Chapter 7
___
Nate
Bev and I work the front desk because Bev needs to fill in for Janice. Although “front desk” may be an overstatement. It’s a small standing desk about the size of a coffin, with a scary stack of files next to it.
“Why am I here?” I ask.
“You tell me.” She stops typing and looks up at me with those caramel-colored eyes, which have constellations of gold in them, I now notice. “What happened with the exec?”
I frown. “Why am I at this desk?”
“Because Chandra will be returning.” She goes back to focusing on the computer screen. “And I want us to interact in a functional way. I’ll ask you to file, and you say, ‘Sure thing.’”
“Sure thing?” The words feel weird, hitting my teeth wrong. “It’s not even something I’d say. It sounds like something a pottery teacher would say.”
She side-glances at me. “What? ”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a pottery teacher,” I assure her.
She shakes her head as if it’s beyond her to even ask.
The bell above the front door rings, and she says instantly, “Please file this, Nate.”
“Sure thing,” I say so cheerfully that it sounds like I’m about to break out in song for a Broadway musical.
We both seem to realize at the same time it’s not Chandra. A man, thirty-ish, with a tech bro vibe, and lots of wearable fitness trackers—an Apple watch and Oura ring—looks around the room, scanning all the adoption photos and posters. “Hi,” he finally says, focusing in on Bev.
And might I say, focusing a bit too much on Bev.
“Can we help you?” I ask loudly, trying to get his attention off her.
“I’d like info on adopting.” He rocks back on his feet, and I notice he’s wearing high-tech sandals. He seems like one of those guys who ties a kayak to his car and eats dehydrated camping food. But what bothers me the most is that he’s still looking at Bev.
I exit the desk area and step in front of Bev. “Bev, here, is my manager. I can be your first point of contact. So how can I help?”
He narrows his eyes. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
I glance back at Bev to make sure she’s seeing this. And she is.
“Did my company, Brava, hire you last year?” he asks. “You’re the zoom guy? The guy who forgot to turn off his camera and took a piss during one of our Growth Gabfests?” He waves a hand as if trying to get the explaining aspect over with. “We renamed our ‘meetings’ Growth Gabfests. ”
The muscles in my jaw flex. Oh, he wants to play this way. “Growth gabfests? Are you fuc—"
“That’s so cool,” Bev interjects.
We both look at her, not sure what she’s talking about, but we probably each hope it has to do with ourselves. “That you call your meetings ‘Growth Gabfests.’”
“Is it though?” I ask.
“Yes.” Bev smiles.
“Plus, if you saw my—” I growl.
“Okay, okay,” Bev cuts me off again. She steps out from behind our desk. “This is our disgruntled intern who has unfortunately been court-appointed to work here. Please don’t take offense.”
Tech Bro saunters closer to Bev. “I won’t.” He sticks out his hand for a shake. “And you are?”
Her hand meets his, and she says, “I’m Bev Polaski.”
Tech Bro holds her hand too long, looking in her eyes, and what does he think this is? Some kind of date?
“I’m Nate.” I jab my hand next to theirs, so he’s forced to shake my own. “Nate Hart.” I want to add, “the rock star,” but I haven’t sunk that low.
Tech Bro is STILL LOOKING AT BEV. Still. Looking. At. Bev. I can’t quite believe it. “So how can we help you?”
“I think I remember you,” Tech Bro says to Bev. “From the last fundraiser?”
Bev’s face lights up. “That’s right. Tommy!” She seems delighted. A little too delighted. “Nate, could you go get Tommy a cup of coffee? Tommy, how would you like your coffee?”
Tommy holds up a hand. No wedding band. Ugh. “No, don’t bother yourselves. I had a protein shake before I came. ”
I’m about to comment on this, politely of course, but before I can, Bev says hurriedly, “Nate, please go check on Louise.”
I look over at Bev as if to ask, “Are you sure?”
She nods, dismissing me, before turning her attention—bright and lavish—back on Tommy. I stalk from the room, seething. Who is this guy? Asking if I’m the, “Zoom guy?”
