by Susan Oloier
“I want you there.”
She studies his expression, which is tinged with hurt.
“Fine.”
Leah spends the afternoon moving in and out of fitting room doors, pirouetting in an array of designs, until she finally finds the perfect cocktail dress for the occasion: an embellished, cap-sleeved flare dress.
Clint whistles. “Look,” he says, “you have legs.”
After Leah’s DoTell bag is stuffed with the dress, a midi coat, and matching handbag, they dart off to their next stop: makeup.
“Really,” Leah says as they peruse the perfumed aisles of the department store makeup section, “I’m totally fine with my drug store mascara.”
“Nonsense. You asked for Pacific Heights. Now’s your chance to shop Pacific Heights.”
After the last of the merchandise is packed in bags, and her receipt is squirreled away in an attempt to pretend it’s not there, Leah and Clint head home.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Leah and Clint trudge up the apartment steps to their floor. They’re ready to crash, but instead find two people outside Leah’s apartment: the Bohemian woman from downstairs and a guy Leah recognizes. She takes in his dreads, his handmade fabric necklace, and his woven hoodie, and then she knows. The hippy with the VW bus.
There’s a clear and consistent sound coming from inside Leah’s apartment.
“Is this your place?” the woman asks as the hippy works the lock with a bobby pin.
Leah tears her eyes from the guy. “Yes?”
“We heard the crash, so we rushed up here.” The gypsy-ish woman approaches Leah, invading her personal space. “You’re one sick mama to leave your baby inside, you know that?”
This time Leah smells burning incense and patchouli.
“You know that’s child endangerment, right? If we had a cell phone, we’d be calling Child Protective Services.”
“Maisy’s right,” the hippy says, sidling up beside his girlfriend. “You don’t just go…” He glances at the shopping bags, “on a shopping spree and leave your kid behind.”
Now that he sees Leah up close, the hippy narrows his eyes and studies her. “Wait a second. I know you.”
“No. No you don’t.” Leah pushes past them and goes to her door.
“Yeah, yeah. I know her, Maisy.”
Maisy crosses her arms over her chest. “Like Biblical know her?”
Leah’s back is to the hippy as she works hard to extricate her key from her purse.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re the animal cruelty girl. The one who biffed the cat with her car.”
Clint steps between Leah and the couple. “Maisy,” he says, looking at the woman. “Whatever your name is,” he says to the guy. “It’s not a baby. It’s…” Clint searches his mind for an excuse that won’t get Leah in trouble with CPS or Mrs. Puccini.
“It’s my…alarm clock,” Leah interrupts. But even she doesn’t believe her lie. “I must have set it for PM instead of AM.”
“No, no, no.” The boyfriend pulls Maisy closer. “It’s that cat.” He turns to Leah. “The one you hit. Isn’t it?”
“No?”
“It is. She has a cat in there.”
“There’s no cat. No baby,” Clint says, taking the key from Leah and unlocking the door. He opens it just enough to let Leah through before he squeezes inside himself. They shut the door on Maisy and her boyfriend’s complaining words, and Leah drops all of her bags.
Leah spots the music box her parents gave to her on the floor. The lid has a chip in it. “No.” Her voice is tinged with pain.
When she turns the bottom, the music no longer plays. Chicago is gone.
“This isn’t good. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Leah says, but she refers to the trinket, not the knowledge her neighbors now have.
Crushed, Leah sets the music box back on the table and stoops to pick up Fur Elise. Initially, the cat is skittish. But Leah coaxes her closer, and then cradles the feline in her arms. “It’s okay.” She nuzzles Fur Elise’s fur much like Everitt did. “I’m sorry I left you all alone.” She almost coos.
Clint glances through the peephole. The couple seems to be gone.
Clint cracks open the door.
Leah takes Fur Elise to the couch, stroking her fur. But she stops Clint before he leaves.
“Thanks for being my only friend in San Francisco.”
“You’re welcome.”
