Her desk is always filled with clutter. Pieces of paper swamp her workspace with different kinds of paperweights (all snowmen) holding each stack down. I hate all the documents on her desk. She always says she's so busy and I often think the paperwork is a front to make it seem that way. A little organization could solve that. A lot of times I overhear her on her cell phone, or I glance in and she's googling something or doing some sort of shopping online. But, since she's my boss, I can't question her at all. I'm not allowed to do those sorts of things, and if I got caught in the act, no doubt a write-up would follow. A warning if I'm lucky. She kind of likes me, and that may help get me out of anything.
"You wanted to see me?" My voice cracks like a prepubescent boy.
Barb shuffles around some paper and finds a stapled packet. She folds over the pages on top and shows me the last page. "Is this your signature?"
I lean in closer to view my signature and the date of a few years ago next to it. "Yes." I'm unsure what this is.
She flips back to the front page and hands me the complete document. "This is our Acceptable Use Policy, also referred to as the Internet, E-mail, and Computer Use Policy. You were required to sign this at your orientation when you began working here. I trust you read it in its entirety."
Who actually reads those things? The verbiage is confusing and so boring. I don't check my email or Facebook or anything from work. With a smartphone, using the company's computer isn't necessary. The only thing I use it for other than what I'm supposed to is to check my scrapbook orders and that's because the website is not designed well for a phone. I check in the morning, and that takes all of five minutes. Big whoop.
"Yes. I read it." I'm not dumb enough to tell her no.
The paper lands on her desk. "It's been brought to my attention you're using company time to visit a particular website. I logged on and confirmed you have, in fact been using the company's property to run a business."
"What? I'm not running a business. Who said that?" Going to my webpage for a mere two minutes in the morning is barely running a business. I'm sure Debbie saw me and blew this way out of proportion. She's always butting into people's lives. The woman is almost fifty years old and all she wants to do is throw under people under the bus.
"My screen shots beg to differ." Barb turns her computer monitor so I can see it. Sure enough, she's taken pictures of me checking my sales. "The policy gives me permission to log onto your computer real-time at any time I deem necessary."
"I don't do that too often. I check every once in awhile when I don't get time in the morning. I'm only seeing if I received any orders. I'm not taking any payments or working on actual pages."
"Your computer is not to be used for that. If you read the agreement, you would know this."
If I read the policy, I also would know if I can be calm, or if I'm about to get fired. I can't afford to lose my job. My scrapbooking isn't enough to keep me afloat. First Daniel, then Jay, and now this! "I'm sorry, Barb." I truly am. I never gave a second thought to logging onto my site. Others do it all the time. Of course I'm the one who gets caught. She's right, though. I should be helping other people out when I don't have anything pending at the moment, not trying to make money on the side.
"I'm sure you are." She turns the screen back. "Typically a verbal warning is given at this stage, but based on the content, I need to give you a written one."
This is my first one. Ever. Two more and I'm fired. They stay on record for a year before starting fresh. I don't anticipate any more, but with what's going on with Daniel and having to take time off work for this, who knows? Barb can be so strict. If you're late three days in a week you're written up. If you call in more than two days without a doctor's excuse, you're written up. Sometimes I think she sits in her office rubbing her hands together, praying to be able to write someone up that day. Today, I'm the lucky one.
"I understand." I'm not about to argue. That will only make things worse.
I stare off to the file cabinet behind her where she keeps pictures of her nieces. I often wonder about the Barb outside of work. Is she anything like Barb at the office? Does she get down on the floor and play with her nieces, or does she discipline them more than praise? If I ever became a manager, I think I would be more hands on, but not micromanage. I want my team to excel, but be comfortable and not like they're under a watchful eye. Or Debbie. I'd stick that bitch in the corner and ignore all her complaints.
