Chapter 3
Audrey Tripp
The warring scents of disinfectant and decay invade my sinuses, adding another layer to my misery, but I push through the discomfort and walk deeper into the building.
Although older, smaller, and further from the city than my mother’s current facility, it’s the best of all the ones I’ve looked at today.
It’s also more expensive, but I’ll make it work. Somehow.
If I had more time, I could look for something cheaper and closer, but my ex-stepfather’s threat pounds through my cotton-packed skull. I spent a sleepless, worry-filled night curled up in the corner of my bed with my tablet in my lap and my blanket over my head.
The couple in the apartment above me got into a knock-down-drag-out fight around one a.m. while the drunkard on the other side of the flimsy wall snored so loudly the guy living on the other side of him kept shouting in annoyance.
A baby down the hall cried around three, but the mom responded so fast no one yelled at her.
My fabric fortress muffled the chaos and soothed my inner child.
Even though I know putting a blanket over my head doesn’t offer me more safety, it makes me feel less small.
I don’t hide under the covers often, since it dredges up too many memories, but after yesterday’s upheaval, I needed whatever comfort I could find.
Charlotte Reed, the Director of Nursing, stops beside the front desk and turns to face me.
“And that concludes the tour. Do you have any questions or concerns?” she asks.
“I’d like a few minutes to look over the packet you gave me,” I say.
Her understanding smile eases the ball of angst lodged behind my sternum.
“Of course! Would you rather sit in the receiving area or a private room?” she asks.
After a moment of consideration, I gesture to the cozy seating area across from the front desk.
She nods and asks if I would like a beverage, but I decline and settle on the armchair in the corner.
After a quick flip through the pages, I comb through the fine print, keeping a mental list of questions, and sit back with the packet in my lap to observe for a few minutes.
Fully aware my handful of minutes can’t account for what happens behind the scenes, I decide to transfer my mom as soon as possible, but after vetting countless medical practices over the years, I rise to continue my ruse.
The nurse behind the counter pages the Director. Less than two minutes later, she strides through the double glass doors.
“Any questions?” she asks without preamble.
I nod and launch into my list of questions.
When she patiently answers each of my concerns without hesitation, I soften my stance and smile.
“How soon can you accept her transfer?” I ask.
“As soon as you’re ready,” she says.
“How about tomorrow? I’ve already notified her current facility and begun paperwork on that side,” I explain.
She lifts her brows in concern.
“Are you concerned about her current safety?”
I hesitate.
“Her caretakers have been amazing, and I’m sad to move her, but your privacy policies are a big reason I’ve chosen to transfer her,” I say.
When she nods in understanding, a weight lifts off my shoulders.
“As soon as we sign papers and set up payment, I’ll call our preferred safety transport. They’re very discreet,” she says.
I smile my thanks and follow her into the office.
“Should I make sure they have room for you on the transport?” she asks as she sits behind her desk.
I shake my head.
“I have work tomorrow and she handles change better when I’m not involved,” I say.
She pauses with her hand inside the filing cabinet against the wall. When she swings intense grey eyes at me, I realize my tone revealed too much.
“We can include special instructions to best fit the situation in your contract,” she says.
Less than an hour later, I walk through the front doors and into the last rays of evening sun.
Without skyscrapers and buildings blocking the sky, the colorful sunset steals my attention.
I stop for a moment to appreciate the view before heading to the car.
Exhaustion drags at my feet and a pit of dread lodges in my stomach as the thin white scratches on the trunk mock me, but I open the door and drop into the driver’s seat.
Hitting the lock button out of habit, I buckle my seat belt before turning the ignition. The engine hums to life.
My stomach growls. I stop at the nearest gas station, fill the tank, and grab a few familiar convenience foods.
Unwilling to dirty the inside of the car, I pay and eat standing along the wall near the register in obvious view of the security camera.
The guy behind the counter gives me a weird side-eye but decides to ignore me.
I drive straight to the company and use my badge to enter the carpark.
After filling out the proper paperwork, I return the keys to the guard and walk to the subway.
No one bothers me as I take my normal route home.
My faded jeans, old sneakers, and bloodshot eyes help me blend into the crowd. Even on Sundays, the city never sleeps.
Despite my exhaustion, I stay vigilant as I exit the station and walk the last few blocks to my building. I barely manage to drag my body through a quick shower and my nightly routine of downing a glass of water before dropping onto my mattress.
I sink into sleep like a stone tossed into a lake, but pop awake sweaty and disoriented less than an hour later.
After tiptoeing across the cold floor and pouring a glass of water from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, I sit in the far back corner of the bed with my knees tucked to my chest and my blankets wrapped tight around me.
With the sound of rodents scurrying through the apartments and my neighbors causing their normal nightly ruckus, I filter through emails and fine tune the interim CEO’s schedule—as well as add a few updates to the other executives and half of the department heads’ task lists—for the next few days before my body succumbs to exhaustion again.
My alarm saves me from my never-ending loop of nightmares.
I jolt awake and crawl out of bed, the corner now stifling with horrible memories fresh in my mind.
After washing off the fear sweat and dressing in my Monday attire—a white shirt and navy skirt suit—I twist my hair into a bun, apply the least amount of makeup I can get away with while hiding the bags under my eyes, pack my briefcase, and check each compartment of my zippered tote bag before slipping my feet into my pumps and locking the door behind me.
I fade into the bustling crowd during morning rush hour and reach the coffee shop across from the office building fifteen minutes earlier than normal.
The barista smirks when she recognizes me and asks if I want the usual.
I pass her the sticky note I filled out during my subway ride and the company card I’ve had since I took the promotion and became the CEO’s secretary three years ago.
Even though the executive floor has its own kitchen, I buy the first round of coffee for upper management and their personal assistants and secretaries every morning, and in return, everyone begins their day speaking with me instead of gathering to gossip around the coffee maker.
I’ve become the person everyone trusts in the office, which eases the friction when a task requires multiple departments.
I pull my collapsible drink carriers out of my tote bag and place them in the barista’s outstretched hand.
Her amused smile is so at odds with the city’s cutthroat energy I can’t help but offer her a return grin.
As mundane as the task may be, the moment reminds me that there’s still good in humanity.
The bright blue sturdy plastic of the drink carriers stands out amidst the coffee chain’s darker color scheme. Not an ounce of embarrassment rises in me despite how odd they look on the counter.
They represent my growth over the last decade. I still remember my days of balancing carton trays of piping hot coffee across the street only to spill them all over me at the last second.
Never again.
And with these, I can lug eight drinks in one hand without worrying about spilling. It’s fantastic.
The moment I bought these stupid, nifty little things was the moment I realized tools make all the difference in workflow. The internal revelation led me to where I am today—more successful and better paid than I ever thought possible.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I move to the end of the counter and read the text.
The caretakers just loaded my mother into the transporter. I swallow a lump of emotions as my phone buzzes again and a photo joins the message. With dazed eyes from the light sedative I requested for her comfort, she waves and smiles at the camera.
I haven’t seen her smile since a few months before my ex-stepfather’s attack. She only has hatred and contempt for me now and will probably never smile at me or hug me again, but as long as she’s healthy and comfortable, I’ll suffer in silence.
It’s what I deserve for leaving her behind that night. For not returning sooner. For surviving.
I clear my throat and send a quick reply before checking the group chat with the other executive officers’ secretaries.
When the barista calls my name, I thank her and slip her two ten-dollar bills—one for her and one for her coworker—as I accept the first carrier of drinks.
The cash is my personal thanks, since I already included an above average tip on the company card.
She winks and passes me the other carrier before slapping the second bill into her younger coworker’s hand and moving back to the register.