Chapter 6 #2
Marta isn’t the kind of person who forgets the keys. Marta’s the kind who triple-checks that the keys, the list, and the organic snacks are packed before she leaves the house. Marta runs a tight ship and prepares for every possible hiccup that might fuck with her schedule.
I’ve done something to upset her. Clearly. But I have no idea what.
After hasty goodbyes and awkward handshakes, I watch them go, the ache in my midsection intensifying.
I try to finish my five-dollar tea on principle, but every sip makes my stomach burn a little more. Finally, I abandon the dregs of my raspberry-honey-mint and head for the bus stop, leaning on my cane more than usual.
I overdid it last night, and I’m feeling it today, but I would still be fine to keep up with a five-year-old. My slight limp won’t interfere with that at all.
I try to tell myself that I’m being crazy, that I’m reading too much into Marta’s single hard look at my cane. It was literally two seconds, maybe three, and she launched right into giving me instructions right after. She wouldn’t have done that if she’d already decided to fire me…would she?
I don’t know, but the nagging certainty that my plans are about to fall through trails me to the bus stop, where I stand and wait, and wait, and wait, until my leg throbs like a fresh wound.
The bus is late. Of course, the bus is late.
That’s what I get for thinking luck was on my side for once.
I lean against a lamppost as clouds roll in to banish the sun, my stomach clenching in rolling waves I know aren’t food poisoning.
You can’t get food poisoning from a cheese stick and herbal tea.
But maybe you can get it from dive bar popcorn…
No, Karen’s popcorn was fantastic.
Marta’s vibes, however, were not, a fact proven an hour later, when I’m back at home, debating what to make for dinner.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I snatch it up, expecting baby pictures from Bea.
Instead, it’s a message from Tasha, my boss.
A woman who does not usually work weekends…
I know I’m in trouble before I read a word of her lengthy text—
Hi, Clover. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I just got off the phone with the Hendersons.
They’ve decided to go in a different direction for their childcare needs.
I know this is likely disappointing, but I want to assure you that this has nothing to do with your interviews, your qualifications, or the way you showed up at the final meeting today.
This seems to be purely personal preference on their part.
There’s nothing you did or should have done differently.
I fight to swallow past the lump in my throat.
Personal preference…
I’m betting that’s a “personal preference” for someone who doesn’t need to use a cane to get up and down from a chair, but no one’s going to say that part out loud. If they did, I’d have grounds for a discrimination suit, and no one wants that.
Hell, I don’t want that.
I don’t want to sue anyone. I just want to earn a living doing something I’m more than capable of doing!
No, I can’t carry heavy trays full of food anymore.
That’s beyond my scope in my struggling-to-heal body.
But I can keep up with a five-year-old. Women with disabilities parent children effectively all the time, and Gus is a well-behaved little boy.
It’s not like I’d be chasing after him to keep him from running into the street, but if I had to, I could.
When properly motivated, I can move fast—just ask any of the bus drivers on my usual route.
Fighting tears, I glance back down at my phone, forcing myself to read the rest of Tasha’s text—But don’t worry.
I’m working on a Plan B to make sure everyone gets what they need moving forward.
I’m confident I can have a new placement lined up for you soon.
Maybe even by tomorrow! Just give me a few hours to make some calls, and I’ll be in touch. Hang in there, and keep your chin up.
Keep my chin up…
I do my best, I really do, but a few minutes later I find myself in bed with Nutasha P. Bettersquirrel tucked under my chin, crying my eyes out.
There, there, love, she says in her teapot voice. It’ll be all right. You’ve faced worse than this before, and you always make it through. You’re made of sterner stuff than you give yourself credit for, poppet.
I want to believe her.
I want to be hopeful and positive, but a girl can only get knocked flat by shitty twists of fate so many times before she starts to think Fate isn’t on her side.
Or, at the very least, it has a deeply messed-up sense of humor.
The suspicion that Fate has it out for me is confirmed when Tasha texts a little later to inform me that I’ve been given a temporary nanny assignment for tomorrow, while the temporary nanny takes my job with the Hendersons.
I’ll be taking care of two little girls—aged three and four—and my new boss expects me at his place half an hour before he takes his mother to the airport tomorrow morning.
And my new boss’s name, you ask?
Why, Mr. Dean Kate.
“Shit,” I mutter, my stomach cramping as I do a quick internet search, desperately hoping there are two Dean Kates in New Orleans.
But there aren’t.
Of course, there aren’t. There’s only one, and he’s so cool with putting our romantic history behind us and moving on as my boss, he doesn’t even bother to text me. Not so much as a “Wow, small world, huh?” or a “Don’t worry, it won’t be weird that you’re living above my garage, I promise.”
There’s nothing, not a peep from “Mr. Kate” between the moment I get the news at five and when I slide into bed at ten, wanting to make sure I get a solid night’s sleep before I leave for his place.
“I wonder if he’ll expect me to call him, Mr. Kate,” I mutter to Nutasha.
She clucks her tongue, assuring me, This is a bad idea, love.
She’s right, but it’s also the only way I’m paying my bills this month.
So, I set my alarm for five-thirty, close my eyes, and pray I won’t have weird sex dreams about my new boss.