What Doesn't Kill You (16 page)

Which is how I felt, until I got the call that changed my mind.

In August our heat wave finally took a hiatus—go figure. It helped because I needed to feel productive to distract myself from worrying about how I was gonna pay for my life of leisure. And all I'd been able to do was lay low and try to survive the sauna that was my house. So once the day started with a temperature-humidity index of less than 100, I took advantage of the cold front to do a little reorganizing. Sounds painful, but I've always found it relaxing. When the rest of life is in disarray, my kitchen shelves can be shipshape.

I had already attacked the china cabinet, washed and repositioned the dishes I never used anyway, and rearranged the spice drawer sweet to savory, in alphabetical order. Time to move on to a bigger challenge, an inventory of my survival-shelter supply of canned goods and pasta.

So there I was in the pantry, on the step stool, elbow deep in the tomato products. I had restacked them according to
type—whole, crushed, pureed, diced or stewed. It looked better than the supermarket. When the phone rang I was holding the Mason jar of home-canned tomatoes from one of Diane's domestic experiments and debating whether to classify it with the cans or with the jars of sauce and salsa, but I got down and grabbed the phone.

When I heard “May I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Hodges,” my antennae went up. Everybody who had reason to call me knew there was no Mr. Hodges—not in my house. I identified myself, and he proceeded to scold me about one of my overdue credit-card accounts and when they could expect payment. Overdue? I was only a few days late. What happened to the grace period? At the moment I was experiencing a temporary economic downturn, but didn't my years of spotless credit count for something? Yes, my bank balance was anemic, but that was not his business. Neither was the fact that I'd been saved from a crash landing only by the timely arrival of my tax refund. I'd like to tell you I filed late because I
planned
for that to happen, but you know better. So while it was in the nick of time, it was chewing gum in the dam—not a long-term fix.

Don't get me wrong. I did the happy dance and took that baby right to the bank. But the damn thing was going to take a few days to clear, which somehow seems wrong. Doesn't the government have good credit? I timed my check mailing so it would arrive just as the funds cleared. Seemed an effective use of delivery lag. Otherwise the payment would have been later, but there was no point explaining that to the pimply-faced pipsqueak—that's how I imagined him. He lectured me about penalties and about how I was ruining my credit rating—like this was a startling revelation? And I definitely didn't want him telling me anything, not about
my
business.

I hadn't played More Month Than Money since I was a senseless, centless newlywed. And it was
not
like riding a bicycle. I had forgotten how humiliating the game is. So now I'm standing in my own kitchen, trembling, sweating, ashamed and embarrassed—like my secret was about to be revealed. I growled at him that the check was in the mail and slammed down the phone instead of throwing it across the room, but the tomato jar slipped out of the other hand and exploded on the tile floor—solving the issue of where to put it.

Then I was tiptoeing around, cleaning up glass and red slop and calling collection boy all the names I usually reserved for my occasional case of road rage. How do you get up every day and go to work harassing hardworking people—or formerly hardworking people—who formerly paid their bills on time but can't since whatever hard times hit them? It actually sounded like he got his jollies off telling me that if they didn't receive at least the minimum in seven days the whole balance would be immediately due and payable. Right. I was having a hard enough time coming up with the new maximum minimum, so they expect me to pay more? What kind of logic is that?

But the damage was done. Bits and pieces of me were being chopped away. I was fighting to stay positive, but it was getting harder by the day. What's a few droplets of dignity here? You won't miss another slice of pride. Oops. There goes a hunk of confidence. What was I supposed to do if I didn't find a job—raid my retirement money? That's all I had left. I already had a second on the house, refinanced when Amber was in college, to pay my share of her tuition. Unlike me, she was a good student, and I owed her that. And if her father could pay, so could I.

So after I got up the glass I got on my hands and knees and focused on cleaning tomato out of the grout, because whatever was looming ahead was too overwhelming, and at that moment I couldn't handle it. Which brought on a missing-Gerald relapse. He was the only one who had any idea how things really were—mostly. At least I had somewhere to vent. Even if he had been a horse's ass when I asked for the loan, his platitudes were better than nothing, which at that moment was what I had.

I was still on all fours when Amber walked in. Just what I needed, a surprise visit. And I can only imagine what a horror show I looked like on the kitchen floor, smeared in red sauce. It took a full five minutes to convince her I hadn't been attacked in a home invasion. I played it off as just a silly accident—not the result of a body blow from a sadistic creditor.

