The Rules of Inheritance

by Smith, Claire Bidwell

  On top of the interview with Sultry Movie Star, West Coast Editor is scheduled to fly home this weekend, and we need to help her pack. While Sophie stays in the office manning the phones, I am sent out to Blockbuster to rent as many of Sultry Movie Star’s movies as I can get my hands on.

  I bring a stack of seven back to the office. One of the most popular ones was checked out already, and West Coast Editor seems pissed. I place the stack of DVDs on her desk.

  What are you giving these to me for? You think I’m going to pack them in my suitcase? She briskly recites her father’s address. FedEx them. I want them there by tomorrow morning.

  I get back to my desk and glance at the clock as I pack the DVDs. My father should be finishing up his radiation for the morning, heading home to his condo. I wish I were with him.

  Suddenly West Coast Editor is looming over my desk. She’s got her message book in her hands. Her finger is digging a hole into a name written out in my handwriting under yesterday’s date, the date when she should have returned the call.

  Do you see this name? I hear her voice as loud, screeching.

  I risk a quick glance around at the other cubicles, all full of advertising execs. They stare at their computer screens, act as though nothing is happening.

  Do you know who this is?

  I sigh, shake my head.

  I don’t know who it is. All the names have started to blur together. Actors, agents, producers. I need an encyclopedia to keep everything straight.

  Do you understand your job, Claire?

  I keep my eyes down. I am afraid to look at her. I hate the way she says my name. When someone only uses your name when they’re mad at you, you wish they wouldn’t use it at all.

  I’m not going to cry, I tell myself. I’m not going to cry.

  How stupid can you be?

  With this question she throws the message book at the floor behind my desk.

  This is fucking ridiculous, she says, and walks into her office, slamming the door behind her.

  Tears smart in my eyes, and I keep my gaze trained on my keyboard so that no one around me can see that I’m crying.

  I wait until West Coast Editor storms out of her office again, and I cower as she heads for the elevator. She has a lunch date and is heading home after that. I won’t see her again until tomorrow. The moment the elevator doors close I let out a long-held breath of air. I motion to Sophie that I’m going outside for a cigarette and she nods.

  Outside I lean against the building and watch the cars going by. Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, Audis. Their shiny paint jobs flash in the morning sun as they whiz down the palm-tree-lined street. I think about how it would feel to push away from the wall, to just walk away from this job, to never see West Coast Editor again. I take a long drag on my cigarette and think about what I want for my life.

  It’s not this.

  I call my Dad. His voice is barely audible. Dad, what’s wrong?

  Oh, I’m just wiped out, honey. This stuff really gets you.

  My heart is bursting. I picture him alone in his condo, heating up some soup, watching television with the doors open to let the warm air in.

  I suddenly make up my mind.

  Back upstairs I phone HR from my desk. The woman who hired me is really nice and I ask her if she has a minute to talk.

  Five minutes later I’m sitting across from her on a little couch. She has welcomed me in, smiling warmly.

  My hands are shaking. My voice trembles.

  Um, I begin. I’m not really sure this job is for me.

  Oh?

  You know, when I got hired I thought I would be more involved with . . . with the editorial side of things, but that isn’t really what I’ve been doing.

  Tell me more, she says.

  With this prompt, I just pour it all out.

  I tell her how West Coast Editor yells at me, how I’m made to spend my days doing her personal errands. I describe the giant box of dirty laundry. I tell her about having to walk West Coast Editor’s dog and about how mad she seems if I get her the wrong breakfast.

  When I finally stop, I sink backward against the sofa cushions, the air deflated out of me.

  The HR lady crosses her legs, leans forward, and pauses.

  I am expecting her to be shocked. I imagine that no one has had the bravado yet to rat on West Coast Editor like this. Maybe they’ll fire West Coast Editor and give me her job. Sophie can be my assistant, and I’ll never make her drop off my dry cleaning or stock my freezer with vodka.

  She looks at me, her gaze steady, her tone decidedly changed from the friendly one I know. She says the next sentence slowly.

  Do you know how many girls would want your position?

  It feels like a scene in a movie. It feels like being underwater. My limbs get heavy, my responses slow.

