Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem.

by Camille Nagasaki

  His mom traveled to Haiti in the ’70s with some girlfriends for a vacation. Apparently, she fell hard for a Haitian hottie and had a romantic fling. When she returned home and realized she was pregnant, she wasn’t ever able to track down Billy’s dad.

  “Well, what are you going to do? Are you just going to go to Haiti and search for him yourself?”

  “No, God no. I’ve actually hired someone to do it. A private investigator, actually.”

  “While he’s at it, he can look for Micky too.” I laugh, which sounds more pitiful than jovial.

  “Have you tried getting in touch?” Billy’s face is full of concern.

  “Yeah, but it always just goes to voicemail. He must be having a very difficult time.”

  “He’ll be okay, really. Listen, it’s getting late, and you, my friend, need your beauty rest for tomorrow. Good luck!” And with that, Billy does a little wave and sashays out the door.

  I down the rest of my wine and examine my nails. Tomorrow I’ll look trés professional for sure!

  9

  Margo is at my side, her little face white and solemn and her eyes wide with obvious trepidation. We’re standing outside the school, waiting for the first bell to ring. I’ve tried to coax her into playing at the playground or at least strolling around the school grounds, but she outright refuses.

  When the bell rings, we find her kindergarten class, and her bubbly, frizzy-haired teacher introduces herself. Margo is still exceptionally rigid, and I feel a momentary pang for not being with her on her first day at Collingwood School in West Van. She obviously could have used my support.

  “Okay Margo, why don’t you give your mommy a hug and come join the class?” her teacher says with a warm smile. Margo appears quite shocked at the suggestion to hug me, and I find myself shrinking away.

  “Goodbye, Margo.” I give a little nod. “You’ll do great,” I add. Margo just stares at me and pops her thumb into her mouth. Oh boy. I turn quickly and make a mad dash away from the school.

  Later, when we’ve caught our bus downtown, I realize we have almost half an hour to kill, so I really do take Rory to the library. Library Square is a coliseum-style building with a massive, airy interior promenade featuring cafes and shops, and six stories of books. The dress code among the stay-at-home moms seems to be more Lululemon and less couture. I toss my head, feeling superior, until I remember, with horror, that I have nothing to feel superior about anymore. Well, anyway. I show Rory some books and am encouraged when she takes a great interest. She grips the board books with intensity and seems eager to look at all the pictures. To appease her, I grab a stack of books to borrow, and some for Margo too.

  By the time I’ve returned to the atrium, the job fair is just getting under way. I feel a woman from the registration table eyeing me as I push the stroller forward. At the last second, I “happen” to casually glance in her direction and read the notice for the job fair.

  “Oh,” I say in mock surprise, “a job fair. I might be interested.”

  “Great.” She beams, obviously impressed with such a high-quality candidate. “Why don’t you register and collect a name badge?”

  I start filling out the form.

  Name: Lane Carson

  Date:

  What’s today’s date? September 16? I think? OH MY GOD! No, it can’t be the sixteenth.

  “What’s the date?” I demand from the woman, who looks taken aback at my urgency.

  “Why, today is September sixteenth.”

  Oh my God. Margo.

  Margo’s birthday is September 13, and with the move and the drama and the fire…I forgot. I am officially the worst mother to walk the face of this earth. Her fifth birthday, and I didn’t even remember. My guilt morphs into exasperation as I think of Billy. Billy should have remembered. I’m going through so much, how can I possibly manage everything? Billy is going to get an earful.

  I fill out the rest of the form and scroll my name on a badge.

  “Do you have a resume with you?”

  “Hmm? No, I was at the library with my niece. I didn’t realize there was a job fair today.”

  The woman looks relieved to know the baby isn’t mine and ushers me along to meet some prospective employers and headhunters. All is well, aside from Rory babbling, squealing, and wailing in her stroller. I shove one of the library books onto her lap, and that seems to do the trick.

  I’ve embellished quite the extensive career in administration, marketing, and PR, and am almost starting to enjoy myself, when I hear someone behind me taunt, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t little Miss Pillows and Blankets? And at a job fair, no less.”

