but the guilt hasn’t gone away. And to top it off, my mother pretended I was twelve after my diagnosis and wouldn’t let me do anything for myself. Coming here was the best way to get away from her and not get into mounds of debt. Plus, my sister is stationed at Fort Sill.” Done with my word vomit, I put the cookies in the oven and set the timer.
“I can already tell you’re a thousand times better than the last girl who lived here. I try not to judge people, especially given my current situation, but she played the victim card so bad she carried her own chalk outline. Got on my last damn nerve, that one.”
“What happened to her?”
“She took a job in Dallas.”
“Well.” I lift a snickerdoodle. “Let’s toast to good roommates. May our arguments be few and our laughs be many.”
“Mom, Blake keeps taking my pillow!”
“Nuh-uh!”
Rebecca rolls her eyes and slumps off the barstool. “What was that about arguments?”
I stroll through the Battles parking lot feeling like a hero. The guys at the auto shop nearly clicked their heels together when I dropped off their cookies this morning. DH, who’d been up since two with his daughter, ate one before I’d even set the container down. “I bet they’ll be gone by lunch,” I say, holding the front door for Rebecca. With both of us working here, it makes more sense to carpool.
“If I were a betting woman, I’d put twenty down.”
I purse my lips and shake my head. “I totally walked into that, didn’t I?”
“Right in,” she confirms, lightly patting my pixie cut wig. Last night, we discovered we have the same sick sense of humor, and thank God for that. It’s nice to have a friend already.
“Good morning, ladies!” Clay pushes out from the reception desk, his jovial expression growing even brighter, and pops out of his seat like a Jack-in-the-box. That is, if Jack was a buff blond with hazel eyes and a five o’clock shadow.
“Is he always this upbeat?” I whisper-shout to Rebecca.
“Pretty much.” She takes his place in the black swivel chair and stows her purse in the bottom drawer.
Clay turns his head to me and throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go to my office. We’ll take care of your hiring paperwork and then I’ll show you around. After lunch, we’ll head over to the new facility. I want your take on the space and the budget I’m working with.” I nod and follow him past the treadmills and weight benches in the main section of the gym, catching our reflection in the mirrored wall along the way. Clay has nearly a foot on me and probably weighs double what I do, making him look like a Great Dane leading a Chihuahua. Well, maybe a hairless cat would be more accurate.
“This location is geared more toward the twenty-something crowd,” he continues over the rock music blasting through the sound system. “We offer a variety of training programs that coincide with counseling sessions, because from my personal experience, sitting on a couch talking about your problems is bullshit.” He opens the door to his office, and we’re immediately hit with a pungent, chemical smell.
“How many times have I told him?” he grumbles, flipping on an oscillating fan. “Sorry about that. My office manager likes to build model cars.”
Sure enough, there’s a truck and a convertible on top of a small bookshelf and what looks like the start to a car from the 1950s on an e
nd table in the corner. That explains the paint thinner smell.
“Anyway.” Clay gestures to a worn tweed loveseat beside his desk, so I take a seat. “As a member of Operation: OklaHOMEa, you’ll have free access to those services. I have another counselor on staff who works with my employees.”
I open my mouth to tell him I don’t need them when he holds up a hand. “If you don’t want counseling, that’s fine. You’ll still do monthly progress reports with me to make sure you’re setting and reaching your goals while you’re here.” Clay passes a clipboard and pen to me and takes a seat behind his desk. The first few pages are standard—direct deposit, taxes, and a federal employment verification form. After that, they start getting personal.
“Likes and dislikes? Really?” My brows draw together as I look up at Clay. “What does that have to do with accounting?”
“Not a thing.” He eases back in his chair and clasps his hands behind his head, the sleeves of his black Battles polo straining over his biceps. I must have been too hangry yesterday to really appreciate his physique, so I let my eyes linger a few extra seconds. “I like to get to know my employees. It makes spending forty hours a week with them more enjoyable.”
I suppose that’s fair enough.
Weird, but fair.
I jot down traveling, food, gymnastics, and music for the likes, and cats, cancer, gummy bears, and the smell of tuna fish for the dislikes. The last page is a goal sheet broken down into several categories—financial, occupational, educational, physical, and mental/emotional. There’s only one rule, printed in bolded letters at the top: You must write something in each section.
“You take this goal thing seriously, don’t you?”
Clay pokes his head around the side of the computer. “You have no idea.”
“Why?”
“Because a goal gives you purpose, and purpose keeps you moving forward. Ten years ago, I was a fifth of vodka away from drinking myself to death. Goals saved my life.” He holds my gaze for several moments, then turns his attention to his monitor.
I glance back down at the paper. The whole thing seems like overkill to me. I rarely drink, and I’m nowhere near suicidal. The only things I want are boobs and the ability to put mascara on with my left hand. Thicker eyelashes would be nice, too. But considering this program is giving me a free place to live and a job without jumping through hoops, I’ll play along.
Financial. I tap the pen against my cheek as I think. I don’t have many bills. Just my phone, a small balance on one credit card, and my car insurance. Save money for a trip to Belize. It’s the first country that comes to mind and sounds like a sensible goal.
Occupational. Clearly, I already have a full-time job. What the hell am I supposed to put here? Don’t get fired. There.
Educational. I have my undergrad, and I don’t give a shit about getting a master’s degree. Learn how to make a chocolate soufflé. That counts as educational, right?
Physical. My first appointment at the VA hospital is in a few weeks, so this one is easy to answer. Get boobs.
Mental/emotional. Umm. To be able to watch Toy Story 3 without crying at the end.
“Now what?” I ask, securing the packet and pen beneath the metal clip.
