Chapter 8 Pasta Bolognese #2
“Your parents don’t pay you to work?” Vee pipes up. “Don’t you get up at four every morning and work until noon or something?”
I nod.
“Emma, that isn’t right.” Jake glowers. “You should be getting paid.” He continues, “You’re being treated like an indentured servant, which may have been okay when you were fifteen, but it is not okay when you’re . . . ahh—how old are you?”
“Twenty-six. But you don’t understand. You’re American.
It would be disrespectful for me to demand money from my family.
We’re just trying to survive and need to make sure we don’t squander our family’s opportunity.
When there’s extra money, I get some, so I can take a few community college classes or buy things my parents know are important to me. ”
Turning away, I slump down in my chair, crossing my arms. They don’t understand what it means to be a Jablonski. How could they?
Jake walks over to me and gently turns me back toward the table.
“Come on, we aren’t being mean. I know you’ve said you come from a different world, and I can tell you don’t believe what we are trying to tell you, but really it’s wrong.
You need a life of your own. That’s what every parent wants for their child. ”
I almost blurt out, That is exactly what I’m trying to get. But I don’t want them to ask more questions. So, I hold my tongue.
“Emma, if money is the issue, I will try to get the agency to pay more than the fifty-thousand salary,” Vee says. “I can push them on that.”
Staring, flabbergasted. “Fifty-thousand dollars? Are you kidding me?”
Doing the math in my head, I estimate I’ll be paid almost twenty thousand in the next five months. There is no way my parents will argue against that kind of money. I turn and gaze at Veronica in wonder.
“Plus, it will be free room and board, right? Cause you’ll be staying at my place. Oh, never mind, you get that at your parents already.”
I respond quickly, “Wow! That is amazing. All that money, plus room and board?”
I glance toward the ceiling expecting to see a guardian angel smiling down at me, sprinkling magic dust from above.
With the number 20,000 dancing in my head, I march into my apartment.
My parents have stopped speaking to me almost completely, except to give me some chore or errand to do.
Which isn’t a huge change from the number of words we normally exchange, but it is the chill that is different.
I’m sure they aren’t doing it to be mean; they’re just worried and aren’t sure how to deal with this new Emma, so shutting me out is their answer.
With only commands coming my way, it does make me feel like a scullery maid, but Jake and Vee don’t need to know that.
And now, with Vee’s crazy offer, I can do something about it.
The TV is on, and my parents are watching Wheel of Fortune. When I stand in front of the TV, they meet my eyes for the first time in weeks.
Taking a deep breath, I try to expand as big as I can; I don’t want to be a shadow tonight.
“I’ve been offered a job for five months, and I’ll need to move out because that is part of the job,” I say firmly. “I’m going to be a live-in cook for a famous model.”
While it is a lie, it is something they may be able to understand, as I am still not sure what a personal assistant is and I know my parents won’t either. A whisper of a smile crosses my mother’s face, my father grunts and looks down. I try to read his expression. Maybe resigned.
“I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to work at the bakery while I’m doing this,” I continue in a rush. “I guess I need to be on call at all hours, which is why I need to live there.”
My father says softly, “Well, Emma. That is sudden. Are you sure it’s not some scam or something?
“No Papa, it’s not a scam. Vee is very nice and honest. It is real. I’m very excited to try something different.”
My father nods his head. “Well, I will miss you at the bakery. Good luck, Emma. Work hard. That is all you can do.”
“You will come to church though?” my mother asks. “The bakery is one thing, Church is another.”
I nod yes.
My mother angles her face in my direction with a furrowed brow. “Be a good girl, Emma.”
Stepping away from the TV, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I’m glad I didn’t need to convince them by telling them about the salary.
I wanted to keep that information to myself.
Some of Jake’s comments earlier did land, and I’m no longer clear what it means to honor thy mother and father.
Does it mean I need to share everything with them?
They’ve continued to take half of what I make from Jake, and each week when I hand over the money, a brief flare of resentment flickers in my gut.
I need to carve a little spot out for me and my future—all five months of it.
I’ll always help my family if they ever need it. But I’ve decided the seventh Commandment doesn’t say I need to hand over half of my money and I’ll be back in five months, anyway.
Lying in bed the night before I move into Vee’s, my gut is in knots.
The idea of leaving and starting this new job seemed like the perfect answer, but now it seems like the most foolish endeavor ever.
I don’t even know what a model really does, never mind a model’s personal assistant.
The only thing keeping me from backing out of this whole scary idea is the belief that being scared actually may be what living feels like.
Something scary and unknown is exactly what has been missing from my life, and I can’t back out now as I still have five months to go.
So, I figure this is all part of the wish I made when I leaned into Mother Tree and asked for guidance.
She didn’t show me then, but I must trust she’s showing me now.
Mother Tree, my guardian angel? Maybe.
I cross myself, knowing my thoughts must be blasphemy, but stop in mid motion when a picture of a bill with $20,000 on it pops into my head.
My mind tries to wrap around what that much money could mean.
Once I’m back with my parents, maybe I’ll be able to do a few things, and MS won’t rob me of everything.
Maybe I’ll get my associate’s degree. I’ve taken quite a few community college classes over the past five years and done well in all of them.
I finished the prescription Dr. Liam gave me, and I’m feeling better than I was.
Is it because I’m finally living a life?
Or is it the natural ebb and flow of the disease that, for no discernable reason, can retreat and then flare up?
I’ve seen this happen to my mother for my whole life.
I grab my bird book to take my mind off things and flip to the back.
Binocular Recommendations. I reread that section.
Swift, Leica, Swarovski, Zeiss. My lips curl into a tiny smile.
The very first thing I’m going to buy with my very first paycheck is a shiny, new pair of binoculars.
I’ve seen groups of birders walking through the Ramble with their binoculars trained on a bird.
Sometimes I can see the bird they are looking at with my naked eye, but most of the time I can’t.
A good pair of “bins,” as John Foster calls them, costs two hundred dollars, and these recommendations will be perfect to help me decide.
Light and warmth unknots my gut and expands to my chest. My wish is coming true, even if it is only for these next five months.
Getting a real chance at a life that isn’t the bleak and colorless world I’ve been stuck in is all that matters.
I have a little color in my world and a kernel of hope for some sort of life.
I set my book aside, wrap my arms around my body, give myself a tight squeeze, resting my head on my pillow contentedly.
That new bubble of hope churns up into my chest. I’ve tried not to acknowledge it, but tonight I didn’t succeed. It wasn’t the hope for a life I wished for with Mother Tree; it is the hope of love. A love as deep and never ending as Halcyon and Ceyx.
As I drift off to sleep, the image of Jake eating a forkful of pasta with his eyes closed flashes through my mind. Jake morphs into a small blue kingfisher, sitting on a branch—and I am right next to him.