A sheet of paper slides in front of me and Barb goes over the document. I sign it and she hands me one of the copies, a reminder of what a failure I am.
chapter twenty-one
This is my first time in a lawyer's office. I didn't come in with any expectations of what the space should look like, but I imagine something a little less cheerful. Ron Ellis's office is painted yellow. Not any yellow, but a bright, sunshiny puke-in-your-face yellow. The only thing missing is a sunflower border along the framing of the walls. Thank God he bypassed that in the decorating stages. He may have chosen the color because there are no windows. I don't see how painting your walls like the sun somehow makes a room bright and cheery, but apparently that's what Mr. Ellis thinks.
His walls are cluttered full of degrees, awards, and recognition plaques. A mountain of paperwork similar to my boss' pours over his dinged up desk. Photographs are spaced throughout. More pictures than actual case work cover his desk.
Ron Ellis was my dad's best friend in high school. From time to time, he stops over at the house, and he and my dad share a few beers. He seems nice enough, and I'm grateful he's helping us out with the Daniel situation. I'm lucky my dad is friends with a lawyer, or I might be in a heap of trouble.
I took off work today, which I'm positive my boss is not happy about, but once I explained to her why I needed time off, she became somewhat sympathetic. It's not my fault Ron won't meet us on a weekend or evening. While he's willing to offer his services, we're still paying (at a deep discount), so he's on the clock.
Both my parents accompany me. Our next door neighbor is watching James. My dad and Ron shake hands and pat each other on the back. My mom and I take a seat on the other side of the desk and my dad grabs a chair by the wall.
"Chelsea, your dad filled me in somewhat on the situation. Why don't you start by telling me a little bit about your relationship with Daniel?"
I hesitate because I don't want to share intimate details with my parents in the room, especially my father. But he's covering the cost of Mr. Ellis, so I'll overcome my childish fear and deal with it. I pull up my big girl panties and dive in.
"We met a few years ago and began a relationship. I pushed for us to be together, even though he had a girlfriend. We dated, though we never actually went out on a date." My dad grips his knees and I avoid going into any detail about what happened behind closed doors. "I got pregnant and he cut things off right away. Now James is two and he asked to be a part of his life."
"And you told him no, correct?"
Is he asking for verification, or is this is a recommendation? "Yes. I considered allowing him to meet James and go from there, but when we started to discuss our options, I think he was trying to get back together with me, and James seemed the furthest from his mind. If he's going to be involved, I want him stable and present all the time."
"You say you want him to be stable. Do you have reason to believe Daniel suffers from any mental or psychological illnesses which interfere with his attempt to maintain a healthy relationship with his son? Is he a harm to himself or to others?" Mr. Ellis scribbles on a notepad.
"No, nothing like that. Unless being a Grade A Asshole counts."
"Chelsea!"
My mom doesn't like cursing in any form. I don't care at this point, and I'll say anything I want to say. "I'm sorry, Mom, but it's true. Anyway, what I mean by stable is someone who won't be in and out of his life and will be there whenever his son needs him. He left me when I was pregnant and didn't bother to even ask for a picture or learn his name
for Christ's sake, until recently. He certainly isn't winning father of the year. I don't think he'll stick around. He's married to the girl he was with when we started dating and they have twin babies together who just turned one a few months ago, I believe. He's been with them their entire life and I can't understand why suddenly he wants to put James ahead of them. And I'm not saying I think he should because he hasn't been a part of James's life so far, so I don't think it's pertinent for him to be now."
Ron writes more notes down long after I stop talking. Then he shares his thoughts. "Here's the thing Chelsea," he begins as he crosses his hands and sets them on some papers. "The courts and any judge will consider it vital for both parents to be actively involved in a child's life unless for some reason we can prove one is an unfit parent. I can't say how much visitation Daniel will be awarded, but I can guarantee you he'll earn some. Is there anything to lead you to believe he has any sort of a drug addiction or anything along those lines? I pulled up his record and he's pretty clean, except for a couple speeding tickets."