  The rest of the conversation deteriorates from there. She gives me the standard excuse about how my doing West Coast Editor’s personal errands frees her up to do her job here. I can’t even bring myself to respond.

  By the time I’m back at my desk, after another tensely smoked cigarette outside, West Coast Editor has already been alerted of my betrayal. I’m forced to speak to her on the phone. Since she’s out, I sit in her office, at her desk, and close the door for privacy.

  I didn’t realize you were so very unhappy. I picture a sneer on her face as she says this.

  I stammer and am unable to respond.

  I’ve made HR aware of your transgressions, she tells me.

  My transgressions? What is she talking about?

  West Coast Editor proceeds to run through a list of petty grievances, including not coming in early enough and failing to keep her phone messages in order.

  I don’t know how on earth you expect me to do my job, she says. But I’ve kindly asked HR to give you thirty days. You have until the end of the month to prove that you can shape up.

  I’m shaking when I finally hang up the phone. Sophie comes into the office and together we stand at the windows, staring out at the city before us.

  Fuck the thirty days, I say. I’m just going to quit.

  Are you kidding? You can’t quit a job at Big Fancy Magazine.

  Why not?

  Claire, she says, her voice stern and clipped. Every single assistant in Hollywood gets the exact same treatment you’re getting right now. It’s just the way it is. If you ever want to make it in this town—if you want to make it anywhere really—you have to pay your dues.

  I don’t believe that, I say. Not like this. Not this way.

  If there’s anything I’ve learned from losing my mother, it’s that there are more important things in life than situations like this. And standing there in West Coast Editor’s office, my dreams of Paris and Uganda fizzling in the distance, that’s exactly what I say.

  Fuck it. There are more important things in life.

  I leave Sophie standing there as I go to inform HR that Friday will be my last day.

  I head home after that, a wild feeling of freedom coming over me as I roll the windows down to let in the silky, Southern California air. It’s the middle of the day and no one knows where I am.

  I park in the driveway and let myself into the apartment. For a moment I just stand there, feeling like I’m suddenly privy to one of the apartment’s private moments. Then I strip off my clothes and walk to the bathroom, where I stand underneath the hot water.

  I turn up the heat until my skin begins to turn red and I start to cry.

  I think about how my father won’t get to carry that copy of Big Fancy Magazine around with him anymore. But then I think about how it doesn’t seem like my father is going to be able to carry much of anything around with him anymore.

  I think about Colin and the distance between us, and I think about what my life would be like if my father were gone. I sink down to the tiles and let the water pour over me. I have this feeling that I’ve fucked everything up, that all I’ve done in my life is make a series of wrong decisions.
/>   I want to go home.

  I want my mother back.

  All this time, through all these things I’ve worked so hard on—graduating from college, moving to California, taking care of my father, getting this job at Big Fancy Magazine—somehow all along I’ve let myself believe that if I did all these things and did them well, maybe I would get her back.

  MY FATHER TRIES to hide his relief when I tell him that I’ve quit. The radiation to his hips has been harder on him than the doctors anticipated.

  He can hardly walk.

  Everything is falling apart for real.

  On my last day at Big Fancy Magazine I roll into the office a little late. West Coast Editor has gone for the weekend, and the office should be calm. But as I walk in Sophie looks up at me, sheer panic in her eyes.

  What? What’s happening, I ask.

  Editor in Chief. He’s on a flight right now, due to land at LAX within the hour.

  Editor in Chief is the king of Big Fancy Magazine. He is the one to fear above all else at the magazine.

  He’s staying at the Beverly Hilton, Sophie says. And he needs three things to be there when he arrives.

  I roll my eyes. It’s my last day. I could give a fuck about Editor in Chief and his three things.

  I need you to help me, Claire.

  Okay, okay, I say. As much as I don’t care about Editor in Chief, I don’t want to fuck Sophie over.

  I sigh. What are the three things?

  I just got off the phone with his assistant in New York, Sophie says, and this stuff has to be behind the reception desk at the Hilton by the time he checks in. Sophie glances down at a notepad before her.

  Okay, she says, and I hear an imaginary drumroll.

  Editor in Chief needs: the largest box of Advil you can find; the largest, strongest box of nicotine patches available; and five hundred dollars in cash.