  It’s a disturbingly familiar voice. I spin around to see the server from Victory glaring at me with a loathing so intense I’m at a loss for words. I recover quickly. “Watch your mouth, you little dick,” I hiss in a low voice. “It just so happens, I’m looking to hire some personnel.” I raise my eyebrow and almost consider sticking out my tongue. Now that would be juvenile.

  “Oh yeah? Then why are you wearing a name tag labeled Seeking Employment?”

  What? I glance down in horror to check my name tag:

  SEEKING EMPLOYMENT

  Hello My Name is:

  Lane Carson

  I rip the bloody sticker off my Chanel suit like a waxing strip and crumple it into a ball. “They gave me the wrong name tag, obviously. Good luck with your job search; you’ll need it, as you certainly won’t be getting a reference from me.” And with that, I swivel on my Miu Miu stiletto and saunter away, head held high.

  Outside, the sunshine is blinding. I pause to collect myself. How humiliating and ironic. I pull my phone out from my bag and quickly check email. What’s this? Who the hell is Jennifer Fairweather? I pull up the message and—I don’t believe it—an actual personal training client wanting to work with me TODAY at 2:00 p.m. She only lives four blocks away, how ideal. Woohoo! The thrill I feel is so exhilarating, I actually go around the stroller and celebrate with Rory, grinning, squealing in delight, and squishing her baby cheeks. Rory regards me as though I’ve gone officially insane and makes it known—to everyone within earshot—she is less than thrilled at my sudden outburst of affection. And so she begins her own high-pitched wails.

  When we arrive home, I mount the stairs two at a time, gripping Rory under one arm like a football. I swiftly feed and change her, then tear through the boxes, trying to find suitable workout attire. Denise seems to have packed a wide range of outfits, including formal and casual, but there isn’t anything that screams personal trainer. Crap! What am I going to do? I have a coral halter top and black booty shorts that could possibly pass. I pull the halter top over my padded bra and admire my cleavage in the mirror. The shorts slide over my lean legs and look great. Now, on to shoes… After locating the box of shoes, I’m freaked to see nothing that even resembles running shoes. The closest thing is a pair of Tod’s ballet flats. What am I going to do? I check the time and realize I should have been out the door five minutes ago. I slip on the ballet flats, grab a thick pair of socks, and scoop Rory into my arms.

  Downstairs, I holler for George, and within a few seconds he emerges from his kitchen, looking somewhat bewildered.

  “George! I need to borrow running shoes ASAP.”

  “My shoes? You want to borrow my sh—”

  “Yes, your shoes. Hurry up! Please!”

  “Well, what in devils name has got into…”

  “GEORGE! I have a job. I need to leave, please.”

  He mumbles under his breath but disappears, thankfully, and materializes a moment later holding a hideous pair of worn, blue-and-white, no-name sneakers. I recoil at the thought of putting those even near my feet.

  “Remember, beggars can’t be—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I snap, grabbing the ugly shoes and dashing outside to strap Rory into her stroller.

  We arrive at Trafalgar and Second, and I park the stroller in front of a large colonial home. I slip the flats off, pull m
y socks on, and shove my feet into George’s shoes, which happen to be about four sizes too big. I pull the laces as tight as possible and hope to God my client won’t notice them. Ooh, I have a client; I like the sounds of that.

  Mounting the stairs in the massive shoes is a struggle, so I gingerly side step up. I ring the doorbell and await Jennifer Fairweather. With a name like that, I’m guessing, she’s middle-aged, maybe pudgy, and wanting to start a walking routine. I hear footsteps approaching, and the door swings open.

  Oh God. The woman before me is perhaps middle aged, but she has got to have the most toned, athletic body I’ve ever seen.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, giving me the once-over with a critical eye.

  Shit, she definitely saw the shoes. I take a breath and assert myself. “I’m Lane Carson, your new personal trainer.”

  Jennifer Fairweather frowns and then gives a little smirk. “Um, actually, you’re not my new personal trainer. I happen to already have one. But he’s out of town for three weeks, and your ad said you specialize in long distance running and triathlon, and I’m training for both.”

  Shiiiiiit. I’m going to absolutely kill Billy.