I cleaned myself and we sat down for a glass of wine. Cocktails with my child is still an odd concept, yet another reminder she's past the milk-and-cookies years. Then she told me she had great news, and that J.J. already knew and was meeting her there, but she had to tell me second.

Somewhere between the pink nursery and the blue one, and wondering if I still remembered how to crochet, my sky-is-falling panic was replaced by hot-cold, happy sadness. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Was she ready? Was J.J.? Me Grandma Tee? How could life move so fast? My baby having a baby, and there I was worrying about sharing a glass of Pinot Grigio—which I realized she was still sipping. So of course I asked, “Should you be drinking that?” Amber looked at me, then at her glass and said, “Why not?” And I'm about to say, “But what about the baby?” when she says, “I haven't told you my news!” Which is when I realized I was acting like I'd already heard. Naturally she wanted to take it from the top,
and I'd already read the last page. So I obliged her, abandoned grandmahood and returned to mamahood, ready to let her tell it her way. At least I didn't have flowers and doughnuts to deal with this time.

So I smiled at my child, eyes front, ears on, ready to listen. I hadn't really “looked at her” looked at her in a while. She sat across from me in her just-so suit—still crisp at the end of the day—her hair sharp but simple, like her makeup and nails: short, neat, neutral polish. When did she stop the fancy art and tips? Anyway, Amber sits up real straight, and I lean back, preparing myself, and she says, “I got a new job!” She kept talking about how it was in the same company but especially created for her, blady blady blah. It was so not what I was expecting that I felt like I needed a translator. Where were the bassinets and snugglies? The mother-daughter conversations about breast-feeding versus bottles? Like I could afford two booties and a box of Pampers, which depressed the hell out of me.

Then I started to catch more snatches of what she was saying. Lots of travel. At least two weeks a month? The Netherlands, Mexico, China? It was all more than I was expecting, and less. I couldn't catch up, I couldn't hold on. What did I feel? Relief and disappointment side by side? Next thing I knew, a tear was sliding down my cheek.

Amber was so wrapped up with filling me in that she never saw it. I got up, went to the sink, wet a paper towel to wipe my face and hands and complained about the heat. Wherein she said, “It's not hot in here. Have you started having power surges?” I looked at her like she'd lost her mind. And she told me that's what the older women on her job called hot flashes. Excuse me? Older women? I'd had enough information for one
day, so I was really relieved when J.J. showed up and they left so I could be alone with my confusion.

Three days later Amber left on her first business trip—to Reykjavik, which I had to look up because I'm sure I hadn't thought about Iceland since fourth-grade geography. I mean, I knew it was north, but I had no idea where it was in relation to, say, New Jersey. But a few clicks on the computer I didn't much like, and there it was, a nickel-sized island in the North Atlantic. Seriously, the middle of the nowhere. OK, technically between Greenland and Norway, but if anything happened, who would know?

J.J. took Amber's trip in stride—like working on top of the world was no biggie. Now, before you go getting too excited about my baby's job—the locations might be exotic, but Amber was a company watchdog, something you can already guess she was pretty good at. Internal corporate compliance they called it, which didn't spell fun in any language, and she was a rising star. But in spite of her emails telling me how well it was going, I got a little obsessive about it. I stayed online, checking the weather in Iceland. Could it really be 62 degrees in a place named for frozen water? I had to make sure there were no fires, floods or man-made disasters—I mean, really, how much Icelandic coverage do we get on the evening news? She was up there with glaciers and volcanoes and nobody to protect her. Not to be dramatic, but anything could go wrong, and she was so far away, and what could I do about it? What could I do about anything, except worry it to death and blame her wanderlust on my ex, who used to take her with him on those gigs in Bangkok and Istanbul and who knows where. I was rereading one of Amber's emails, assuring me she was warm enough, when the phone rang.

Needless to say, after that first collection call, the answering machine had become my receptionist. I actually paid attention to the caller ID box—which Amber bought years ago after a blowup with J.J. so she wouldn't talk to him by mistake. They made up about ten minutes after it was hooked up, and I ignored the whole business until hostile parties started phoning on a regular basis.

I squinted at the number in the tiny green rectangle, didn't recognize it and let my receptionist take the call. With the volume up I could pick up if it was somebody I wanted to talk to. I'd mastered the art of sounding out of breath, like I'd just run in the door. When I heard “This message is for Thomasina Hodges,” I pushed mute. I did not need to be reminded that the phone bill or my gas card were past due. I was painfully aware of every bill I had, when it was due, how much of the full balance I needed to pay to keep them from bothering me for another month. I learned how far past the due day I could be before they tacked on a late fee. And how much time I had between the day the payment posted and when the money disappeared from my checking account. My car payments took two or three days in the mail. Once the payment showed up, it took another three days for the funds to disappear. But the light and gas payments were deducted the moment they received the check. They must have some kickback arrangement with the bank. I wasn't proud about knowing these things, but they were survival skills, and it is a jungle out here.

