Becoming Indigo
Page 2
“Wow,” said Natalie. She looked at me with wide eyes. “I had no idea. That does sound … interesting.” She stared at me, full of curiosity, like I was someone she had never met before, someone who had three heads or came from some distant planet. This was not a conversation I wanted to have right now because, really, I just wanted to crawl in a hole.
Sarah stood up and slung her arm around me. “She was going to find out sooner or later. Aren’t you glad it’s out?”
“I got to get ready for work,” I said quickly.
“Are you like the gal on Sabrina, the Teenage Witch?” Natalie’s eyes were bulging out of her head.
“Girl, you are too funny,” Sarah said to Natalie. “If that’s the case, we need a big fat black cat. Hey, let’s go to the Royal Oak tonight. It’s Saturday night—it will be hopping for sure.”
“I’d be up for that,” I answered. Thankfully, Sarah changed conversations like she changed clothes.
“Sounds good to me, too,” said Natalie. “I’m finished with work at six.”
“I hate my job!” Sarah tossed her coffee down the sink. “I don’t want to go to work today. I want to go to Britannia Beach and float in cold water all day.”
“Trade yah,” I said.
Sarah and Natalie both looked at each other, then they looked at me, shook their heads, and in unison said, “No. Way.”
I caught the bus, and, although normally I hated the constant lurching, this morning I was grateful for the air-conditioning. The driver had it on full blast. I stared out the window at the sky, trying to find the sun, but the thick haze wasn’t allowing it to shine to its fullest, at least not yet. It would have to rain soon. Soon, that’s what the news kept saying, perhaps by the weekend. Suddenly, I saw in big letters, written in the sky, the word Monday.
Okay, I thought. It is going to rain on Monday. Of course, because Monday was a day off for me. At least I would have Sunday to go to the beach and lounge in the water to get out of the heat.
The bus lumbered to a stop, and as soon as I stepped off, I went from being cool to being zapped of energy by wet air. I trudged across the street to the Victoria Park Suites, a run-down motel that had kitchenettes in every room. It was two floors, and guests entered the rooms from the outside. Some guests stayed for a night, and then there were the ones who seemed to linger on and on, like the smell of rotting banana peels.
Or fish.
A bell on the front door rang and announced my arrival. Esther and Juanita were already in the front lobby and had their papers with the numbers of the rooms they were to clean in their hands. They both said hi, all smiles, and I immediately knew that I had drawn the crap duties. Standing in the office, I felt like a stinky fish out of water. In her early 40s, Esther had one tooth knocked out and wrinkles that looked like knife cuts. And she was bone thin; I swear, it looked like skin and nothing else covered her bones. Then there was Juanita, who had to be in her 60s and was probably overweight by 50 pounds. She always got the lower suites to clean because she couldn’t climb the stairs. Just the three of us cleaned rooms, and we rotated our days off. This week I had Sunday and Monday off—not nearly enough days.
Miles Mason, the owner of the suites, and the nastiest man I think I’d ever known, leered at me over his reading glasses. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood at attention. He stared me up and down, and I wished I had on long pants and a huge baggy hoodie—but who could wear that kind of clothing on such a hot day? My short shorts and T-shirt clung to my body, because I was already sweating profusely. Was my clothing too tight? Could he see through my shirt? I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Blondie, here’s your list of rooms,” he said.
I hated how he pronounced the nickname he’d given me. He always raised his eyebrows and made a big deal of pronouncing the BL in the word. It took every ounce of energy I had to walk forward and take the sheet from his grubby hands. They looked like meat hooks. Dirt festered under his nails. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His slicked-back black hair looked slimy and greasy and in desperate need of a shampoo. My stomach heaved. My skin tightened. Everything about him oozed evil. I took the list from his hands, barely holding it by the corners, and stared at it. Even the paper that he had just touched smelled of fried food, bacon in particular.
Of course, I had room 112.
