Figure Eight Page 3

  The lady nodded with understanding. She patted my shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that.” And then she walked away.

  My relief was palpable. Yet all I could think about was what if I wasn’t as lucky next time? What if the thoughtful, kind woman didn’t find her and bring her back? What if it was someone not as understanding? Mom would be taken away from me forever.

  “Selah, I was here the whole time, you just didn’t look hard enough!” Mom says sharply.

  This is an argument that has no end in sight. Mom has her version of the truth and I have mine. The truth is somewhere in the middle but neither one of us has the desire to search for it.

  “Look I don’t want to argue with you right now.” My hand curls around the doorknob. I twist around to look in Mom’s direction. “This interview is important and I’m not leaving unless you go with me.”

  Mom sighs heavily and slowly stands up. “Fine. I’ll go. But I’m not changing.”

  Impatiently, I look down at my watch. I’m down to ten minutes. “Fine,” I rush out. “Let’s just go.”

  “Oh, this is a bad idea,” she mutters as I usher her out the door.

  “No it’s not.”

  “What kind of person is going to hire a thirty-year-old woman that has her elderly mother tagging along?”

  I’m thinking the same thing myself, but what other choice do I have?

  “One: You’re not elderly.”

  “I’m fifty-three.”

  “So you’re a young elderly,” I say without missing a beat. “Two: They won’t even notice you,” I lie. “They’ll probably think you’re a client.”

  Another lie but if it makes Mom feel better then I’ll lie until I’m blue in the face. Judging from her single arched brow I know she’s not buying it.

  As we pull out of the driveway Mom mutters beneath her breath. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “YOU CAN DO this, you can do this,” I chant as I sit in my car directly outside the credit union. My stomach has been in knots all morning. I ate a bit of toast and coffee and almost threw it up. Anxiety makes my heart race.

  “Of course you can, honey,” Mom says.

  I look out at her from the corner of my eye. I didn’t realize I said my words out loud. My lips kick up into a small smile. “Thank you.”

  “Now remember—when you’re nervous you tend to fidget with your hands. Lace them together and place them on your lap.”

  My confidence grows with Mom’s words, which is ridiculous; I’m not a child. But for a millisecond I saw a small part of Mom, the one I’d known for so long, shining through.

  “Alright,” I breathe. “Lets go in.”

  Mom shoots the brick building in front of us a worried look. “Selah… it’s bad enough that you dragged me here. But go inside? Don’t you think they’ll find that strange?”

  Of course they’ll find it strange. What sane person wouldn’t? I turn in my seat, my seatbelt strap digging into the side of my neck. “It’s not a big deal, alright? Just act like you’re in there to cash a check or something.” I finish my words with a bright smile.

  “And when I don’t have a check to cash?” she challenges.

  “I don’t know,” I reply impatiently. “Just say you’re waiting for a family member!” I glance at the half-filled parking lot. “It looks relatively busy. They probably won’t even notice you’re there.”

  With a heavy sigh Mom nods before she unbuckles her seat and gets out. The sky is a slate gray as snow continues to fall all around us. A snowplow drives by on the main road, pushing the snow towards the side of the road.

  It’s a lazy day, the kind that makes you want to cuddle up on the couch, burrowed deep in a blanket with a cup of coffee between your hands. Hell, even the sun is too lazy to peek out from behind the clouds.

  Shoulder to shoulder we walk toward the credit union. It’s directly off Dividend, a fairly busy road. I take in the tan building, with its meticulous landscaping now hidden under a cloak of snow. It wouldn’t be so bad to work here. The only downside is that it takes about fifteen minutes, give or take, to get here from my house. I want to be close to Mom, just in case. But if I try to stay close to Wildwood, my options will consist of gas stations, fast food, a tanning salon, a Farm and Fleet and a Kroger’s.