I can only shake my head because we're yet to step foot in a courtroom and already I'm losing the battle. Daniel left my life years ago, and now he enters with full on force to get everything he desires. By Ron telling me the courts pretty much are going to award Daniel something, I might as well raise my white flag because I don't have a prayer to win this.
"I don't think he's unfit parent per se. I just think he'll end up a deadbeat dad." When I say the words out loud to Ron, I realize perhaps I'm in the wrong.
"We can't prevent him from seeing his son because you think he may turn into a deadbeat dad. This is all speculation, and, based on what you told me, I don't have any reason to believe the judge will consider his home a bad environment for James."
"Wait a minute. His home? What does his home have anything to do with this? Regardless of what happens, James will live with me, right?"
"I can't answer that, Chelsea. It's not up to me what the judge decides. We certainly can work with his lawyer and try to come up with some sort of visitation agreement, but if we are unable to, the judge may grant 50-50 custody. If that happens, then James will be with you fifty percent of the time and he'll live with Daniel the other half."
"But he doesn't even know Daniel. He'll be scared. I can't let that happen." My whine is also a plea. Maybe if I voice my fear, it won't come true. "I won't."
"If you listened to me and told Daniel to get lost, none of this would be happening," my dad butts in at the most inopportune time.
"Honey, this would've happened regardless. Please don't blame our daughter. James has a father and if his father wants to know him, who are we to stop him?"
"I am!" My dad jumps from his chair and rises up as though he's a protester taking a stand. "James is my grandson and I'm the one who's been a part of his life since he was born. Daniel's a jerk and doesn't deserve any part."
He loves James so much. I never expected the kind of affection my dad holds for him. In all my years, I can count on one hand how many times my dad hugged me. I don't doubt he loves me; I think it's just different. His relationship with James is unique.
"I know as well as you do that's the case," Ron says. "However unfortunate the situation may be, Daniel is, in fact James' father, which in turn gives him a right in the eyes of the law to be his parent. You can argue all you want, and be upset, but doing so doesn't change the truth."
My dad slumps down in his chair and wipes his eye. I love how much my father cares for James, but I think talking with Ron proves I need to accept I can't deny him his father any longer.
"Dad, you'll always be James' grandpa. Nothing in the world ever changes that. But, can you imagine your whole life not knowing who I am?" He lifts his head and meets me with scared eyes. "That's exactly what I'm doing to James."
My dad stares at me with such defeat I'm aching inside. But I know, and so does he, not fighting this and coming to an agreement with Daniel is the best thing for everybody involved. I don't want to lose James, and from what Ron is saying, I won't. At worst, Daniel and I will share custody. I don't want that - and neither do my parents - but it's a viable option we all can learn to live with.
"Fine." He stands and struts to the door. "For the record, I still think this is your fault." He opens the door and walks out, leaving me with a truth I've always known.
chapter twenty-two
I used to make fun of my friend Ally for how much she frequented the gym. I think one time I referred to the place as her second home. Now I think I understand. Immediately after meeting with the lawyer, I need time away. My mom, understanding as she is, agrees to keep an eye on James while I head to the gym. I want to try something new. A walk won't suffice. I need to get mad. I go to the rec department, race into the workout area, and dart straight for the punching bag. And I punch. Hard. So hard, in fact, my knuckles hurt.
I don't care. I keep pounding, throwing all my energy into each punch, fighting back the urge to cry as I do so. Between my anger and frustration with Daniel, the way my father is treating me, my breakup with Jay, and the pain darting through my hand, I can't make heads or tails of the origin of the tears. My arms fall to the sides when I stop.
"You okay?" A handsome man approaches me. He wipes his forehead with a taped up hand while grabbing onto the punching bag with the other.
"Yeah, are you?" I point to his knuckles.
"This?" He holds his hands up. "This is the right way to do it." He shoves his hand in front of me. "Clint Barten."