  Jesus Christ, I say. Seriously?

  I can’t leave the office, Claire. You’re going to have to do it. You have forty-five minutes.

  I’m throwing my bag over my shoulder and heading to the elevator when Sophie screeches my name. I turn around and she hands me a stiff paper shopping bag with a Big Fancy Magazine label carefully adhered to the front of it.

  Put it all in here and give it to reception, she says. Oh, and here. She hands me two black clips.

  No staples, she says. Editor in Chief hates staples.

  I spend the next forty-five minutes racing around town, running from the drugstore to the bank, where I have to make a hasty phone call back to Sophie, who in turn calls Editor in Chief’s assistant, when I realize that I don’t know what denomination Editor in Chief wants his cash in.

  Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, Sophie says.

  The assistant has to make a guess since Editor in Chief is still on the plane.

  Let’s go with five twenties, two fifties, and three hundred-dollar bills, Sophie repeats to me.

  I roll my eyes again and stuff the cash into a crisp Big Fancy Magazine envelope.

  Outside the front entrance to the Hilton I throw the car in park and tell the valet guys I’ll only be a moment. It’s down to the last minute and even though it’s my final day and I shouldn’t care, I’m still worried that I haven’t arrived in time. I expect to find Editor in Chief standing at the front desk, fuming over his missing bag of three things.

  But the lobby is quiet and I simply hand over the paper bag. Can you please make sure Editor in Chief receives this when he arrives? He’s due any minute. The receptionist nods, peering down her nose at my sweaty figure.

  I walk outside and get in my car.

  It’s over.

  A heaviness comes over me, like the feeling of being pulled back in your seat as an airplane ascends to the sky. I know that I won’t be working again for a while. I know that the foreseeable months will be spent caring for my father.

  I know these things, but I also don’t know them. I cannot really imagine what is coming.

  As I drive away from the Hilton I wonder what my life would be like if my parents had never gotten sick, if my mother wasn’t dead, if my father’s cancer wasn’t back, if I was just a normal twenty-four-year-old with regular things like a stressful job and a distant boyfriend to worry about.

  I realize that I’ll never know. I realize that this is who I am.

  RATHER THAN SPEND the weekend celebrating the end of my dreadful job, I go down to Garden Grove to take care of my father. Colin and I had spent the previous evening talking about things.

  What are you going to do now?

  I don’t know. Just take care of my dad for a while, I guess.

  There was nothing left to say after that. We would have had to shout to hear each other across the ravine that had cracked open between us.

  When I arrive at my dad’s condo on Saturday, close to noon, he’s still in bed.

  Dad, I say, unable to mask the surprise in my voice, it’s almost noon. What are you still doing in bed?

  Ah, kiddo, these legs of mine aren’t working so well. He smoothes out the sheets covering his lower body. His voice is hoarse, tired.

  Next to the bed is an old plastic milk jug. I realize that it’s half full of dark-yellow urine.

  Dad, how long have you been in bed?

  Oh, just since yesterday or so.

  Dad, are you okay? Panic sucks at my breath.

  Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, kiddo. I just need to rest up a bit, get my strength back.

  I hesitate for a minute and then I pick up the jug of urine and take it into the bathroom, where I pour it carefully into the toilet. I hold my breath so I don’t have to smell it, but my chest grows tight and as I back out of the bathroom, holding the empty canister, I take a swift, necessary inhalation. The smell of my father’s urine, sharp and pungent, fills my nostrils and I gag.

  Okay Dad, I say, we’ve got to get you out of bed.

  I lean over and help to pull him forward. Then I swing one of his legs over the side of the bed. Then the other. He sits there after that, breathing heavily.

  You ready?

  Wait just a minute, he says. He massages the tops of his thighs, closes his eyes for moment.

  I stand in front of him, swaying lightly. I can’t shake the feeling that there should be someone else here. I can’t help feeling as though some adult, someone more qualified and responsible than me, should show up and take over.

  But there is no one.

  You ready now?

  He opens his eyes and I take one of his hands in each of mine.

  One, two, three. I pull up with all my strength.

  My father comes halfway off the bed, halfway into a standing position.

  Ohhhh, he says then and lets go, dropping back to the mattress.