Once Clint has gone, Leah pulls the Pacific Coast business card from her coat pocket, and then shakes off her jacket. She divides her attention between Fur Elise in her lap and the card. She runs a finger over the photo of the dog and then flips it over. Everitt’s name and cell number are scrawled in his handwriting.
Leah considers her purse sitting by the door.
She sets Fur Elise down, and gets her phone. She hesitates, finally typing in the number. Her finger hovers over the call button. But the thought of the woman on the stoop returns, how he chose her over Leah. So she hits the home button instead and puts her cell back down.
Charlie’s letter peeks out from the recesses of her purse—a resurfacing memory.
She pulls it free, returns to the couch, and reads it. Again.
Words in his familiar inscription jump off the page: don’t know how to tell you, met someone else, hope you find someone, friends.
Leah doesn’t have to look at it; she has it memorized. She starts to rip it, but then stops and puts it down.
She doesn’t know why she can’t be rid of Charlie for good.
Leah picks up the business card again and doesn’t know why thinking of Everitt makes the rejection she felt with Charlie resurface, but it does.
She doesn’t even know Everitt.
Doesn’t care about him.
At all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Leah’s parents only have two days left in the city, and she’s ready for them to go home. Part of her is ready to go back to Illinois, too. Tired of pretending to have a job, tired of interviews and rejections—both professional…and personal.
She pulls out her checkbook and looks at the register for the umpteenth time. The numbers haven’t changed; they’re still diving oh-so close to zero. She has no clue how she’ll pay her rent next week, much less afford groceries or cat food.
Her phone rings, and Leah recognizes the number as Everitt’s personal cell. Her heart races for an instant, but she tamps down any flutter of excitement. Those feelings only lead to disappointment and betrayal, so she lets the call go to voicemail. After the chime, she listens.
“Hi Leah, this is Everitt. I was calling to set up a follow-up appointment for Fur Elise. I’d really like to see her and…” there’s a hitch in his voice, “call me, okay?”
The guise of a follow-up appointment. To what? Explain the other night? How he can’t offer her a ride home because he’s in love with his ex-girlfriend? He doesn’t owe Leah an explanation, just like she doesn’t owe him anything either. They’re nothing to each other. Not even doctor and patient any more.
Leah wanders back toward her apartment, but stops outside the pawnshop window. She takes a breath and pushes inside.
Before reaching the counter, Leah unlatches the butterfly pin. She holds it in her hand as though a real monarch has lighted on her palm for the briefest of moments. Emotion catches in her throat, but she sucks it back down. She has no money for anything—not enough to stay; not enough to get back home. Yet she has no choice.
“How much for this?” she asks, laying the broach on the counter.
No matter how much the guy offers, it won’t be enough. And yet, it will be so much more than she has.
When the excruciating exchange is over, Leah heads out with a wad of cash.
As she walks home, it starts to rain.
***
The sound of a laugh track can be heard from Leah’s living room television. Leah stands in the foyer, drenched. Lorna looms in
front of her, holding a piece of paper.
“Darrell,” Lorna says, “she's here.” She rushes over to Leah, reaching out her hands, but restraining herself from touching Leah’s face or removing her wet jacket. “Look at you. You should carry a rain scarf.”
Darrell meanders into the hallway. He and Lorna wear concerned looks on their faces.
Leah throws her hands up. “What?”
Lorna extends a piece of paper toward Leah who takes and reads it.
A disturbed expression plays out through Leah’s eyebrows and across her forehead. “Eviction notice?”
She skims the document further. Seven days. Not long.
Lorna looks at her, a pained expression on her own face. “The cat.”
Leah folds the notice in half. Damn the hippy.
“Were you aware there are no cats allowed in this apartment?” Darrell asks. His arms are crossed over his chest. Leah is suddenly a thirteen-year-old girl again.
Lorna puts a hand over her heart as though cardiac arrest is imminent. “No child of mine has ever received an eviction notice.”
