Win for Love

by Isabelle Peterson

  My phone rings and instantly my thoughts go to my mother. Is she still okay like the impression she gave yesterday? I pull out my phone to see a 312 area code on the screen and know it’s not my mom.

  “Hello?”

  “Talia? Pam DeWitt here.” My heart pounds in my chest. Did she sound like she had good news? Or bad?

  “Hi, Ms. DeWitt. How are you?”

  “I’m great, honey. Listen. Good news. The agency accepted your application, and you can move in as early as Wednesday.”

  “Really?”

  She laughs good-naturedly and assures me that everything is in order. She and I confirm to meet up on Wednesday morning at the building at ten o’clock to finalize the lease agreement and collect my keys.

  We end the call, and I look out onto the views with a new sense of joy and hope. A small voice in my head wonders when my luck will run out, but I push that little creature into a box and enjoy the moment. I’m now a Chicagoan.

  Tuesday, the weather is iffy, so instead of doing outdoor things and exploring the streets, I head to the museum first on my Museum List—the Art Institute of Chicago. I meander through the American Exhibit on the first floor before I climb a massive staircase and find myself in an exhibit with ancient armor and coats of arms and ultimately in front of Monets and Van Goughs I’d read about in my history class during the section about art. It was truly magical. I spend all day at the Art Institute and feel I’ve only scratched the surface. Tuesday night, I sweep through my hotel room gathering all my things, making sure nothing is left behind, and tuck in ready for my new apartment and the official start of my new life.

  Wednesday, I meet Ms. DeWitt promptly at ten o’clock in the conference room of the first level of the building I will now call home. We finalize the paperwork for a three-month lease.

  “Thank you for everything, Ms. DeWitt.”

  “Oh honey, it’s what I do. I’m so glad you called the other day, and we were able to find you this place. Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asks.

  “Well, this is just a three-month lease. I guess I’ll call you in a month or so for a regular apartment?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Call me before then if you need anything.”

  I assure her that I will and see her out the door. Turning from the front door, I look around my new apartment, and I’m overwhelmed. It’s a nice place. Who am I kidding? It’s an incredible place. The rent is more than ten times what the mortgage is on our trailer back in Harton, but it’s within the budget I put together. And the best part is that it’s furnished, so I don’t have to buy anything, although it’s not really homey or what my tastes are. In a few months, I’ll be getting a regular apartment, one I’ll get to furnish with my own furniture and my own style—whatever that may be—and I won’t be rushed to make those purchases. I like that I will get to take my time and choose things I absolutely love instead of ‘good until I can get something better.’ But for now, this apartment is perfect. It features windows that run practically from the floor to the ceiling, so it’s very bright.

  The view from my unit is only so-so with a view of two buildings—one, it seems is a business building with various offices on every floor, and the other building seems to be an apartment building like mine. The best part of the apartment is that the building is practically next door to the Harold Washington Library!

  Another feature of my new address is that the building has a doorman, or doormen, rather. Benjamin, who was on duty just now, is the weekday doorman. Eric, whom Pam and I met on Sunday, I’m told handles the weekend days, and the evenings are covered by Sergio and Conrad. There’s a white phone in the kitchen that connects straight to their desk in the lobby downstairs. They’d be calling me on that if I had a guest, or I could call down to them if I wanted them to get me a cab or something. It’s all so surreal!

  I set about moving in putting my book collection on the bookshelf with the ‘stock’ items that are there for decoration—a silk plant, a framed photograph of the city, and a couple of sculptured-looking things as well as a cable box and a Blu-ray/DVD player. A part of me wants to click on the TV and check out all the cable channels, the other part of me is afraid that I’ll get so sucked into what is on the screen, that I’ll neglect the life around me like old Mrs. Sager who lives in our trailer park. She watches her TV all day and does little else other than eat. Her place is more unkempt than ours, which is saying something.