On the bottom level, at the very back, 112 was a room occupied by “Mrs. Fish Face.” We housekeepers had nicknamed her that. She’d been here for weeks—she didn’t seem to want to leave—and cooked fish every single day. Without saying a word, I headed outside into the heat.
We all retrieved our cleaning carts from the storage room outside and filled them with towels, little soaps, and cleaning supplies.
“I’m not sure I’ll make ’er today,” said Juanita, wiping her face with one of the clean towels. I so hoped she wasn’t going to fold it back up and put it in one of the rooms. Sweat dripped off her double chin like a pouring fountain. Or like the tap last night. My stomach lurched again. I had to forget about the tap. Natalie had left it on. End of story.
“You’re a young thing.” She squinted until her eyes were slits surrounded by puffy fat. “You should be a kind little girl and offer to do the rooms for an ole lady like me who needs money ’cause her husband left her high and dry without a red cent.”
“Never yah mind,” snapped Esther. “Get a move on.” Esther waved her hand in my direction. “She got Mrs. Fish Face. That’s like cleaning ten rooms in one.”
“Ladies,” sang Miles from the front door, “rooms need to be cleaned today, not tomorrow.” Then he raised his eyebrows. “Blondie, I forgot to tell you, I like those shorts.” He winked at me.
If there had been any food in my stomach I would have thrown it up. Both Esther and Juanita looked at me. Then Esther whispered, “You better watch your ass, pretty little girl. ’Cause he wants it. And he’s been known to take what’s not his.”
I sucked in a deep breath and pushed my cart forward. I felt really, really sick. I need the money. I need the money. I repeated the words over and over in my head.
As I unlocked the door to my first room, the man’s voice spoke to me. Gut feelings are important. It’s called following your intuition. His voice was soft and gentle, and it calmed me down, but I still had no idea who he was. Lately, he hadn’t been around much, because I’d been way too occupied. But now he’d come to me twice in less than 24 hours.
Sometimes I didn’t understand what he wanted to tell me, but today I understood exactly what he was saying: Miles Mason made me sick, and I needed to never, ever be alone with him.
It’s your own fault he leers at you. Look at what you’re wearing.
I knocked on the door of the first room on my list. When no one answered or snapped at me to come back later or get lost, I opened it. When I walked in, I let out a good round of expletives under my breath. Some people were such slobs. Chinese takeout containers, potato-chip bags, and cigarette-filled soda cans lay scattered all over the furniture and floor, and wet towels were draped over chairs and lying in clumps on the floor. No use procrastinating. I snapped on my rubber gloves and got to work stripping the bed, throwing out garbage, scrubbing the toilet, and vacuuming up chips and pretzels. As I yanked the vacuum across the carpet, I kept saying, “I need a new job. I need a new job.”
When I was finished, I put the little soap in the bathroom and took a quick look around. Satisfied that Miles wouldn’t scream at me for missing something, I stepped outside. The hot air blasted me, and I had a hard time even breathing. I picked up my paper and crossed off the room I was just in. I wiped the sweat off my face and started to push my cart.
Suddenly, everything started spinning. I held on hard to the handle of my cart and stared straight ahead. I knew enough to just let go and not fight it. Since I was little, I had had visions. Last year, I had finally figured out that if I stopped fighting them and really focused on what came to me, I could help people. My mind twirled and
spun, then stopped, and I saw white. A blank piece of paper. I breathed in and out. In and out. I saw … the words liver and onions. Juanita’s chubby face floated into the picture; she was talking to a little boy. Everything was pretty grainy, but the child looked to be around four, maybe five.
The picture dissolved, and I was once again standing in the oppressive heat, gripping the handle of my cart. That made no sense. Was I supposed to warn Juanita about eating liver and onions? So gross. Grandma Russell liked to order liver and onions at our favorite family restaurant, which was just outside Ottawa, near their home in Maynard. Every time it arrived at the table, I excused myself and went to the bathroom just for a little breather. When I returned, I just tried to ignore the smell by not looking at her plate. But Grandma loved it, just like a lot of old people did.