  My confidence continues to cling to me as I hurry ahead of Mom and open one of the front doors. A gust of warm air brushes against my skin. With the frigid temps we’ve had the past few days the heat should feel amazing. But I’m so nervous my skin feels clammy.

  Confident. You are confident, I tell myself.

  The pressure I feel to get this job is unbearable. Every day that I buy groceries, fuel up my car, or take a shower I hear the sound effect of a cash register. I picture my savings slowly dwindling away until it ends up with a negative balance. There’s nothing I can think of to ease my fears. No ‘it’s going to be okay’ pep talks, because there are no guarantees that everything will be all right.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” I murmur into Mom’s ear. I gesture to the open seats to our left. “Just sit and read a magazine. If you get thirsty you can ask the—”

  “I’m not a child,” Mom interjects sharply.

  “I know,” I say slowly. “I’m just trying to give you options of things to do.”

  “Hello.” The lady behind the front desk greets me.

  All of a sudden my confidence takes off. I jerk my head to the right. Behind a large curved desk is a lady with a bright smile. Another woman sits to her left with a phone cradled to her ear and eyes glued to the computer screen in front of her.

  Quickly, I glance at my Mom. “Stay here,” I whisper before I walk toward the front desk. I see the lady quickly glance at Mom.

  “Hi, I have an 11:30 interview with Dan McEntire,” I say in a bright voice, the one I use to convince strangers that my life isn’t as fucked-up as it appears.

  The lady blinks rapidly. Her brilliant smile never fades. “Of course. You can have a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “Thank you.” I turn around feeling the secretary’s eyes on me. On Mom. Mom pats the seat next to her. I sit down and place my purse in my lap like it’s a protective barrier.

  “Don’t worry,” Mom murmurs.

  I grab one of the many magazine placed on the coffee table and blindly flip through it. “I’m not worried.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “I’m not.” I pause. “There’s just a lot riding on this.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Mom insists. “There are plenty of jobs.”

  I drop the magazine onto my lap. “Have you seen the job selection out there? It’s slim pickings!” I hiss.

  “Everything will be fine.”

  Will it though? No one can predict the future. We want to. We all want to prepare ourselves for the pain or happiness that could be coming our way. If that were possible I would’ve put more money into my savings. I would’ve kept a closer eye on Mom. I would’ve never left Kansas City.

  “Ms. Kerrington? He’s ready for you.” She glances at Mom and back at me. First instinct is to defend my decision in bringing her, but I know that explaining things would honestly just make things worse.

  I stand and adjust my black blazer. I paired my black blazer (and only blazer) with black slacks and a white dress shirt. To me, it screamed, I’m responsible! Hire me!

  It was probably a good thing I didn’t have a checking account with them. If I did, they’d take one look at the balance and throw my resume away.

  I walk toward the hall with my head held high as though the lady behind me with limp, stringy hair, pale skin and sad eyes isn’t related to me.

  I KNOW THE second I leave the building that I didn’t get the job.

  When I step into the front lobby Mom is still in the same spot where I left her. She’s in good spirits and greets me with a bright smile. The receptionist, though? Well I can’t say the same about her. She stares at Mom like she’s lost her damn
mind.

  “Have a nice day,” she says as we walk out the door.

  My left hand gently curls around Mom’s elbow. It’s so fragile. One big squeeze and I think I could snap it in half. The thought serves as a reminder that Mom needs me more than ever. She needs me to be the shield between the world and the depression taking over her life.

  I look over my shoulder at the receptionist and shoot her a dirty look. There’s no reason for her to judge Mom or me. I know my actions are one more check mark against me landing this job.

  When I get inside the car I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and groan. “Shoot me. Just shoot me now.”

  “That bad?”

  I lift my head and sigh. “I wouldn’t even say it went bad. It’s just that I could tell he didn’t think I was qualified for the job and it’s clerical work,” I explain.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” She pats my hand. “There’s a bigger and better job on the horizon.”

