Reach Me (4 page)

Seeing him walk away from me wasn’t nearly as hard as seeing how easily he walked away from our child. It was unthinkable to me then and it’s unthinkable to me now. I guess if I’m perfectly honest with myself, I’d be forced to admit that maybe I don’t miss him per se, but the idea of him. That’s it exactly. I miss the idea that we might possibly have been together, maybe even happy, with our little boy.

You know, I always imagined the ridiculous fairytale that all little girls dream of. I dreamed it and I waited for it. I hoped for it. I practically begged for it a time or two. It’s tough to admit, but I wanted him to want the middle-American dream like I did. Like I still do, I suppose. Not that it matters now anyway. He’s gone. I’ve got a handsome, incredible little boy to show for it all and it’s so much more than I could ever ask for. I’ll be fine and so will Trey. We’ll be fine together. We always have been.

I wish that in some alternate reality, Russ was the one I fell for in college. If I could, I would go back in time and make it so that he was the one who took my virginity that night, that it was him who gave me the most invaluable gift I’ve ever been given. Russ would’ve stayed and made a go of it and by now we’d be married with 2.5 kids, a house, a yard, and maybe even a dog. We’d have a life together; a happy, stable, normal life.

But that’s not the case. Instead, there’s AWOL Jonathan and phantom Russ who I’m too scared to go for. I wish I wasn’t. Jonathan has never been there. Not during midnight feedings. Not when I was feeling so frazzled I thought I couldn’t continue with this motherhood thing. Russ was, though. He’s always been there to chat, always there to listen. His open ear has been my saving grace many a hard day and late night. I hope he’ll always be around to be my sounding board. It scares me to think that one day someone else will come along and marry him and bring an end to our chat affair. I’ll be crushed. I’m not even sure that I can think about that right now. My chest feels heavy just imagining some terrible email saying, “I found the one. See ya.”

-L

I shut off my negative, depressing journal entry and go to bed so that I have plenty of energy tomorrow to worry about being jobless, single, almost thirty, and raising my kid alone. Lovely.

I draw in a deep breath. It hits the bottom of my lungs and helps to chase away the train of thought that would almost certainly lead to a night full of gloomy dreams of me knitting the world’s largest sweater, alone, with 67 cats and a son who never visits his weird mother.

I lean over and take a sip of the water on my nightstand to wash down the birth control that I don’t really need and the sleep aid that I do. I plug in my cell phone and burrow beneath my covers. Sleep comes easily.
Thank you, Ambien.

Morning arrives far too early. The alarm buzzes incessantly and feels like life screaming, “Wake up, Linds! Make everything okay for another day!” Truth is, sometimes I just want to lie in bed and feign ignorance. I want to forget the rent, the bills, the knocking in my car’s engine reminding me of the oil change that it desperately needs. Mostly I want to forget that somewhere inside of me craves fulfillment so fiercely that I find it hard to breathe. I want to forget that I keep wondering if this is this it. Is this all life has for me? Is this as good as it’s going to get?

I roll over and grab my cell phone to shut off the alarm only to find a text from Russ.
Good morning. Hope you have a good day at work.

A sleepy smile eases across my lips as I type out my reply.
Ditto!
I caved and gave him my cell number years ago but insisted that we use only texting and instant messenger to talk. He’s respected it. It speaks volumes to me that he hasn’t once crossed the line.

My feet hit the floor but I stay perched on the edge of my bed like I do every morning, especially when I’m more stressed out than normal. This is my “me” time. I grip the edges of the mattress and stretch my toes, roll my ankles, and pop my neck, making sure to breathe deeply as I do it. Another deep breath through my nose and slowly out of my mouth.

I whisper my reassurance to my lonely bedroom intent on surviving yet another day. “Today will be a great day.”

“Morning, Cally,” I greet my one and only cubicle neighbor like I always do.

“Hey.” It’s her usual monotone response, but I don’t mind because in the eight months that I’ve been working alongside her, I’ve discovered that Cally is
not
a morning person and should really be left alone until after lunch.

She’s a temp like me and I can see that she’s stressed about the project ending too. We were both hired halfway through the Gayle building project. The architectural firm that won the bid for the contract decided to add two more temps as well as a slew of other staff to finish the build ahead of schedule. Great for them. Not so great for me, as they only needed the extra temps for this particular job.

I settle into my small space and begin my routine. Coffee. Emails. Worrying about the official unemployment that the end of the week is bringing… the norm.

My morning zips by, and when I pause next, my much-needed lunch break is looming. I pull my cell phone from the side pocket of my purse beneath my desk and feel a tad disappointed to see an empty inbox. I get to sending Brian a message that I’m sure he’s expecting, since he knows all about my impending unemployment. I know he’s searching for me. My little brother may appear careless and whimsical, but he’s quite possibly the most reliable, organized, and detail-oriented person I know. I guess that’s what scored him such an awesome job working for that uber-rich Las Vegas mogul, Damon Cole. I don’t exactly know what the guy’s business is, but he keeps Brian thoroughly busy and pretty well paid. Maybe he’s eccentric enough to hire an assistant for his assistant. I snort-laugh as I type out the text to Brian.

