Chapter 20 Freedom, Sweet Freedom
NIGHT HAS FALLEN BY THE time I make it to the quiet(ish) and safe(ish) neighborhood of Turtle Bay.
Of course, this being New York City, the beautiful humanity here is gearing up to party instead of winding down.
Like an awkward salmon unwilling to push upstream, I hang back at the entrance to the Lexington Avenue station and observe them: gray and beige sweaters and black blazers and neutral hair colors, solids and designers and knockoff designers.
Sure, here and there, people wear bright-colored and eye-offending clothes, like parrots.
What matters is this: not a single person appears to be a witch, or like they’re trying to be one.
Halloween means little to anyone here but a party trick.
A couple of people are overconfident with the cologne, but on the whole, the masses smell showered.
And not like they cleansed themselves in a mugwort bath filled with rune stones and crystals, either.
Like they used tap water. And generic, store-bought shampoos.
I release the breath I’ve been holding for weeks.
“Sammy?”
I pan from our half kitchen and living room to the open door leading to the bedroom opposite mine.
A room that is technically a large closet.
Visible within is the most wonderful creature I’ve ever met, Jane Doe, sitting cross-legged on her single bed.
A claw clip holds back her off-blond hair.
She’s in matching cotton sweats. Her phone is propped against a pillow, the screen turned to a video call.
A man is on the other end. She waves at me.
I let out a longer sigh of relief than I did at the station. Then I shout, “Jane!” and run forward to greet her with a hug.
She hugs me loosely. “I’ve missed you, Sammy!”
I draw back, unable to stop smiling in spite of her repeated mistake.
“It’s actually Sabby, remember? With a b. I had a cold when I started using the nickname. I wanted to go by ‘Sammy,’ but my nose was clogged, so everyone heard it wrong.”
“That’s a little weird,” says Jane.
“Which is why Sammy’s fine too,” I say really fast, hugging her again. Because this is everything I’ve ever wanted. My life. My normal normal normal life.
And yet, as I unpack my bags and we catch up, and she reintroduces me to her boyfriend as Sammy on the video chat, my chest gets uncomfortably tight.
And no, it’s not my sports bra. It’s something else, some unnamable thing that makes me feel like I’m being squeezed between two fingers. Like a pimple.
After I’m done unpacking, and I’ve showered, I lie at last on my medium-firm mattress with the lights turned out. I try to fall asleep.
I don’t know why, but it takes quite a long time.
My first day reclaiming my big-city life opens with a frenzied whirlwind.
Being busy is on-brand in New York, a thought that lifts my mood in spite of waking up briefly terrified that I’ve been turned into a down-alternative-filled burrito.
Compared to Grandma Rose’s drafty pink house, this apartment unsettles me with its hyperactive radiators.
Since the wind will soon rob me of my unexpected warmth, I shrug on my tan faux-wool coat and four shades of beige beneath that and swelter my way down the city sidewalks. This outfit is good for more than the warmth; I pass ten people in this exact combination en route to Starbucks.
And that. Is. Glorious.
My neighborhood is not generally thought of as a neighborhood. That’s why I wanted to live here. Because people say, “Oh? Do people live in Turtle Bay?” That’s how little of a vibe it has.
I pass a hundred businesspeople, several unhoused people, a punk grandpa leashed to a shih tzu, and possibly a celebrity influencer. Among such unique people, I’m more than invisible. They are, strangely enough, also invisible. Catching no one else’s eyes, as far as I can tell, but mine.
As much as weirdness has become normalized in Salem, I think I’d forgotten how weirdness goes unnoticed in New York too. Like it doesn’t bother anyone. Like people don’t see any slipup of being weird as a big deal.
Previously, this comforted me.
This morning, I’m not so sure.
Once I have my most basic of basic coffees in hand, I arrive at the EFG headquarters a safe twenty minutes early.
I tuck my clipboard with my printed schedule beneath my arm and lift my eyes to the skyscraper’s soaring glass windows, reflecting a narrow strip of sky and the buildings mostly blocking it.
Doubtlessly, the sight of this towering building confuses small, migratory birds.
But I’m not confused. I just feel awestruck by what I’m beholding.
My future, unfolding before my eyes.
I hurry inside before a pigeon can poop on me or worse.
After informing reception of my arrival, I perch on a stiff Nordic chair and alternate between reviewing flash cards for my upcoming CPA exam and trying to look as inconspicuous and poised as a well-placed coffee table.