  “Great!” I squeak. I don’t even know how much I’m getting paid for this, but it better be fucking amazing.

  After a slight hesitation, Jennifer sighs. “All right. Let me grab my water bottle and I’ll be right out.” She closes the door in my face, so I side step my way down the stairs and assume my position behind Rory’s stroller. Why didn’t I think to bring water and why did I have to drink that Venti Caramel Macchiato at Starbucks less than an hour ago to celebrate my first client? I need to pee.

  Jennifer comes bounding down the front stairs, looking incredibly impressive in her sleek running gear. “Ready!” she says.

  “Okay, let’s go,” I say, and I start running as fast as my oversized runners can carry me, all the while flexing my feet with each step so the shoes don’t fall off. Jennifer calls me and I turn around.

  “Hey, slow down! What about stretching, I’m going to tear a ligament!” she calls after me.

  Right, stretching, shit. How could I have forgotten? I turn Rory around and continue my awkward run back. It feels about as natural as running in flippers or clown shoes. Damn Denise for not packing proper shoes.

  “Apologies, I’m eager to run. I love running,” I gush. I put my hands on my hips and start rotating them like my P.E. teachers used to do. Then I try to touch my toes. Crap, almost. I pull my knee up to my chest, and finally Jennifer stops gawking and starts stretching. My heart is pounding in my chest at this mess I’ve gotten myself into. Rory starts squawking from her stroller. Her squealing soon escalates to an angry little cry.

  “Who’s the baby?”

  “My niece,” I mumble. Yep.

  “I’m done stretching,” Jennifer says after a good eight minutes or so. And this time, she takes off down the street, and I am left scrambling to reposition the stroller and race to catch up. The coffee in my stomach is swishing. I can feel it, but worse—I can hear it. It sounds like bloody Niagara Falls. What was I thinking? I catch up with Jennifer—miraculously—and struggle with all my might to keep up. She doesn’t speak but seems to slip into her own rhythm, which I sure as hell wish I could slip into too. My face feels hot, my eyes are watering, and the damn coffee in my stomach sloshes away. I know she must hear it too, and I would give anything for Rory to start crying right now to mask it. My legs are burning, my arms are burning, I feel like I can’t get enough air, and to make matters worse, I’m losing ground. Jennifer, in her comfortable jog, is four, then six, then ten feet in front of me. I have to stop, oh my God.

  And this is when my shoe flies off, landing with a pitiful thud on the road.

  “Sto-op,” I yell hysterically. Jennifer spins around and runs back. She jogs on the spot, eyeing me with a menacing glare and looking pissed to say the least.

  “You’re wasting my time. What kind of bullshit ad was that anyway?”

  I’m panting and gasping for air, ripping the other shoe off and reaching for my ballet flats from the stroller undercarriage. But I still have the fight in me. “Well, there are different levels of exercise, how the hell could I have known you’d turn out to be an iron woman?”

  “Because, you airhead”—Did she really just say that?—“you posted a specialization in long-distance running!”

  I feel mortified. I don’t know what to do, so I turn the stroller in the direction for home and start back.

  “You’re a fraud, Lane Carson! Get a real job,” Jennifer yells after me. “Oh, and Jerry Seinfeld called. He wants his sneakers back!”

  I mentally close my ears to that wretched woman and continue striding away, chin held high.

  Except, I don’t feel proud. I feel pathetic, and there’s nothing more I’d like to do than wallow in a little self-pity; but I realize with a start, it’s already time to pick up Margo, and I really have to pee.

  10

  After making a quick pit-stop home to pee and ditch the booty shorts, I’m a total of nine minutes late to pick up Margo on her first day, which makes for an anxious kindergartner and a pissed off teacher—I’m not sure which is worse.

  “Margo, I’m so sorry,” I gush. Margo virtually ignores me but showers Rory with a special “hello” and kiss. My mind races thinking of a way to win her back, and then I’ve got it!

  “Margo, guess what?” I ask, summoning as much excitement as possible. Margo hides her curiosity well and fixes me with a blank stare. “It’s your birthday soon,” I say, eager for her response. We stroll side by side toward the playground. It seems every kid at school has opted to stay and play to enjoy the glorious weather while it lasts.