I wiped my face with my arm and started pushing my cart in the direction of the next room I had to clean—Mrs. Fish Face’s room. I groaned. Suddenly, I felt eyes boring into me. I turned, and Miles was staring at my backside.
“The woman in one-twelve says she needs her dishes done,” he said. Then he gave me a smile that made me take a step back. I desperately wanted to run away, yelling, “I quit.”
Money. I need money.
I knocked on the door to room 112. The smell of cooked fish seeped through it, and I put my hand to my face, covering my nose and mouth. When no one answered, I sucked in a deep breath, put my key in the lock, and flung the door open. If I was going to do this, I just had to do it.
I propped the door open to let in some air, albeit stiflingly hot air. I knew if I wanted to get this room clean without throwing up, I would have to work like a maniac, fast and furious. First, I scrubbed the dishes with so much soap that the bubbles spilled over the edge of the sink. I kept squirting the bottle to add more to get rid of the smell. Every few minutes, I would run to the door and stick my head out just to get any kind of fresh air.
Finally, I had the dishes done and kitchen cleaned, which made the entire room smell a little better, not so much like fried fish. I leaned against the refrigerator for a second. How could one person use so many dishes in just one day? Yesterday Esther had this room, so she’d probably pretended that she had forgotten about them.
When I was completely finished, I looked at my watch. This room alone had taken me an hour. Usually I could get a room done in 30 minutes, but this one had pushed my limits, so I was going to have to work later than usual. I exhaled, loudly, knowing that tomorrow the room would stink again, but then I smiled, because it was my day off.
I stepped outside and was blinded by the sun, which had by now, midmorning, burned off the haze. I was about to move to my next room when I saw Juanita and Esther across the courtyard standing by the big metal ashtray. Esther waved to me. Five minutes was all I could manage.
“So?” Esther raised her eyebrows up and down when I approached. “How was Mrs. Fish Face’s room?”
“Gross,” I replied. I shoved my hands in the back pockets of my shorts and tried not to watch them smoke. I was trying to quit, and it was so much harder than I’d thought it would be. Right now, I desperately wanted a cigarette.
“Mrs. Fish Face needs to move on,” said Esther. “Who the hell can eat fish every fuckin’ night?”
Juanita’s breath was coming out in rasps, and she wiped the sweat off her face, over and over. Esther sucked on her cigarette. I didn’t want to look like I was staring at Juanita, so I snuck a glance, immediately noticing how yellow the whites of her eyes looked and her skin, too. I felt a sharp jab to the side of my body. Something was wrong with her.
“Juanita, you feeling okay?” I asked.
“I’m old,” she wheezed, stubbing out her cigarette. “I never feel okay. But my grandson is comin’ today for a visit. He makes life worth living.” She waved her hand in front of her face, then she coughed and spit something into her handkerchief.
I turned my head and tried not to gag.
“How many grandkids yah got again?” Esther blew out smoke rings, totally ignoring Juanita’s gross coughing fit and her chatter about her health woes.
“Jerrod’s my one and only. And his mama said she ain’t having no more.” Juanita coughed again.
I tapped my fingers on my thighs, shifted my stance, and tried to listen. I really didn’t know much about either of these women. Was the little boy in my vision her grandson? Probably. Why had I seen liver and onions and her grandson?
After a few more minutes, I said, “I’m behind. I got to go.”
“Yeah, break is over, I guess.” Juanita coughed one more time, then waddled toward her cart. As I watched her, I again felt the sharp, knifelike jab to my side. This time I almost doubled over. Then, as soon as it had arrived, it left and I felt fine. I started to head back to my cart, but I couldn’t help turning around to stare at Juanita. Her yellow skin shone in the powerful sun, which had fought through the haze and won.
Yes, I was behind in my work, but I knew I had to help her. She didn’t look well at all.
I walked back to Juanita. “Let me do some of your rooms so you can spend more time with your grandson.”
She pinched my cheeks. “I knew you was an angel.”