  Mom sounds so happy and optimistic and if I were just starting out on this job search I might’ve believed her. I think my lack of enthusiasm shows on my face because Mom says, “How about we go get something to eat?”

  I don’t have dumbass written across my forward. Her suggestion is a ploy to take my mind off yet another bad interview. But Mom’s starting to look like she licks granola bars for meals, so I nod.

  “Where do you want to go?” I ask, as I put the car in reverse.

  “Krekel’s?”

  My stomach grumbles at the suggestion. “Krekel’s it is.”

  The drive there is filled with silence. We drive across the Staley Bridge, notorious for the stench that finds its way into your car and makes you want to gag. When Sam and I were younger we’d go over the bridge holding our breath and whoever made it without gasping for air won.

  But I’m too distracted by my interview to be bothered by the smell. Plus, Mom is humming a song that I’ve never heard before.

  “What are you humming?”

  “A song,” she replies, as she stares out the window.

  “I get that but what song?”

  “Just an old hymn that your grandmother loved.”

  “Why are you humming it?”

  “Why are you in such a bad mood?” Mom counters.

  “I’m not,” I say, even though my hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles are white.

  Silently, we get out of the car. There’s only the sound of traffic zooming by. This isn’t the best area of Decatur but it certainly isn’t the worst. There’s a used car dealership next door and we’re surrounded by ranch style homes. Cars with oversized rims and bass systems to match are parked in the driveway.

  At this time of day the restaurant is almost empty so we quickly get a booth and grab the menus placed behind the ketchup and mustard. A haggard blonde with coal-black roots and makeup slowly melting off her face approaches. Before she can say anything Mom cuts in.

  “We already know what we want. A Diet Coke, and a number two for me.” She gives me a sparring glance before she points a finger in my direction. “And a Dr. Pepper and a number five for her. Can you put cheese on the fries, please?”

  The waitress looks both dumbfounded and pleased that for once she doesn’t have to rattle off the specials for the umpteenth time. “All right,” she says as she takes our menus. “I’ll have your orders out as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The waitress gives Mom another quizzical glance before she walks away. Not that I blame her. What she’s just experienced is the self- sufficient, know-what-I-want Susie Kerrington and it’s impossible to know when and where she’ll decide to make a grand appearance. You just have to go with the flow. Although today I’m not in the mood for it.

  “So,” Mom sighs and smiles happily at me. “Any more interviews?”

  I roll my neck and take a deep breath. “No. Not yet.”

  My fingers tap against the sticky table as my right leg bounces up and down. I feel time slipping from my fingers and what am I doing about it? Sitting here, having lunch.

  “What’s the rush anyway? Let the right job come to you!”

  I bite down on my lip. I’ve always loved my mom’s eccentric, hippie way of thinking. But in times of stress she tended to fold in on herself and throw her problems out to the world, hoping that someone would catch them, fix them, and toss them right back to her.

  Typically that person is me. But very swiftly I’m starting to see that this isn’t a problem that I can fix. I can’t click my heels together and have a job and all the bills paid. Mom looks at me, her green eyes blinking with a bewildered expression as she waits for me to answer.

  “There’s no rush,” I lie. I’m starting to get really good at that. Too bad there’s no job for that. “I’m just being dramatic.”

  “You were always like that. Worry, worry, worry!” she says with a soft chuckle, as if we’re taking a walk down memory lane.

  I wonder if she’d be laughing if she knew how little I had in my bank account. The mere thought of it makes me nauseous. Something hard settles in my stomach and I push away my food.

  “Mom, I may be a dreamer but this time there’s no exaggeration on my part.”

  She takes a bite out of her hamburger and frowns at me.

  “If I don’t find a job soon then we are royally fucked,” I say bluntly.

  “Language, Selah!” Mom admonishes.

  “Well, it’s the truth!”

  Another bite of her sandwich.

  You know how people say they’re emotional eaters when they’re upset or sometimes even happy? My Mom is one of them and right now she is trying to push aside her fear by attacking her food with gusto.