“Now you get a Battles shirt and a tour of the gym.” He takes my clipboard and pulls a black polo out of the filing cabinet behind his desk. “The women’s locker room is around the corner. Just come back here when you’re done.”
I grab my purse and follow the directions he gave me. One of the reasons I love wearing Travis’s old hoodie is because it’s baggy enough to hide my mastectomy—and with the way he ended things, I figured I’d earned the right to keep it. But I can’t get by with a hoodie and a beanie at work, so a wig and fake boobs it is.
Locking myself in a bathroom stall, I strip off my shirt and slide the polo over my head, careful to not disturb my hair or “boob bags.” I opted to wear lightweight microbead breast forms in one of my old bras because all the mastectomy bras I’d tried were more cumbersome than comfortable and the “chicken cutlet” silicone breasts made me sweaty. Wearing a wig makes me sweaty enough. Satisfied with my reflection in the mirror, I stuff my shirt back into my purse and rejoin Clay, who’s talking to a guy in his office.
“Leilani, this is Marshall, my office manager. You’ll be working with him on our accounts.” The other man turns around. He’s not as muscular as Clay, but something about him—his black shaggy hair? His bottle-green eyes?—sparks my memory.
“Do I know you?”
He studies me and shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I get that a lot though. I guess I just have one of those faces.” Marshall offers up an easy grin and claps Clay on the shoulder. “I’m gonna plug in those new memberships. Let me know if you need anything.”
Clay and I retrace our earlier steps through the gym, which is busier than I expected for nine thirty on a Monday morning. “We’ll start at the front,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the desk. “Rebecca is the receptionist. She handles all calls, keeps my schedule, and stops customers when they try to leave with my towels.” His chuckle makes me wonder if he’s being serious about that last part.
“Speaking of schedules, your four o’clock canceled. He said he wasn’t sure about rescheduling but would call you.” The edges of Clay’s mouth dip for the briefest of moments before returning to their natural upward curve. It’s like his face is programmed to be happy. “And you,” Rebecca says, passing me a nametag, “are official.”
I unclip the fastener and thread the pin through my shirt… and right into my thumb.
“Ow!”
“Need help?” Clay’s voice is calm and uncritical, but it irritates me nonetheless. Just because I can’t do something on the first try doesn’t mean I can’t do it at all.
“I’ve got it.” I start over, and after a few whispered curse words, finally manage to secure my nametag. Who cares if it’s slightly lopsided?
Clay ignores my victory smirk and leads me around the gym, pointing out things he wants to keep at the new building and what he plans to change entirely. It’s hard not to get caught up in his enthusiasm, and even harder not to get distracted by his upper body. Chemo did a number on my libido, but watching Clay talk with his hands has proven there’s still hope in the Land of Promises.
“Um, Leilani? I think you have something… on your…”
I confirm that my hand is still at my side—nowhere near the forearm porn exhibit in front of me. “Huh?”
Clay gestures toward my shirt. “You have…”
I glance down and see tiny white dots clinging to my shirt and the right leg of my yoga pants.
Oh God.
No.
Shit.
Building Bridges
HER BRONZE SKIN TURNS WHITE. “What’s going on?” She ignores me and tugs on her nametag, choking back a sob when more white specks fly out of her shirt. “Leilani?” Without a word, she pivots and sprints toward the women’s locker room with her hand over her chest.
What the fuck?
I chase after her, stopping short when I reach the closed door. I knock three times, but the only response is silence. “Leilani?” Still no answer.
Christ. I scrub a frustrated hand over my face. I know she’s in there. Squeezing my eyes shut, I poke my head through the door. “Is anyone other than Leilani in here?” The faint sound of weeping echoes off the walls, but I don’t hear any footsteps or running water.
I push through and let the door close behind me, then announce myself again, just in case. “Male in the room! Is anyone else in here?” When no one answers, I pull the “restroom closed for cleaning” sign out of the small janitor closet and place it outside the locker room door. “Leilani?” The sound of her cries leads me to the far shower stall. I move the curtain aside and see her, wig in hand, balled up on the floor.
“Bad hair day, huh?” I press my back against the cool tile and slide into the spot beside her, my legs stretching into the ne
xt stall.
“Go away,” she pleads into her elbow.
“Nope.”
Her sobs grow louder, so I do the only thing I can think of—I reach over and scoop her onto my lap. Breakdowns are part of my job, but something about Leilani falling apart hurts me, too. Maybe it’s the soft fuzz on her head where her hair should be. Or the missing hand that can’t wipe the tears from her cheeks. Whatever it is, I just want to make it better.
“I think you’re more like a hedgehog than a porcupine,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
She sniffs and clears her throat. “Is that so?”
“You’re tiny, you curl into a ball when you’re in distress, and underneath your prickly outer shell, you’re nothing but a softie.”
“You already have me figured out, huh?”
I smile. “That’s what I do. You figure out numbers, I figure out people.” I shift her slightly so I can see her face. “What happened?”
Leilani’s tear-filled eyes drop to the wig on the floor beside us. “I… uh… had a wardrobe malfunction, except mine didn’t involve boobs, because…”
“Because?” I prompt.
“I had a double mastectomy,” she whispers.
Well that explains the wig. “What’s the white stuff?”
“The filling from my breast form. My nametag poked a hole in it.”
With the basics filled in, I move into problem-solving mode. “Do you want me to take you home so you can change?”
“That’s nice of you, but no. I didn’t bring any other ones because I’m supposed to be having surgery soon.” Her entire body slumps as she releases a defeated sigh.
“Okay.” I nod my head, more to myself than to her. That just means we need to fix what she has. “Time for plan B. I’ll be right back.” I gently deposit her on the floor and stride toward the front desk, scribbling a note for Rebecca, who’s on the phone.
