Run Away Baby

“If you want any of this furniture out of here, or if you need me to order a different chair for you or something, let me know.”

“Okay,” said Abby.

“Open or closed?” Danielle asked, standing in the doorway with her hand on the doorknob.

“Open is fine.”

Danielle nodded, closing the door halfway despite what Abby had said. Abby looked around, listening to Danielle click-tapping away. In front of her was a folder. She opened it and read her welcome letter. It informed her, among other things, that she would be making $28 an hour. She had no idea if that was normal or not. It seemed like a lot to fold papers and stuff envelopes. She had another letter just like this, but printed onto regular copy paper, in her briefcase. She picked up the briefcase and pushed the sliding fasteners together. It unlatched itself and opened before her eyes like a magic trick. The briefcase was rich reddish brown leather and had her initials embossed on the front of it in uniform block letters, each the same size: ALG. She hated her initials. They made her think of algae and, of course, Papa Rottzy.

Once upon a time she had been ALT. Or ATL with the T being bigger, on the front of her Christmas sweater from third grade. Abigail L. Temperley. She had liked her initials back then. And she’d liked the way her future was a mystery, filled with hope and potential. That was a million years ago.

Randall had brought the briefcase home for her the evening she found out about her return to the working world. He’d carried it beneath his arm like an afterthought football. It had a yellow bow on it and a little card tucked beneath the ribbon that said Congrats! You’ve earned it! The card was signed inside with a scrawly R that she could tell Randall had actually taken the time to sign himself. When Krissa signed things for him the R leaned the same way, but it had the stilted look of something that has been traced. This monogrammed briefcase was the reason Krissa had asked her what her middle name was earlier that day.

Inside were the few things she’d brought from home to help her settle in. A little mirror to keep in her desk drawer so she could check her teeth if she ate something. A pack of gum. A small tube of hand lotion for gardeners, despite that she’d never gardened. And a silver framed photo of her and Randall having a grand old time in Fiji. She had brought this at his suggestion. They looked like movie stars. Randall like someone who would play a mobster or some aging psychopath. Abby like a regular movie star. It had been taken a year earlier.

She put away the mirror, gum, and lotion, and placed the picture on her desk. She was bored already, wondering what she was missing on The View. She began folding papers.

An hour into her day Danielle knocked on her door.

“Hi,” Abby said, glad for the interruption. “Come in.”

“Just seeing how you’re coming.”

“I’ve made a little dent in these papers,” she told Danielle.

“I see that. You can fold a few at a time, you know.”

“Maybe I’ll try that next time after I get the hang of it this way.”

“Or you could try it starting now,” said Danielle. “If you folded a stack of two, it would go twice as fast. If you folded a stack of three, it would be three times as fast.”

“Yeah, maybe. So… What exactly are these?” Abby asked, actually looking at one of the papers for the first time. Up until this point she’d been mindlessly folding.

“They’re invoices.” Danielle came over and took a look. “Uh oh. You’re going to have to redo these.”

“Why?”

“You need to fold them so the address is on the outside. It needs to match up with the little window on the envelope.”

“Oh no. You’re kidding,” Abby said. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s how it worked?”

“I didn’t realize I had to.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll start over. Can you do one for me so I can see how it’s supposed to look?”

Danielle looked at her like she had to be joking, and then slowly, deliberately, refolded one of Abby’s and stuck it in an envelope. “A sample for you,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything else you need help with?”

“Could you grab me a cup of coffee?” Abby asked.

“Sure thing,” Danielle said, disappearing and reappearing two efficient minutes later with a small tray holding a cup of coffee, sugar, cream, napkins, stir sticks, and a small insulated pot filled with another two or three cups worth.

Abby couldn’t bring herself to drink any. She was sure Danielle had spat in it.

Chapter 4