Chapter Two
By the time I got back to the apartment, it was eight o’clock. Sarah and Natalie were both home from work. Sarah worked at Denny’s as a server, and Natalie was a receptionist at a spa. Both worked day and evening shifts depending on the week. I only worked days, thank goodness. I couldn’t imagine seeing Miles at night.
Sarah sat at the kitchen table and methodically brushed red polish on her nails. When she saw me, she put down the brush and blew on the fresh paint. The smell of enamel lingered in the kitchen. With one leg curled underneath her, Natalie strummed chords on her guitar. I plopped the box with the fan down on the kitchen floor.
Sarah waved her hands in the air. “Awesome! You are the best roommate ever. I’d hug you, but I don’t want to smudge my nails. Plus it’s too damn hot.”
“How yah gettin’ on, girl?” Natalie asked, using one of her favorite Newfoundland expressions. She drew her pick across the strings, playing another chord. Natalie had just started to learn how to play the guitar, but she played a mean fiddle. We often jammed on our guitars, and Sarah joined us with her new set of bongo drums. But when Natalie took out her fiddle to play toe-tapping East Coast music, I just listened, amazed at how her fingers danced on the strings. Sarah tried to get her to play some Aerosmith on her fiddle, but Natalie stuck to her Celtic roots. Sarah had met Natalie through a friend, and in my gut, I knew Natalie was in Ottawa for a reason, but I just didn’t know what that reason was yet.
“I’m okay,” I replied. “I got the fish lady’s room again.”
Natalie wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”
“You have no idea,” I replied. “I got to get a new job. If you hear of anything, let me know.”
Natalie strummed another chord, then set her guitar in the corner and said, “For sure.”
“Let’s get this fan going.” Sarah stood up, still waving her fingers. “My nails will never dry in this humidity anyway. Gawd, I wish it would rain.”
“Monday,” I replied without thinking as I ripped the tape off the box.
“I never heard that,” Sarah shot back. “Those weather guys can’t seem to…” Sarah let her words trail off, then she grinned and high-fived me and said, “But you, my friend, can.”
I yanked the fan and directions out of the box. “Let’s get this going so we can have it running while we get ready to go out. I need to shower and do my hair.”
Sarah carefully took the fan from me, placed it on the floor, then pushed me toward the door. “Go.” She did a little dance around the kitchen, still waving her hands. “’Cause we are gonna party tonight.” She raised her arms in the air. “And there will be air-conditioning in the bar. And men!” She bumped me with her hip. “Get your fake ready, girl. Once we’re in, we can get guys to buy us drinks.”
The hot water trickled down my back as I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Although I worked with soap all day, when I left that dumb job, I never, ever felt clean. Tomorrow I was going to seriously start looking for another one.
As I was blow-drying my hair, both Natalie and Sarah came into my room. Sarah plugged in the fan, then flopped on the floor and sat right in front of it. “What are you wearing tonight?”
I turned off my blow-dryer, tossed it on the floor by my full-length mirror, went to my closet, and rifled through my clothes. I pulled a yellow cotton sundress off a hanger. “Maybe this? What do you think? What are you wearing?”
“I want to wear one of your dresses.” Sarah jumped up and joined me by my closet. She started looking through all my clothes.
Hanger by hanger, we went through all the possibilities. Soon Sarah had an armful of clothes that she tossed on the bed. Not modest at all, she stripped down to her bra and underwear and started trying on one outfit after the other.
“That green halter looks awesome!” I squealed. “With your red hair, green is perfect.”
“We need tunes,” said Natalie. “If you guys are wearing dresses, maybe I will, too.” She crawled over to my stereo and sifted through my CDs, finally picking out The Kinks: Greatest Hits!
Once the music was blaring, Natalie ran from my room to her room, returning in minutes with a pile of dresses. She threw them on my bed, which was now heaped with clothes.
“I love the blue one with the spaghetti straps,” I said.
The three of us got busy, curling our hair, putting on our makeup, and trying on different outfits … and dancing around the room, of course. It didn’t take long for the floor to be covered with clothes, belts, shoes, and hair stuff.