I got my notebook, ready to write down whatever made-up name they had left—Ms. Smith or Mr. Rich: would you use your real one?—and the 800 number I should call back weekdays between the hours of 7 a.m. and 9 p.m. Central Time. Then I pressed play. “This is Leandra Moretti, from Derma-
Teq.” I didn't know or owe anybody from there. “We saw your résumé posted on WireHire.com and would love to have you come in for an interview.”

A job? Really? I was not prepared for good news, not that it was good news yet. I was doing my best not to put all my eggs in one basket, with the chickens that hadn't hatched, on the cart before the horse. I knew hoping wouldn't make it so, but you can understand why I couldn't help it.

I
arrived at Derma-Teq at nine-forty-five the next morning for my ten o'clock interview. The trip took just under thirty minutes door to door, which meant it would be a manageable drive at rush hour. I was getting ahead of myself again, but I had to keep hope alive.

The complex was typical Jersey office park—clusters of single-story buildings, eight offices apiece with private entrances, nice landscaping—it is the Garden State, after all. I parked in front of Derma-Teq, checked my hair in the mirror. It was a cosmetics company looking for an operations person, and it had to be me.

Leandra met me at the door, pumping my hand and talking. “You must be Ms. Hodges. I'm so glad you're here.” Me too. She was tall, like basketball tall, but slight, like a dancer, and I swear she didn't look much older than Amber. Great, now I was being interviewed by children. She seemed smart, and in ways that had nothing to do with her blue eyes and mass of brunette hair
she reminded me of Amber. She seemed dedicated, driven and ready to succeed. I bet she would have gone to Iceland too.

The conference room was modern—clinical, if you ask me. Huge Derma-Teq posters covered the walls with models who had been up the street a time or two, but they were fresh-faced and dewy, like they stepped right out of a rain forest. Leandra settled herself across from me and launched into her spiel. “Derma-Teq products are a revolutionary evolution in the cosmeceutical industry.” Cosma-what? Boy, I got a flashback of Olivia and her Almond Ginger Body Crème, only this seemed a little more science-y. She informed me that pharmaceutical-grade botanical cosmetics actually healed, repaired and rejuvenated skin, and that the company had been in Switzerland and Italy for some time. Maybe she wasn't that young—maybe she'd just been rejuvenated. She clasped her hands on the desk, told me how excited they were to be in the States. They could have been from Secaucus and Iselin and I would have been excited.

Leandra continued to lay out why Derma-Teq was the place for me, like she had to convince me that I wanted the position. I had been unemployed for almost a year. This was not a tough sell. Then she said, “Based on your experience at Markson & Daughter, we recognize the value you would bring to our company.” I wanted to know who “we” were. But I liked the value part.

Leandra had a ton of questions—mostly about the early days at Markson, but they were already light-years ahead of Olivia's kitchen. About fifteen minutes in we were joined by “Phill—two
ll
s—Hilton—one
l
, no relation,” head of sales. I would like to know who did his manicures. His nails were buffed to an impressive sheen. He had his own set of questions, which I handled as easily as I had Leandra's, if I must say so myself. I
was getting good at the interview stuff. I just needed to walk away with the prize.

The position was new. They hadn't even come up with a title for it yet, but it would answer to Leandra, who was director of U.S. operations. And the salary was more than I had hoped for—only two grand shy of what I had been making at Markson—and, hallelujah, they offered benefits upon employment. Most places made you wait six months, like they wanted to make sure they liked you enough to pay if you got sick. It would mean I could kiss my COBRA good-bye; the payments were killing me.

I didn't try to be coy or play hard to get. I said I was available to start right away. The interview lasted a little over an hour, which I thought was a good sign. And it had all gone so well that by the end I was waiting for them to show me my desk. Instead they gave me a bag of samples and said, “We'll be in touch.” Which I thought was a bad sign. They felt like parting gifts for the losing contestant.

Derma-Teq would be a perfect fit, and I wanted that job. So what went wrong? Did I act like I knew too much, or not enough? Should I have talked more about Olivia or less? I might not know beans about cosmeceuticals, but I knew the cosmetics business. I spent the entire drive home trying to figure out how I could possibly have blown it.