  I leave the TV alone and meander into the kitchen—my kitchen—which is twice the size of the kitchen in the trailer my mom and I lived in. I squeal over the dishwasher, which is a luxury I’ve never had before. I open the cupboards and see all the glasses and dishes, and in the lower cabinets, I discover pots, pans, and baking dishes of every size. In the drawers, I find beautiful silverware that all matches, cooking utensils, and other cooking gadgets. Just off the kitchen is a washer and dryer unit—no more heading to the laundromat with a bag full of quarters for me!

  With that last thought in mind, I grab my suitcases and head into the bedroom to unpack my clothes. What I have barely fills half of the dresser and even less in the closet which is furnished with high-end wooden hangers. And lastly, I set all my toiletries in the bathroom with the jacuzzi tub! As our trailer has only a shower stall, I grew up taking showers all the time. I can’t wait to take a bubble bath.

  I make a shopping list to stock my kitchen—making sure to put bubble bath on the list—and head out in search of a supermarket as well as check out everything in a healthy radius of my address. Before I leave, I ask Benjamin, the doorman, for some advice, and he gives me some simple instructions for the CVS, a pharmacy/convenience store, and the South Loop Market.

  As I explore my new neighborhood, I start making a mental list of restaurants and coffee shops I want to check out. I stop in a couple of cute clothing stores for a little shopping, picking out a few new shirts and am giddy that I don’t have to restrict my shopping to items on the clearance rack—although I do take a look just out of habit and find one shirt there that I decide I have to have. I’m about five or six blocks from my building when I finally get to the market Benjamin mentioned.

  Returning to my new home, and after unpacking all of my purchases, I tally my spending so I don’t go over budget and make myself dinner in my kitchen. No frozen or boxed items for me. Nope, I make myself a chicken stir-fry with fresh chicken and produce, but I do use a bottled stir-fry sauce.

  After cleaning things up, I grab my book and head to bed.

  Before I start reading, I decide to message my mom, just to check in with her. Hey Mom. Just checking in. Things here are going better than I could have hoped. Hope you are good too. G’nite.

  I set my phone aside figuring I won’t hear back from her until tomorrow. Then I start to worry if she’s out… if she’s getting wasted again… if she’s hooking up with another guy… if that guy is going to treat her like the one several weeks ago and leave her with bruises and cuts on her face. My imagination is coming up with all sorts of scenarios, which are interrupted by my phone chiming back with a reply. Great news baby doll. Things here r good 2. Just heading 2 bed. xo

  I read her message a few times and decide that her message is more positive than negative. I mean, if she were out and drinking, she wouldn’t have been able to type a coherent message, but more likely, she wouldn’t have messaged back at all. And a few days ago, she said she was going to make everything work. Maybe she really is… making it work. Maybe my leaving was just what she needed.

  I put my phone aside and open my book, but the past few days catch up to me, and I’m asleep before I can dive into the chapter of Laurie’s college graduation.

  I wake on Thursday and stretch in the massive bed. I feel like today is the first day of the rest of my life. It’s only been a few days, but I’m loving my independence and that I have no one to answer to. No one to take care of. I like that I can wake up when I want and go to bed when I want. I’m thoroughly savoring going out
to eat, even though I’ve only gone out a few times. Using a credit card is making me nervous, but I’m being very careful to keep my spending at a modest level. The only thing I’m not enjoying is seeing all the couples and families on the streets and in the museums. I find myself missing my life back in Harton—just a little. But I push those moody thoughts from my mind and plan my attack for further exploring my new town. I had planned on going to more museums, but the weather is so nice, I can’t see spending the day inside.

  I remember seeing red double-decker buses bumbling about and thought it would be a fun way to get more familiar with the city. So, I buy a ticket and take a tour, and because I can, I jump off from time to time to explore the area, then just jump back on and continue the tour with a new guide. I pass by the Art Institute and Willis Tower which I’d already explored. But from the tour, I add several more spots I want to explore in addition to my list of museums and attractions like Navy Pier. I learn about Catherine O’Leary’s cow that kicked over a lantern and burned the city back in 1871, many Al Capone locations, and a ghost named Resurrection Mary.