I shake his hand, my mouth open. The name sounds oddly familiar. "Um, isn't that Hawkeye's real name?"
"Impressive. Not many people know the names of superheroes beyond Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, and Peter Parker."
"Well, my dad kept quite the collection of comic books." I remember sneaking off to read them when I was younger.
His ocean blue eyes pull me in, and his thin, pink lips keep my attention. "Sounds like a good man. It's actually Barten, with an "e." Hawkeye's is with an "o." Don't know what my parents were thinking."
"Apparently they weren't." I clasp my hand over my mouth. "Oh, gosh. I'm sorry. It slipped out. Normally I don't say things like that." Boy, I need to get control of my thoughts. Thinking before speaking shouldn't be so difficult.
"No problem. I'm surprised I don't get more remarks like that."
Whew. He's a nice guy. "Your childhood must have been brutal."
"At first." He shrugs, then shows me his bandaged hands again. "Then I learned to defend myself."
I swallow, hard, realizing he probably gets into his share of fights. Based on his appearance, I don't doubt he wins, too. He's tall and broad with muscles that go on forever, and he flexes them as he clearly caught me sneaking a peek.
"Do you want me to show you how to use this thing the right way?"
Do I? I didn't realize boxing required specific direction. My body is filled with energy I can't contain. All my anger is searching for an escape. Can't I just punch? Of course, I'm pretty sure Clint knows better than me, and if I do this the correct way, I may burn off more steam.
"Definitely."
"Okay, first, let's get some gloves on your hands."
He finds me a pair of black leather gloves with holes to let my fingers through. "I feel kind of like a real boxer now."
"Well, you're not even close, but it's a start, I guess. At least you've got the image going for you."
"So I'm ready to scare some people off with my stance if they try to mess with me?" I crouch down and ball my hands in a fist. Clint laughs. In fact, he laughs so hard he needs to hold onto a nearby elliptical machine. I stand back up and take off the gloves. "Forget it."
"No, no. I'm sorry ... and you never told me your name."
"Chelsea, but I shouldn't even tell you that because I'm leaving."
"Oh, stop now." He slaps my arms with the gloves. "I'm only having fun. Put these back on and let's go."
Am I being a prude? I don't lack a sense of humor,
but I don't like being kicked when I'm down, either. Who does? But, I really enjoyed punching the bag. Clint appears to be an expert, so why not let him teach me. With a half smile on my face, I reach my hands out for the gloves. "Fine. But be nice."
Clint winks. He's enjoying this entirely too much. "Okay, the first thing you need to do is loosen up."
He starts rubbing my shoulders and I pull away. I just met this guy. "What are you doing?"
"Sorry, but you should relax."
"Well, I can't speak for you, but I find it hard to relax with a stranger touching me."
He lifts his hands up in surrender. "Fair enough. Okay, when you punch, you want to punch straight at the bag, right? You want to imagine someone you hate-"
"Daniel."
"What?"
"That's who I imagine. Daniel."
"Okay, you want to picture Daniel and punch as hard as you can, right?" I don't answer so he continues. "That's not what you want to do. You want to hit so your punch comes back at you, but then don't stop and work a combination, develop a flow, almost like you're dancing to a choreographed routine. The worst thing you can do is stop moving your feet and your hands. Go with it. Flow." He begins punching the bag, moving like a dancer, and looks like a pro. "Don't plant your feet, okay? Now you try."
Clint takes a step back and waits as I stand in front of the bag, placing Daniel's face on it. I'm not one to get violent. I tend to move into the background during arguments, hoping not to get noticed or let the other person take control and possibly even win. Confrontation makes me nervous. But here, I can let go. I can be safe and no one actually gets hurt. Well, except maybe me if I don't do this right.
I go in to punch the bag and Clint reminds me not to push through, but snap it and let it come back toward me. I do, and the next thing I know, I'm holding my hands over my face, my fingers covered in blood.
Jay Walking (Pastime Pursuits #2) Page 11