But before the end of the day, I got the “welcome aboard” call. It was like I'd been trapped in a mine and those words were fresh air. I would be their first manager of business development—U.S. Wow, the whole country. Maybe I could rack up some frequent-flyer miles like Amber. And you know how much I like being first. I couldn't wait to introduce myself that way. I got this flash of being a kid in college. This
was the kind of job I imagined I'd have after I graduated with my associates degree in business administration. Only took me twenty-five years or so, but finally I was not anybody's assistant. Not that I'm complaining about
that
gig—it made this one possible.

And it was about time for my life to get out of the dungeon. Landing a job had been so hard, and the time it took felt like dog years. Then my fairy jobmother finally woke up from the very deep sleep she must have been in, found her magic wand and, poof, the perfect position appeared. It was so easy. I decided that when it's right you don't have to force, it just fits, like Cinderella's slipper—like with Olivia. Boy, did I fantasize about Didier coming across the industry-updates section in the trades and seeing my smiling face next to the article announcing my new position. I hoped it made him choke on his latte when he realized what a valuable resource he pissed away, not that I have lingering hostility or anything.

I called Mom and Dad, sounding like I did when I found my first job. They were a few hundred miles away, but I could hear their relief. “'Cause we were about to come get you and bring you down here to live with us,” is what Daddy said. I appreciated the sentiment, but the idea of my retired parents coming to my rescue—it would be like if they had come to my high school and delivered my galoshes in front of the whole class so my feet wouldn't get cold in the snow. Having snow in my shoes and cold, wet feet would be less embarrassing. Mom added, “Next time don't keep everything a secret.” Next time? Was she kidding? There wasn't gonna be a next time.

Amber was in Mexico City, but I spoke to J.J., who said, “Way to go, Mama Tee.” Later he even sent me a link to Derma-Teq's website. They had branches in Zurich, Paris, Milan, Buenos
Aires, Johannesburg and Shanghai. Who would have thought such an international enterprise had offices in an industrial park in New Jersey?

And I called Julie. We went out to celebrate that night. She'd read about Derma-Teq in one of the European trade magazines. But she said Nordstrom's didn't carry it and she didn't know who did. I reminded her that once upon a time, before her tenure, Markson & Daughter didn't have prime department store real estate either. And that Olivia's first counter was in the back of Macy's—the last stop in cosmetics land, just before you got to men's socks.

Eventually she let on how worried she'd been, and how she prayed every night for me to find a job—a whole lot different from the response from my Live Five crew, who basically saw my misfortune as gossip material. Well, I had prayed every night too, and lots of times during the day. I had been through some hard stuff in my life, but losing my job? I wouldn't wish that on another soul—with the possible exception of Didier of course, and Gerald. But now it was my turn to get up off my knees and strut my stuff.

The morning I started at Derma-Teq felt like the first day at a new school. I made my lunch; of course, if Leandra wanted to eat out to encourage our bonding, I could work with that. And if I had an expense account…

Anyway, I had already memorized the Derma-Teq product line and tried all the samples I'd gotten after my interview. Maybe I was overly eager, but my complexion did seem particularly radiant.

I had picked out my outfit the night before: black suit, chocolate silk sweater, tiger pumps—simple and chic because in the cosmetics industry appearances matter. I even splurged
on a manicure. I considered red because I was celebrating, but neutral seemed more in keeping with the Derma-Teq aesthetic. My old manicurist looked at me like I had come back from the grave, and dipping my fingertips in that warm cream again sure felt good.

I hadn't realized how much I'd missed the rhythm of going to work. Seriously. I liked having a good excuse to look nice five days a week, having people depend on me and having something important to contribute.

By eight-forty that Monday morning I was sitting in the parking lot, clutching my steering wheel, petrified—didn't see that coming, but all of a sudden it dawned on me that this was only the second job I'd had in my whole life. Then I was serenaded by a selection from the What-If chorus—they stood behind me, next to me, in front of me or hovered over me like the Mighty Clouds of Doubt. They had become such a regular accompaniment to my life's symphony—I had gotten used to them showing up uninvited, unannounced and definitely unwelcome. And there they were, right on time. What if I couldn't do the job? What if I didn't fit in? What if I hated it? I couldn't turn off the song and my teeth were almost chattering, which was not in keeping with the confident impression I wanted to make. That's when my cell phone rang. It was Julie, calling to say break a leg. It couldn't have been more on time. Then she told me how nice I had been on her first day and how much it had meant. I never knew that. I barely even remember, but I'm glad it made a difference. And hearing Julie's voice sure helped me calm down, so I checked for sesame seeds between my teeth, gave myself a confident look in the mirror and in I went.