“What about the time with Gordon and the—”
Lorna clears her throat and interrupts Leah. “Nonetheless.”
“Were you aware of this policy?”
Leah cringes at her dad’s voice. Of course she was aware, but…
Leah only has the nerve to look away.
For Lorna, it seems medical intervention might be necessary. “What am I going to tell the women at Bunco?” she asks.
Darrell glares at Leah. “You broke the lease agreement.”
Lorna wipes tears from her eyes. “I feel dizzy. I need to sit down.” She searches for a place to sit, but there are no chairs in the vicinity.
“Very disappointing,” Darrell says. He turns and leaves the room.
Lorna, beside herself, scurries to the bathroom and shuts the door. A retching can be heard from where Leah stands, stunned, in the hallway. Then there’s a flush and a jiggling of the toilet handle.
***
The drama from earlier has subsided. The darkened living room is illuminated by the glow of the television screen. Darrell reclines, watching it. Leah tiptoes to the edge of the room.
“Dad?”
Darrell stares ahead.
Leah inhales deeply, mustering her courage. “Dad? Can I talk to you?”
Nothing.
Leah tamps down the nervous flutters in the middle of her stomach—the ones running relays from her core to every other part of her body. With one bold move, Leah grasps the remote control and mutes the television set.
Darrell turns.
Leah inches onto the end of the sofa, talking to her feet at first, but then finding courage somewhere within. “I know you’re disappointed in me. But…” she blinks hard, “I want you to know that I've always tried to live up to your expectations: to work hard, to do what's right. It seems as though…” She looks her father straight in the eye, “I'm a disappointment to you.” She catches her breath and lets out a sigh. “I'm sorry I failed you. Even more sorry I failed myself.”
Leah hangs her head as Darrell absorbs the information.
“Did you know your Grandma Gina played the trumpet?”
“No. She did?”
It hurts to think of Grandma Gina, the hocked pin.
“She was very good. Even played with a group when she was younger. She wanted to be a professional musician, but that wasn’t the life of a woman back then. So she gave her dream to me. Thing is, her dream wasn’t my dream. I was better with numbers. I appreciated money not music. I don't think she ever forgave me for that. She’s never said she was disappointed. Didn't have to. When I was older, I asked her if she was proud of me.”
Leah purses her lips together, cautious. “And?”
“Nothing. I had my answer.”
There’s a moment of silence between Leah and her dad.
She never knew this about her grandmother. Never saw this side to her.
Darrell looks Leah directly in the eyes. “I don't want you to think I'm disappointed in you. I've just wanted what's best for you—what I thought was best for you.”
Darrell holds out his arms, and Leah moves into his hug.
“I'm sorry you believe you've failed yourself. But you haven't failed me.”
Darrell pulls away and clicks off the television set. “Get some sleep.” He hands the blanket to her. “You want to give it your all at work tomorrow.”
Darrell waits for Leah to say something. She warily takes the blanket. Darrell turns to leave, and Leah is ready to confess.
“Dad?”
When he spins back, fear settles in on her.
Leah gulps. “Good-night.”
Darrell nods.
“Leah?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“I meant everything I said. But if you stay here, you have to get rid of the cat.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
People swarm through the airport. A long line forms at the security checkpoint.
Leah stands at the line entrance next to Darrell, who holds the carry-on luggage, and Lorna, who wears an "I Love San Francisco" t-shirt.
“I don't feel right about leaving,” Lorna says to Leah, getting all misty eyed. “Where are you going to stay?”
“Mom, I'll work it out. I'll talk to Mrs. Puccini, find a home for Fur Elise. Something.”
“I don't want you winding up in a homeless shelter.” She grabs Leah in a vigorous embrace. Tears well in her eyes.
A security guard motions Darrell and Lorna forward. “Next.”
“I love you, honey,” Lorna says.
Leah feels a tug inside at watching her parents move away. “I love you too, Mom.”
Lorna hurries forward.