  I try to soften my approach. “We have bills to be paid, and if weren’t for my savings we wouldn’t be coasting along like we are right now.”

  She’s quiet for a few second. Creases appear between her brows as she frowns down at her almost empty plate. “You may think I don’t notice what’s going on, but I do. I just believe panicking isn’t going to fix anything. What have I always told you? The right job will find its way to you.”

  “Your words haven’t fallen on deaf ears. I believe you. The only problem is that I don’t have the time to wait for that perfect job. At this point I’ll take anything I can get.”

  “And just waste your degree? You’re an amazing teacher!” Mom says heatedly. “Any school would be lucky to have you.”

  “You’re my mother. If you said anything different about me, something’s up.”

  “Selah, I mean it.”

  “What do you want me to do? I’ve put out resumes all over.”

  Mom starts to list all the school districts around us. I’ve gone to about ninety-five percent of them looking for a job. She becomes quiet. Her shoulders slump. Then she says, “Move back to Kansas City.”

  “Sure,” I say, playing along. “As long as you come with me.”

  Mom lifts her eyes and says stoically, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Neither am I, then,” I shoot back.

  She sighs and rubs her temples as if I’m giving her a headache. “Selah, how many times are we going to have this conversation?”

  “Until you understand that you can’t be by yourself.”

  “But I can,” she repeats slowly, like she’s talking to five-year old. I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself.”

  I start to reply but I see the waitress plodding our way and shut my mouth.

  “Are you ready for some dessert?” the waitress asks listlessly, almost as though she’s forced by her manager to ask each and every customer this question.

  This conversation isn’t over but I can tell Mom is ready for it to be. I’m about to tell the waitress yes, but before I even open my mouth Mom smiles brightly at her and says, “We’ll take the check, please.”

  WHEN I PULL into the driveway, I stifle a groan. After lunch I got it in my head that it’d be a good idea to s
tay out of the house. Maybe part of Mom’s problem is that she holes herself away from the world. Maybe that’s what’s making her so sad. So we braved the bitterly cold weather and slowly walked the bike trail. A few ladies dressed in puffy jackets, black yoga pants and mittens walked past us, furiously speed walking.

  After that we went to Kroger’s. We were out of the house almost the whole day and I felt damn proud of myself. Yet there’s one thing I didn’t take into account: at end of the workday, there’s a sudden influx of vehicles driving down our street. People filter in and out of their houses, leaving the front door open so you can hear the TV’s blaring, neighbors speaking to one another, kids giggling loudly, car doors slamming. This goes on for an hour or so before everyone finally meanders into their homes for the night. And right now I’m stuck in the middle of it.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I mutter beneath my breath as I open the car door.

  Mom gleefully opens her door and it seems like the day out of the house did her good. Almost too good, because she practically skips to the back of the car. She slaps the trunk. “Open up!” she shouts. “I’ll help with groceries.”

  I can feel people’s eyes on us. My blood boils; Mom is established on this street. Like the tall oaks lining the road, she’s been here forever. And that’s what has made her downfall all the more depressing.

  “Mom.” I rush to her side. “Let me do that.” I try to grab the bags dangling from her hands but she won’t have it.

  “There’s Trina with her girls!” Mom says as we cut through the front lawn, fresh snow coating her shoes.

  “Yes, I see them.”

  I hook my arm through hers and gently guide her toward the porch. I have to get her inside before she says or does something that draws even more attention to herself.

  “Hi Trina!” Mom calls out enthusiastically. She lifts her free hand and waves.

  I stifle a groan and stop walking long enough to look over Mom’s head. Even without Mom’s greeting it’d be impossible to go incognito. In Wildwood everyone knows everyone. There are the hermits that keep to themselves barely offering their neighbors a passing glance. Then you have the outgoing ones who greet everyone on the block like they’re family. Mom is the latter.