Oh, I know what he’s doing. I know guys like that.
I enter the cat room without fear of being mauled for the first time since working at MBAS. Because I don’t care. Annoyance radiates off me in waves.
I join Louise and stand next to her perch. She stares out the window into the hallway, and I do too, hoping to get a glimpse if they walk by. They say pets and owners begin to resemble each other. Maybe this is the beginning of a long partnership between Louise and me.
I think back to the book I ordered, REBECCA, the book I saw in Bev’s car. In it, the main character, Joan, becomes obsessed with her husband’s former wife, Rebecca. Joan memorizes Rebecca’s signature, repeats Rebecca’s name, and tries to learn everything she can about her. She even begins to repeat her name.
I feel a glimmer of understanding as I whisper, “Beverly,” against the window. My breath fogs a small patch of glass, which quickly evaporates, until I whisper her name again, “Beverly.”
Truth be told, I like the sound of her name, the shape it makes in my mouth, and what it does to my tongue. How erotic it’d be to whisper in her ear, “Beverly.”
Louise meows next to me.
I’m startled out of my thoughts and look at her.
She stares at me, unblinking.
I don’t know what to do .
She meows again, looking docile. Her little “meow” sounds so innocent, so sweet.
I reach to pet her, but before I can, she hisses. Horrifically.
I’m so confused. I thought she wanted to be petted. Why all the mixed signals?
“Ah!” I back away, heart pounding.
I know which cat I’ll recommend to Tommy.
___
I haven’t seen Bev for a few hours, so I set out to find her. Hopefully, she hasn’t run off with Tommy and his lame sandals.
I enter the empty break room, and she sits on the fuchsia couch, huddled over, arms cradling her stomach.
“Are you okay?” I ask, sitting next to her.
“Did you do the poo rounds?” If a voice could be pale, that’s hers right now. Washed out like a watercolor when I’m used to vibrant painted oils.
I nod. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She fingers a gold necklace. Is that a wiener dog? I think about commenting on it, teasing her, but by the way she touches it, like a precious comfort, I know not to.
“Did that Tech Bro hurt you?” My voice is edged with violence. And I don’t really do violence. But I will if I have to.
“Tommy?”
“He has a name? ”
She tries to smirk but can’t quite finish the expression because she winces instead.
“Food poisoning?” I ask. “Can you get that from cookies?”
She grips her midsection tighter. “I have bad cramps, alright? Every month they’re like this, but birth control makes me depressed. So.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“I’m kind of doctor-ed out.” She looks at me as if to see if I understand. I don’t. So she says, “With my dad.”
“You’re taking care of him.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, who is taking care of you?” I ask, genuinely curious, and wonder if the answer will involve a boyfriend.
She looks around the room as if she’ll find the answer there. “Me.”
It’s not that I don’t think she can take care of herself. Because I do. I really do. In fact, if anyone can take care of anyone, it’s Bev Polaski, plus a dozen other oddball animals. “Don’t they say everyone needs a support system?” I ask. “Especially in tough times like taking care of your pops?”
“I have Aimi, and she’s the best. She’s like a million different support systems all in one.”
Somehow this doesn’t seem like enough. Not knocking Aimi. But how much can one person really do? “Any other friends?”
“They’re all in the city. And, you know,” she says, but I don’t know. “I moved here to take care of my dad. So.”
I’m trying to figure out what to say to that when she says suddenly, “Besides, I saw a doctor in high school about my cramps, and they just told me to take B vitamins. ”
“Well, did you?”
“Yeah, but I still threw up.”
“You threw up?” I have a sister, but even I didn’t know it could be this bad.
“It’s gotten better as I’ve gotten older. But it still hurts. And the pain I’m in now…I don’t think it’s really about lack of vitamins.”
“Have you taken anything now? I mean, if there’s an allergy cabinet, there’s got to be Tylenol.”
She sighs. “We usually have ibuprofen, but we’re out. I’m honestly thinking of taking some veterinary Tylenol.”