  After my tour, I head into a few stores just to browse and decide on buying a few towels, something prettier and fluffier than the set the apartment came with.

  “Hello, Miss Jameson,” Benjamin, the doorman, says.

  “Hi, Benjamin. Good to see you.”

  I like Benjamin. He’s nice. He’s maybe fifty or so. His brown eyes are warm and kind. I wonder if he has kids and maybe grandkids. I’m sure he’d be a nice father and grandfather.

  Just then, a bubbly girl about my age comes bounding through the door that Benjamin opens.

  “Thanks, Benny!” she says cheerily and heads directly toward me where I’m still waiting for the elevator.

  “Hi,” she says to me. Her phone chimes, and she pulls it out of her bag to look at the screen. “Pshhh,” she lets out, shaking her head at what she sees.

  “Um, yeah. Hi,” I reply nervously. She has such a confident air about her that I’m actually feeling intimidated. Her hair is a beautiful honey color and wavy, falling gently over her tanned shoulders. Her skin is flawless and practically glows. Her clothes are trendy—skewing to the bohemian side… soft and flowy, flat sandals, beaded jewelry, and her purse has fringe. Briefly, I wonder if I could pull off a style like hers.

  She’s wildly typing into her device and then snaps a photo of herself making a goofy face and goes back to tapping the screen with her thumbs so quickly, I’m dizzy. Done with whatever she was doing, she quickly stuffs the device into her purse just as the elevator car arrives.

  We both step in, and I quietly press the ‘17’ button. “What floor?” I ask hesitantly, feeling every bit a servant to her big personality.

  “Oh!” she says noting the illuminated button. “I’m on seventeen, too! Who are you visiting?” she asks as the doors close.

  “Um, I’m in apartment B. I just moved in,” I explain.

  “You did? I mean, that’s great! That’s the corporate lease. Nice. I’m Lainey Bartolucci. I’m right next door in unit A.” She extends a hand, and I take it, politely shaking it.

  “Talia Jameson.”

  “Nice to meet you, Talia, and welcome to the building. So, the rental? How long?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I signed for three months with an option to renew.”

  “New in town?”

  “I am. From southern Illinois,” I admit and kick myself for revealing that kind of information.

  “Oh yeah? Cool,” she says as the elevator comes to a stop, and we get out.

  Quietly we walk to our doors, and I notice that her unit faces the lake side of the building. I just have my key in the lock when Lainey pipes up. “Wanna come over and hang out for a while? Maybe we’ll order some delivery? I mean, if you’re new, you probably don’t know many people. Or, sorry, that was rude. Do you know anyone in town? I mean, if you’re here for work, you probably know your co-workers, but…”

  I shake my head and fight a smile at her bubbly and rambling way, and say, “I don’t actually know anyone. Well, my realtor, but other than her, no one. Thanks for the invitation. That would be nice.”

  “Great. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just come on in when you’re ready.” She flashes her picture-perfect smile, and I’m stunned that this stranger is so warm and open.

  “Um, yeah. Sounds great.”

  “Well, I have to get the ice cream put away,” she says, lifting the reusable shopping bag in her hand. “See you soon!” And with that, she disappears into her apartment.

  7

  New Life, New Friends

  CRYSTAL

  About twenty minutes later, I knock on Lainey’s door, but there’s no answer. I remember her saying that she would leave the door unlocked and to just let myself in, so I test the doorknob, and sure enough, the handle turns easily, so I let myself in. “Hello?” I call out, with just my head through the door hopeful that I’d not misunderstood something.

  “Hey!” Lainey calls from the direction of the bedroom. “I’ll be right out. Make yourself comfortable.”

  I step carefully into her apartment and see that it’s nothing like my place. Her windows feature a commanding view of the lake. Where the furnishings in my apartment are nice, they’re also very neutral and, well, corporate-like. Lainey’s sofa is bright chartreuse flanked by a magenta sling chair and an overstuffed orange armchair. The coffee table is actually an old window and sash with the white paint all weathered and worn and a sheet of glass on top to make the surface flat. The area rug in the space is a super fluffy white piece, and I can’t imagine how she keeps it clean or doesn’t lose things in its plushness.