Hey, Bri, I need your help. Come over later?

Can’t, honey. Working. Meet me at the bookstore tomorrow? Lunch?

Okay.

I sigh and lean back in my chair, hoping and praying that Brian will have some good news for me tomorrow. At this point I’ll do just about anything. Hell, I’d be someone’s call girl if I had the option, but I’m nearly thirty with stretch marks courtesy of pregnancy. I’d probably have to pay the guy instead of the other way around. My son is my everything and at the rate I’m going, child services will want to know how I plan on feeding and sheltering him. Thoughts of some social worker leading Trey off to someplace more stable forces bile up into my throat. Panic courses through my veins and I feel the urge to do…
something
.
Anything
. I have to fix things.

My brain is so preoccupied with the knowledge that I’m in the fast lane to unemployment that I’m starting my lunch hour now. Thank goodness my work to do list is almost completed—my life to do list is staring me in the face, and right now securing things for Trey is at the top of that list.

Find job

1. Talk to Maggie.

2. Talk to Brian.

3. Dad?

Bills

1. Rent

2. Electric

3. Water

4. ETC.

I’ve been so consumed with worry and actually working (last ditch effort so they see what an awesome employee I am) that I haven’t even thought of talking to Russ. I’m late on the rent again, but it was either buy Trey’s new school shoes and pay the electric and grocery bills or be late with the rent. Again. Rent is the most forgivable of offenses. I would never want Trey to feel humiliated at school by wearing tatty sneakers that are too tight anyway. He seems to grow an inch a month and it can be difficult to keep up with. The grocery bill is the least forgivable. We have to eat and the electric company… well, they’re sick of me. I’ve exhausted all courtesy extensions and I have far too many disconnects on record. The rent payment, amazingly, has been the easiest bill to work with. Sharon, the property manager, has been my saving grace multiple times, but I hate putting her in a position where she has to bend the rules and fudge on paper just for me. It isn’t right. I dream of one day paying my rent weeks ahead of schedule.

My phone rings as I’m packing up, interrupting my sadsack daydreaming of better days.

“Hello?”

“Lindsay?”

“Hey, Sharon.” I curse on the inside because I know exactly why she’s calling.

“Honey, I had to file the papers today. I would have waited, but I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“No. I know. It’s not your fault, Sharon. I’ll figure it out. Isn’t there anything I can do?”

A sigh comes through the phone and I can tell she’s doing her best to help me out.

“You could go directly to the source. McCullough Developing on 9
th
Avenue. You know the building with the weird wire statue in front?”

“Yeah. I know where it is,” I reply, stacking the papers covering my desk in a rush and checking my watch to see how much time I have. “Do you think I can go right now on my lunch break?”

“I’m sure that’s fine,” she says soothingly. “The sooner the better. I’ll call and tell the receptionist you’re on your way. Good luck, honey.”

“Thanks, Sharon.” I hang up and immediately dial Maggie to collect on a few of those IOUs she’s been racking up over the years. The phone rings twice and she picks up.

“Birdie’s Burlesque, this is Belinda,” Maggie jokes down the line.

“You say that so easily every time.”

“Yeah, well it’s because my tongue is extra
dexterous
,” she drawls in her best sultry voice.

“That’s what he said,” I mumble.

“He sure did!”

“Anyway, I need you to pick up Trey so that I can beg my building owner to take pity on me. Can you?”

“Of course. He loves coming to my place. I have Xbox Oreos.”

“You are one odd cookie, Belinda.”

“I love you too.”

“Bye.”

I know Trey will secretly be happy to go to Maggie’s place today. He has a second home with her and I’m sure he’ll enjoy a break from his boring old mom. We’re lucky to have my irritating best friend.

I smooth my only nice skirt one more time. Brian bought it for me from one of those high end places that he’s always preaching to me about. He said that every woman needed a gorgeous black pencil skirt because it was foolproof. He said I could pair the designer threads with nearly any top and get away with it. He’s been right so far because this three-quarter sleeve navy blue knit blouse that I picked up at a garage sale last year matches perfectly. I take a deep breath, gathering up my things and the courage that I’m sure I’ll need an abundance of, and then direct my car towards 9
th
Avenue and a wire statue.

The receptionist is a beautiful woman about my age with dark brown hair pulled up into a neat bun. I can’t see what she’s wearing beyond her blouse, which looks like it’s the type that was intended for the skirt I’m wearing. It’s all creamy and delicate, the material flowing around her. She has kind caramel eyes that seem to have a bit of sympathy in them. I wait in silence as she picks up her desk phone and presses a button. She speaks quietly and briefly into the phone then directs me to a frosted glass door, motioning for me to enter.