I must do something. I can’t just sit here and let her overdose on bunny Tylenol. I’m her intern after all. “I’ll be back.”
I walk faster than I have in a while out to the parking lot. I hop in my jeep EV and hightail it to the island’s CVS. I stalk past the beach chairs and sunscreen displays, smelling vaguely of coconut, and head towards the pharmacy. I think about what my sister would want and scour the aisles for a heating pad and ibuprofen. It’s not much, but it’ll do.
I drive back, unsure what to make of this. I’m not a nice guy. I’m what you might call, “A dick.” Still, I need her healthy if she’s going to fend off the Tommy’s of this world.
I find her in the cat room, playing with a laser pointer. “It’s all I can muster,” she says, still pale.
I search for the closest electrical outlet and plug in the heating pad. I pour out two ibuprofen into my palm and pull the bottle of water from my bag. “Here,” I say.
When she’s on the ground, staring up at me, her eyes look huge, doe-like even. “You got this for me?” she asks in disbelief .
“Yeah, why?” I ask as if it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. Or maybe not a big deal exactly . But it definitely feels like something shifted.
“I wasn’t expecting it,” she says. “Thank you.”
I don’t know what to do with her appreciation, and I also don’t know what to do with her surprise. So I divert. “Welcome to chaos,” I say like a dipshit and leave the room.
___
I wonder about loneliness as I throw a beer cap in my pool. It sinks like a penny. I’ll get it later. Or maybe I won’t. I watch it drift toward the bottom all the same.
Do we all feel loneliness the same way, or do we each have our own unique flavor? For me, I guess, I’ve felt different types over the course of my life. The kind of loneliness you can get in a big city or when you travel or when your friend doesn’t call you back for a weird amount of time or you’re fighting with your girlfriend.
But the loneliness I hate most is the kind I feel around my parents. When I wish they cared who I was as a person and not just about whether I’m fulfilling my “duty.” Or even just longing to be able to call them and have a solid talk. That kind of loneliness feels like someone pinches my heart and then twists for good effect.
My parents are good at being around if they want something. They know how to butter me up so good that I almost don’t care, even though I see it for what it is, because God, it feels good to have them talk to me. It’s fucking fantastic to be in their sunshine, if only a minute.
By all accounts, we probably look like the perfect family. Two “happily” married parents; a daughter and son; a big house growing up—not this one I bought for them later, which is even bigger. But the couches were always rigid; you had to use a coaster on literally every surface, and the echoes rang down the hallways (or “corridors” as my parents would say). It wasn’t a place that oozed warmth . It was about how things looked . Not how they actually were.
And growing up like that can leave you with a big hole in your heart. A void that’s impossible to look inside—even if you wanted to. But maybe you don’t even want to. Because it’s a void. And voids are fucking terrifying.
Here, I am thinking about voids again. I guess it’s just another Monday.
I pick through a few more photographs from the box at my feet. I search for clues. Trying to peel back the layers of this rotten onion—i.e. me—so that I can get some insight into the stage fright. But all I see is an unhappy kid staring back at me, a wobbly smile on his face. Performing when I wasn’t even technically performing. Pretending to be happy so I fit the image my parents wanted to project.
It all feels so goddamn heavy.
And I’m not even getting any answers.
I get up to grab another beer, texting Arjun as I walk across the patio. I need some company.
It occurs to me that I should text Bev to see how she’s feeling too. But I don’t have her number.
The thought stops me dead in my tracks.
Bev? Text Bev? Have I gone mental ?
She would probably tell HR, who would call the judge, and somehow, I’d end up fucked. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure the shelter has an HR department. But they’ve got to, right?
Anyway, no thanks.
Still, even though I’d never do it in a million years, it gives me pause. The wind picks up as if on cue, rustling the tree branches in a way that makes you stop and listen. For some reason, her name runs through my mind, like music, and I whisper into the wind, “Beverly.”
The void is still there. But weirdly the loneliness has lessened. I know I’ll see her tomorrow. Another opportunity to annoy her, I guess.