  In the corner, I spot an easel, and next to it, a table with paints, brushes, and a glass jar of water. I step carefully to peek at the canvas on the easel wondering if she’s okay that I look at what she’s clearly working on.

  What I see is startling, and it makes my mind stutter and recalculate what is on the canvas. I stare at it for a moment, or four, to figure it all out.

  “It’s one in an abstract series of six,” Lainey says, startling me slightly as she joins me in the living room.

  “It’s really amazing,” I say taking in what looks like a lemon, except it’s purple, on a green background

  Lainey pulls five other canvases out from a ‘bookcase’ of sorts—instead of horizontal shelves, there are several vertical dividers, many holding canvases—and leans them against the wall. “I call the series ‘Off the Wall,’” she explains.

  I carefully look at all six canvases and am drawn into all of them. While the fruit is exceptionally realistic looking, the colors are all wrong, or ‘off,’ yet with the collection all together, they inexplicably look right. The other fruits are a sky apple, an orange bunch of grapes, a red banana, a turquoise orange, and yellow strawberries with seeds.

  “You’re an artist,” I say lamely, in awe that anyone actually has the time to have such a creative job.

  She tells me about the rest of the paintings for a show she’s putting together which will be at some gallery later in the month—oddly colored faces and landscapes are already at the gallery. I can’t wait to see the show.

  When our talk turns to my interests and books, I tell her about my collection of classics. When I mention Pride and Prejudice, she starts talking about some TV or movie version. I’m lost because I haven’t seen it. I have no idea who the actors are she’s talking about other than vague name recognition.

  “Wait!” she says suddenly startled. “This weekend… Sunday! Season five of Making a Male Model! I can’t wait to see all the yummy men! Not that I would trade Lance for any one of them, but a girl can look, right?

  “Um, I don’t watch it?” I say, worried about her response that I don’t watch the TV show.

  “You’re a smart girl. It’s a total waste of time, but sooo addictive! I love watching the guys act like bitches and all their catfights and pissing contests. What are your favorite shows?�
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  I shake my head slowly and say, “I don’t really watch much TV these days.” I’m too ashamed to tell her that we only have three channels on our crappy TV back home, and without cable, even those three don’t come in clearly, especially after the antenna blew off the place a few years back. “But back in high school, I used to watch Gossip Girl at my friend’s house. We graduated in 2012, and she got busy with college, and we missed the last season.”

  “Wait. What? You’ve not seen the last season of Gossip Girl? Do you know who Gossip Girl is?” she asks, eyes wide with disbelief. Heather and I, likely along with the rest of the world, wondered who the narrative voice of the Gossip Girl was… the omnipotent character, exposing the dirty laundry of everyone on the show all over the internet. We would be certain it was Blair in one episode only to be convinced it was Jennifer or Dan or Nate or Serena or even Chuck in the next.

  I shake my head again.

  “Park it,” Lainey commands me. She grabs the remote control and presses some buttons. In just about a minute, she has some ‘streaming service’ delivering the sixth season of Gossip Girl to the screen. I feel so out of touch with her fancy TV and services, but at the same time, Lainey is open and warm, and I can’t help but like her and feel comfortable. We spend the afternoon curled up on the sofa in front of her massive TV, at least twice as big as the one back home, and even bigger than the one in my apartment, eating popcorn and watching Serena van der Woodsen, Blair Waldorf, ‘Lonely Boy’ Dan Humfrey, Chuck Bass, and, my favorite, Nate Archibald as their lives unfold in New York. I’ve never binge-watched anything before and find streaming TV to be the most wonderful invention of all time. No commercials. No waiting a week for the next episode. And you can rewind the show if you miss something. I wonder if my neighbor, Mrs. Sager, had streaming TV, but I don’t really think so.