At last, Deborah from HR arrives and whisks me to a conference room on the fifth floor.
She makes small talk about the rat that was trapped in the elevator last week, which sounds painful for all involved.
Particularly for the security guard who now has three broken bones. The rat, thankfully, escaped unscathed.
“Anyway, the first thing we need to do is get you badged in,” says Deborah.
“We’ve modified the workspace since you interned last spring,” she explains as I stare transfixed at my badge.
It’s finally resting in my palm, like a precious, long-lost treasure.
This must be how Indiana Jones felt after fording continents and fighting off his enemies.
“It’s open plan. We did it as a cost-control measure—ha, ha, see what I did there?
Ah, good times—so we don’t give staff their own desks.
After all, they so often go on-site for their projects… ”
Since it now seems clear that Deborah won’t be mentioning any of my recent HR-related hijinks, I don’t pay her any more attention.
Instead I slip the badge into a protective sheath, focusing on the light brunette with hazel eyes and warm beige skin smiling soullessly out from the four-by-four badge.
Mascara perfectly separates each of her eyelashes.
She has a light spattering of freckles on her bump-ridged nose, but with the practiced angle of her chin, and her foundation, you’d barely notice.
With her low ponytail, beige blouse, and gray blazer, she looks more put-together and functional than pretty.
She’s manifesting synthetic-rug chic. Which is great, and as it should be, but… I don’t know. It doesn’t look right.
And I would know, because it’s me.
Anyway, Deborah has moved on, rolling straight into her IT spiel.
I nod encouragingly, but the longer she speaks, the more her gigantic eyebrows draw together with suspicion.
What’s her deal? Can she tell I’m not listening?
Or that I haven’t had a single sip of my burnt-smelling coffee?
I should probably bring the lip of the cup to my mouth.
No. It does nothing.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, finally unable to keep the loose thread of anxiety in.
“I haven’t seen a clipboard in years. Most new hires use apps to take notes,” she says bigly. “Are you over twenty-five?”
Okay, at least it’s not my appearance making me stand out. Blood trickling back into my fingers, and my nail beds recovering their feeling with unpleasant tingling, I smile.
“Nope. I found this in my grandma’s closet. It’s a cost-control measure. Ha, ha.”
On the way out of the conference room, I toss the clipboard in the trash. Who needs that old thing? I’m free and confident. And a very typical member of my generation, thanks.
In fact, as I turn on my shiny and perfect new laptop, waiting for the screen to load with a triumphant ding, I look around at my new coworkers and the functional lines of this modern gray office. And I feel utterly empowered.
Because beyond Deborah’s potato-like face and the open-floor plan of floor six, I see the road ahead, pushing me toward the future: the gleaming suburban streets of freshly poured concrete and the green, low-cut grass of treeless front yards, the rows of houses packed together with mere feet in between, the double-wide garage doors swarming their homes’ facades.
The women in Ray-Ban sunglasses, walking dogs to the melody of Bluetooth meetings.
Their hours whiled away in minivans, at Chick-fil-A drive-throughs, and in school pickup lines winding into cul-de-sacs.
Ferrying around soft, runny-nosed children who never have to defend their home against debt creditors with the use of lead pipes or cleverly faked adult voices.
Whose biggest battles involve video game bosses, not microwaving dinner.
That’s going to be me. I’m going to be one of those women. I am.
At least, that’s how I feel right up until the end of my first day of work, when I return to my apartment with Jane.
While slinging my Hunan chicken takeout onto the counter and toeing off my sneakers, it strikes me that my bedroom door isn’t locked. In fact, it’s cracked open. Also, two voices are leaking out from behind it. I’m guessing they belong to Jane and her boyfriend.
But why are they hanging out in my room?
Since I’m a respectful roommate and friend, I pause out of sight to listen.
I don’t want to walk in while they’re doing something intimate.
Or worse—fighting. I nearly take a chicken wing with me, but at the last second think better of it.
I’m trying to be subtle, and there’s nothing subtle about hot honey.
“—this whole time?” Jane is asking her companion.
“Yes, precisely!”
Oh no. That other voice…No. It doesn’t belong to Jane’s boyfriend. Absolutely not. The speaker’s way of speaking is decidedly old-fashioned. Not to mention Welsh-accented—and ridiculous. And welcome.