Darrell lingers behind. He looks at Leah a moment, and then hugs her.
“We stopped by Granberry,” he says.
Darrell extends his hand and places something inside Leah’s palm. When she opens it, she sees a plane ticket back to Illinois and a wad of cash. “You still have your bedroom back in Zion.”
He turns toward the line, leaving Leah standing with the ticket and the roll of bills.
On her way back outside, she spots the advertisement again—the one she saw on her first day in the city: Can You Make It in San Francisco?
“What a horrible slogan,” she says out loud. “That company needs a new marketing…”
Leah stops herself. Digs in her purse. Fishes out the Pacific Coast business card, which is now getting soft from overuse.
There’s something she has to do.
***
“How’s Fur Elise?” Stacy asks as Leah marches toward the reception desk, a file folder in hand.
“Is he in?”
“Dr. Grady?” Stacy’s caught off guard. “Yeah. Um, hold on.”
Stacy scoots back to the exam rooms as Leah, chin up, assesses the waiting area. There’s a small poster in the middle of a huge wall. The words are illegible, so the message is meaningless and ineffective. Leah glances at the table at the end of a row of outdated chairs. The tissue box is empty, the magazines askew, the lightning uninviting and all wrong.
The blinds are half drawn on the windows and there’s dust on the slats. She doesn’t know why she didn’t notice all of this before.
And then back to the old card. The slogan: Where Pets Come First, but there’s only a dog in the picture. And the pets shouldn’t come first; they should be equal to their owners. The people who pay need to come first, too. She also sees how Everitt’s missing out on capitalizing on the P and C in his slogan, which can easily double as the leading letters of Pacific Coast.
Then Leah looks at the new card—the one she created in her design software: a photo of multiple pets, an altered slogan, and a pretty amazing use of the P and the C to highlight Pacific Coast. Much better. She really is good at this.
The waiting room is empty during what should be a busy part of the day.
“Leah.” Everitt stands within the open doorway to the back rooms. Stacy is back at reception, but Everitt acts as though Leah’s the only one in the room.
“Hi.” Leah takes in the scrubs, the dark hair. She loses all train of thought, and she can’t ignore the way her heart catches when Everitt looks at her.
She shakes herself away from those renegade thoughts and feelings. It’s not what she came here for.
“I didn’t have you down for a follow-up appointment.” Everitt doesn’t comb the room for Fur Elise. Instead, he keeps his eyes directed at her.
“I’m not here for that.”
Everitt steps into the waiting area, and the closer proximity makes Leah’s pulse race.
He takes a moment, swallows. “Then what are you here for?”
Leah rubs her fingers together to wick away the sweat, and then realizes the folder in her hand.
“This,” she says, extending the folder to him.
He gets close enough to take it, and Leah closes her eyes briefly to the scent of his olive soap.
He opens it. “My business card? This is what you came for?”
“It’s all wrong, really. Look at this one.” She moves beside him, shows him the new card. Her arm brushes against his. “Yours only has a dog, but you’re treating other animals, too.”
Everitt opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Despite popular opinion, not everyone likes dogs. Some of us,” she looks up to meet his eyes, “like cats.”
Everitt sits down in one of the waiting chairs, floored. He assesses the new card, hears what she’s saying, and nods. “This is really…amazing.”
Leah gets comfortable beside him. She’s in her element now.
“And your waiting area…” She sweeps a game-show arm across the space. “To put it delicately, it’s the worst.”
Everitt takes in the room as if seeing it for the first time.
“There’s dust on the tabletops.” She runs a finger through a layer of it. “The tissue box is empty.” She picks it up. “Does anyone read this?” She taps the poster over her head.
“Wow.” He scratches the side of his face and looks at the business card again.
“Listen, this is what I do. I market things. It’s what I moved here for. I mean, I’m terrible at marketing myself, but with other things, I’m actually pretty good.”
“So what? Changing my cards, jazzing up the room, it will bring in more business?”
“Yes.”