  “I already know that,” Margo answers, clearly unimpressed.

  My pulse quickens. Could she possibly know it’s already gone by? “How do you know?” I ask, dreading the answer.

  “Laura told me before. Is it soon?” Now I have her attention.

  “It is! We’re going to celebrate on Sunday,” I say, relieved my cover’s not blown.

  “Can we have cake?”

  “Of course.” I laugh. Kids are so simple. Hopefully, last year’s Cirque du Soleil-themed party Denise hired a planner for won’t perpetuate unrealistic expectations for this year. Margo dashes off to join the other kids on the monkey bars.

  Rory is fussing, so I collect her from the confines of the stroller and hold her in my arms, giving her a little bounce on my hip like I’ve seen other parents do.

  A nearby mother is engaged with her young son, and just by sizing her up I can tell she has it all. Her auburn hair is in a perfect chignon, and she’s dressed in a fitted blouse, a gray, knee-length fishtail skirt, and Betsey Johnson pumps. This woman couldn’t possibly have had a frazzled day, judging by her calm, in-control, and sunny disposition. She reaches into her bag and puts her phone to her ear. From the sounds of it, she’s conducting business. Perfect and successful in her own right, must be nice. As I keep one eye on the woman and the other eye on Margo, my own phone rings. I don’t recognize the number; it must be a job offer! My heart hammers in my chest, but I assume a dignified, professional air.

  “Lane Carson,” I answer in a loud voice for all to hear, and wait with eager anticipation.

  “Hello, this is an automatic message. Did you know—”

  “Oh, shut up,” I yell and throw my phone back into my bag with utter disappointment. I seem to have Perfect Mother’s attention, because she’s gazing at me, a slight frown on her face. I ignore her and instead turn my attention to Rory, making cooing faces at her in an attempt to one-up Perfect Mom. Rory rewards my effort with a deep frown and explodes into a fit of wails. I roll my eyes and plop her back into the stroller, and her cries cease immediately. Thanks kid.

  Margo keeps attempting the monkey bars, but she doesn’t have the upper body strength. She’s determined, though. Another woman has joined Perfect Mother, and the young boy runs to her.


  “Hi Mommy,” he greets her with a hug.

  Mommy?

  “Bye, Auntie Robin,” he calls to Perfect Mother—who I guess is not a mother after all—as she waves and leaves the playground. Right. Maybe there’s no such thing as a perfect mother, well aside from my own. Maybe we’re all in this together. Maybe—

  My phone’s ringing! Another number I don’t recognize. Bloody telemarketers. “What?” I bark.

  “Oh! Hello? I’m looking for Lane Carson, please,” says a pleasant male voice.

  “Speaking,” I say, switching to a friendly, professional tone.

  “Hello, Miss Carson, my name is Aaron from BNE Home Securities. You met with our human resources personnel this morning at the job fair.”

  I want to giggle. B&E Home Securities; he’s got to be joking. “Of course,” I confirm.

  “We were very impressed with you, and though it’s a bit outside your realm of PR, well we’d like to offer you a job.”

  Wow! A Job. Me! My first real job. And how timely; we so need the money.

  “Thank you for the offer,” I purr. “What did you have in mind?”

  “It’s an assistant managerial role in our collections department.”

  Say what? Collections? How bloody drab and depressing. “Ohhh” is all I can muster.

  Margo waves at me and motions for me to watch her. I flash a fake smile and continue to listen in horror. The thought of having to hound people all day to pay their home security bills is dreadfully dull.

  “Unfortunately,” he continues—could it possibly get any worse?—“we are only able to pay a starting salary of twenty-six thousand; however, on your annual review, we could possibly discuss a marginal increase.”

  I feel sick, literally like puking—which might be over dramatizing things—but to go from the East Wing to Collections Bitch is more than I can handle.

  “The position starts tomorrow. Nine a.m. sharp. See you then.” The guy rings off before I’ve said yes. Did I say yes in a roundabout way? Did I just commit to this? No I couldn’t have. How can I even be considering this? I drop my phone into my bag, at a loss. I frantically motion to Margo it’s time to leave, and I think I know just where I need to go.