Pilar, the receptionist/customer-service rep/office manager/ sometimes translator looked effortlessly stylish in that under
stated, unadorned kind of way. She wasn't tall, but she sure was tan and young and lovely, and she spoke with a sophisticated accent that reminded me of someplace exotic, exclusive and expensive. Even the supporting players were classy. There was no rudeness and gum chewing. She welcomed me, introduced me around to the folks who were already in their cubicles, some of them already on the phone. I figured they must be dealing with contacts in Europe or South America. It was an intimate office, meaning the staff wasn't big. There were still a few empty desks so it looked like they were planning for growth, which was a good sign. Even though I swore I'd never do it again, it was exciting to be in on the ground floor.

When we got to the kitchenette, I wished I hadn't eaten breakfast. There were fresh bagels, fruit, yogurt, granola bars, tea, hot chocolate, juice, water and, for later, cookies, snack packs and soda. Great for employee moral. I did get coffee. And Phill breezed in to get samples and some papers before heading out to make calls up in Westchester and the Stamford–New Haven area. “Hey Tee! You're our edge. Maybe I should just call you Ms. Sharp,” is what he said to me, whatever that was supposed to mean. Then Pilar showed me to my office, said Leandra would be in shortly.

When I was alone I twirled in my chair like it was the teacup ride. I could have kissed my shiny flatscreen monitor. The room was hardly sprawling, but my desk, bookshelf and credenza were pretty spiffy—some kind of mocha laminate with brushed aluminum accents and frosted glass-door panels. There was no window, but I did have an attractive framed Derma-Teq poster of a black woman with silky skin. Coincidence? I didn't know or care. It looked like a first-rate operation, and I was thrilled to be there.

Leandra looked excited to see me. We spent a lot of the morning in her office, which, in addition to Derma-Teq décor, had trophies and medals from her days as an elite collegiate basketball player. She'd even played some pro ball in Australia, hoping to make it to the WNBA, except her eggshell knees, as she called them, gave out. But it seems Steven Wu, founder of Derma-Teq, was a big fan of women's basketball, especially number 15. When she retired, he contacted her, offered her a job—she was, after all, a business-administration major, like myself. She worked a few years at the company headquarters in Shanghai, then relocated to New Jersey to start American operations. Shanghai to central Jersey—that's gotta give you whiplash.

Anyway, we took care of routine paperwork, like my medical insurance forms. I sure was looking forward to having coverage again, even if it was just to get a PAP smear and a flu shot.

Lunch turned out to be a pleasant surprise. It was catered daily by the company—soup, salad, assorted sandwiches. I heard Fridays were wild—you order what you want and they pick up the tab. Depending on the day people would gather around the conference table for conversation and a group meal or go back to their desks to finish what they were working on. That was two sponsored meals a day. What a perk. I'd hardly need the supermarket.

That afternoon I huddled with Leandra and she filled me in on my mission. Derma-Teq had found acceptance in other countries, but they didn't have a niche in the U.S. market. Their crèmes and preparations weren't prescription-strength drugs, so they had run into problems with the FDA about what they could claim on their packaging. They were definitely too expensive to be a drugstore brand, but they didn't have their footing in department or specialty stores yet either.

It gave me a lot to think about and brought me squarely back to Olivia's loft, that first newspaper article and the jars with my handwritten labels. A little before five, Leandra asked if I would stay late. On the first day? But she had a videoconference scheduled with Steven Wu for six-fifteen—p.m. our time, a.m. his time—and she wanted to introduce me. I couldn't turn that down. Who knows, maybe there'd be a trip to Shanghai or someplace else exotic in my future.

First off, he didn't look like any PhD chemist I ever imagined. Mr. Wu was definitely not the lab-coat and pocket-protector variety. It was before dawn, but he was already seriously styling with a black suit and silk T-shirt that fit him flawlessly and set off his silver-streaked hair. He looked like a rock star, an actor or a spy—merely a professional observation. And I couldn't help thinking of Olivia, who looked like a flying mess the first time I saw her. It takes all kinds. We spoke briefly. He told me how much he had admired Olivia and the Markson brand and that he looked forward to my input. I truly wasn't expecting the English accent, but something about him inspired confidence. I wanted to be a part of the team and I was so fired up that before I went to bed that night I started making notes in my laptop—on my laptop—however you say it.