Front Desk Deena pounced on me the second the automatic doors whirred open.
The woman had an entire wardrobe of holiday-themed catalog wear. Today was a Valentine’s Day sweater with lopsided hearts placed directly over her generous breasts.
“Ms. Morales, a word,” she said sternly.
Reluctantly, I followed her buxom figure into the Pepto-Bismol pink office she shared with the much nicer, much flatter chested Sandy, the nursing supervisor.
I thought about running. I thought about that lap dance and Dom hauling me into his car, his home. I thought about the gigantic diamond rings on Deena’s left hand. Mr. Deena must be a boob man to put that kind of hardware on her hand. I thought about a lot of things in the twenty seconds it took for Deena to settle herself behind her desk and take a judgmental sip of tea.
“Your father’s account is past due,” she said, assuming the role of Four-Star General Obvious.
“I realize that,” I said, reaching into my backpack.
“Now what are we going to do about it?” she asked with a smile so phony her lips didn’t even curve.
Nursing Supervisor Sandy, the woman unlucky enough to share an office with Deena, rolled her brown eyes heavenward at her desk.
“If you can’t produce exactly…” Deena swiveled to her computer monitor. The screensaver was of alternate universe Deena beaming at her lap full of grandchildren who weren’t regarding her as an evil, shrewish monster. “$5,327.94 today, then I’m sorry, but we’ll be forced to begin the eviction proceedings against your father.”
She didn’t sound sorry at all.
Sandy shot me a sympathetic look, and I wondered how many of these meetings she’d sat in on.
“I understand,” I said. Sending up a prayer to the goddess of lotteries and cash-windfalls, I reached into my bag and pulled out a check for every cent I had in my bank account and a stack of crumpled, glittery bills.
Faith had dropped off my first-place winnings—was it weird to be proud about that?— along with two bottles of really good red wine and hot wings that we reheated in the oven at four in the morning.
She also brought a check for the private dance. I didn’t accept it. But I did accept the loan. Because of course my best friend walked around with a few hundred dollars in cash.
Between the rehashing of my scene with Dominic and my half-drunken declarations of “I love you” and “I’ll pay you back,” Faith had dragged the story out of me. And then told me I was a stupid, stubborn, prideful idiot.
“I’ve got it all here.”
Deena’s eyes narrowed at the stack of cash I pushed onto her desk. It couldn’t be more obvious where it had come from. Plus, I was still wearing half of my eye make-up from the night before. Faith’s club makeup was industrial grade, sweat-proof, shower-proof, and grind-proof product.
“What?” I asked. “It’s not like I robbed a liquor store for it.”
Deena’s laugh was mirthless. I took the time to rudely notice that one of her canine teeth was crooked.
“We don’t accept cash, Ms. Morales. We’re not that kind of business. Just because your father is a favorite among the staff—” She sent a withering glare in Sandy’s direction as if it were a crime to treat their residents well. “—doesn’t mean we’re running a charity home.”
“I don’t expect charity. It wasn’t my fault that there was a problem with my direct deposit. I have cash. Enough cash.” I pushed it closer to her.
She steepled her fingers like a Bond villain.
“Well, it’s certainly not my fault. If you can’t pay all of your late fees in an appropriate manner right now and make a good faith payment on this month’s bill, I’ll have the staff start packing your father’s things.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
But Mean Deena didn’t kid. She threatened. She ruined. She destroyed. But she didn’t kid. “I am not responsible for your inability to read the intake forms and contract. We do not accept cash payments.”
“Then I’ll go to the bank and deposit it. I’ll write you a check now, and you can cash it Monday.”
“That’s not how this works,” she said with evil glee.
It was then that I realized this woman did not want my father here.
“Where will you send him?” I asked, trying to buy time. Trying to come up with some solution. Trying to decide between bursting into tears and grabbing one of Deena’s solid gold bracelets and shoving it up her nose.
What was the annual salary for an evil accounts receivable rep anyway these days?
“The state has facilities for patients who didn’t plan for their futures.”
“None of this is my father’s fault,” I insisted. I’d definitely go for the nose bracelet.
“It doesn’t really matter now, does it? Without the full amount due right now, your father must leave the property today. Our waiting list is full of patients who are willing to pay their bills on time.”
And there it was.
“Do you get something for harassing patients’ families? Is there some kind of incentive system for avoiding late payments?”
Deena blinked owlishly and then adjusted her gold bracelets. Busted.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied primly. “Now if you don’t feel like taking him home, we’ll transfer him to a state facility outside of Trenton.”
There were so many things I should have done differently leading up to this exact moment. So many decisions I’d made based on pride when in reality I couldn’t afford to have any.
And now my father was going to pay the price for it all.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck.
I wanted to throw up. Or throw a temper tantrum. I wanted to record Front Desk Deena behaving like a soulless banshee and then personally show her grandchildren what an asshole Grandma was.
Everything was falling apart, and now it was the worst-case scenario. My poor dad. I’d failed him when he needed me the most.
My work cell phone buzzed in my hand. The little pop-up alert on the screen caught my eye. I blinked rapidly. It was an email from HR department with the subject: Temporary promotion and signing bonus.
Hope aggressively took flight.
“Excuse me a moment,” I said, holding up a finger—not the one I wanted—at the woman gleefully telling me she had no problem shipping my father off to a nursing home that had been cited by the health department three times in the last eighteen months.
Ms. Morales,
You’ve been chosen from our admin pool for a sixty-day placement as a personal assistant to one of our executives. This move within the company includes a pay raise as well as a $5,000 signing bonus, which has been wired into your account. Stop by on Monday for the details of your new assignment. Congratulations!
“Sweet and sour chicken,” I breathed. My eyes closed in a relief so palpable, the heartless robot across the desk from me asked if I was all right. Five thousand dollars? Five THOUSAND dollars? Five thousand DOLLARS?
I ignored Deena and toggled over to my bank app. Well, holy mother of last-minute saves. There was $5,000 sitting there in my checking account.
I shot out of my chair and pumped my fist into the air. “I have the money! I’ll write you a check.”
“A check?” Deena snorted ungraciously. “Ha! You expect me to accept a check from you? “
I shoved the phone in her face. “Is this good enough for you?”
She harrumphed while I triumphantly dug out my checkbook.
Sometimes good things happened to pretty okay people. My father was safe for another month. And with a raise, maybe I could take a few weeknights and weekends off to fix up the house. My eyes were swimming in unshed tears. This anonymous executive had just saved everything that was important to me in this life.
I was going to do this. I was going to make it through. I was going to be okay.
I signed the check with a violent flourish, spent an hour having breakfast with my dad, who thought I was one of his high school students, and then cried for ten minutes in the parking lot, letting the February wind freeze tears and industrial strip club eye makeup to my cheeks.
Fate had just saved me from a downward spiral from which I had no way of recovering on my own.
I was going to be the best damn PA she or he had ever had.
