“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “If you’d like, I can get you the number for our corporate office in Virginia. There’s a woman named Patricia who could hear your complaint…”
“That’s enough,” Miguel said, finally loosening himself from the doorway and practically pushing me out of the way. “Mr. Davies, I’m Miguel Herrera, the general manager for ExecuSpace. Unfortunately, you just weren’t a good fit for the criteria we’re looking for right now. I’m sorry no one’s gotten back to you sooner, but we’ve all been very busy—”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Mr. Davies asked him, his face taut with barely-contained rage. “You must, because as much as I think your receptionist there could give a rat’s ass about what happens to me, at least she had the decency to be honest.”
I felt my own knot of anger and tried not to grimace. “Receptionist” was something of a dirty word amongst personal and administrative assistants. Even secretaries were higher up the food chain. A receptionist was a person who did the least amount of work in the industry, someone who answered a phone and filed a few papers, maybe. Lacy was a receptionist—barely. I didn’t appreciate being compared to her.
But I understood that this wasn’t about me. This was about Mr. Davies and his embarrassment at the treatment he’d endured. Though I’d meant for the truth to be helpful to him, I knew that it couldn’t have been easy to hear, and I tried to accept his hatred gracefully.
Miguel, however, was showing signs of cracking. I could see his brow lining with deep wrinkles and the muscle in his jaw was steadily twitching.
“Sir, I assure you, what Miss Hearst has said is in no way representative of our company’s values or beliefs. She is obviously misinformed.”
“Then why?” Mr. Davies demanded, his voice rising. “Why won’t Mr. Culling return my calls? Why did you decide not to hire me?”
Miguel sneered. “We’re not under any legal obligation to disclose that. In fact, our HR department discourages us from—”
“Fuck your HR department!” Mr. Davies railed, getting so close to Miguel’s face I could see spittle marring his skin. “And fuck you!”
Before Miguel could retaliate, Mr. Davies left, storming off through the doors to the elevator with steps that shook the office floor.
As the weight of his anger dissipated, I felt another sensation flooding in. What I had done was, objectively, the right thing. I’d given a man honestly when no one else would, and I’d stopped being the whipping girl everyone wanted me to be. I’d stood up for myself and for my own values. But at what cost?
Miguel turned to me. I raised my chin, doing my best to look confident, but not smug. I was preparing to defend my decision when the words I’d been dreading left his mouth.
“Get your things and turn in your key card. You’re fired.”
Almost without thinking and with shock softening the blow, I removed my lanyard and threw it at him.
“You can’t fire me. I quit five minutes ago.”
I grabbed my clutch from the front desk, turned, and strode out the doors, following Mr. Davies. Miguel was yelling something at me, but I couldn’t hear him—probably some clichéd movie-villain line about how I’d “never work in this town again.” He seemed like the type.
The blood rushing in my ears was deafening, and I could feel my body quaking as I pressed the button for the elevator car. Equal parts relief and dread seeped into me, but I tried not to let either one win until I heard Lacy’s shrill voice calling to me over the baritone roar of Miguel’s furor.
“But Maddy! I don’t know what all you do! Send me an e-mail with everything once you get home, okay?”
And then I finally let the dam burst. I laughed.
And as the elevator car finally reached my floor, and as it descended to the next, and the next, I laughed and laughed some more.
My laughter died as soon as I hit the lobby.
It wasn’t until I’d shown myself out through the revolving door that I realized the tears brimming in my eyes weren’t the funny ones. They were hot and stinging, tears of rage, desperation, and utter despair. Soon I realized that I really wasn’t laughing at all anymore, not even in that hysterical way people do when they feel like they’ve got nothing else they can do to chase the pain away.
No, I was sobbing. Sobbing so hard it hurt, so hard my chest felt like it would split in two, so hard I was sure I could feel my ribs starting to cave and poke at my lungs.
I was standing on the sidewalk of one of the busiest streets in the city bawling my eyes out in the afternoon rush. Cars and taxis whizzed by too fast for me to see anything more than the blur of their movement, but somehow I was certain that the dark eyes inside them were all on me. Passersby craned their necks to ogle at the crying woman slowly wandering toward home, fascinated by me like I was some kind of moaning spirit haunting 47th Street, a jilted bride still searching for her lover or a desolate mother seeking her long-lost child.
They made the whole thing feel more dramatic than it was, but for the most part, they all left me alone. That was fine by me. The last thing I needed at that moment was a stranger’s pity.
I steadied myself for a moment on a parking meter near one of those pruned-just-so trees cities put up along the sidewalks to imply they weren’t completely destroying the environment. It was every bit as fake as the offices I used to pretend to work for. I could feel cold sweat making long trails down the lines in my palms despite the shade, and my chest felt like someone had taken the muscles and stretching them out paper-thin. I knew what it was. I’d experienced it before. In fact, panic attacks had become a common occurrence since I’d started working at ExecuSpace, and even Zoloft couldn’t seem to keep them at bay. Human beings weren’t meant to work the way ExecuSpace expected them to. Human beings weren’t meant to endure such constant, debilitating stress.
As I sucked in long, slow breaths, I tried to entertain myself with happier thoughts. It’s for the best. Think about your health. Think about your peace of mind. This job couldn’t have been good for you. Even if it was putting food on the table, who’s to say that you wouldn’t end up in the hospital for stress a few months down the line? It’s not like they offered health insurance. You were one medical disaster away from being destitute, anyway…
It was all true. But the fact remained that I wasn’t one medical disaster away from financial ruin anymore. Now, thanks to a rage that had been building for far too long and a mouth that didn’t know when to seal itself shut, I was already there.
I changed tracks on my train of
thought, trying to get a grip on something solid—a plan, maybe. The damage was done, and there was no way to undo it, but what I could do now was find a way to move forward.
I knew the job market. I’d been searching for a replacement position for months now in secret. I’d only had one interview, and that position had offered even less in the way of compensation. Still, I was sure I could find something, but time was a factor, and I had no safety net.
That particular thought made my vision blurry and my blood boil. It didn’t have to be like this…
The reason I had no safety net had a name, and it was Mother.
My mother, Amanda Hearst, didn’t believe in being supportive. She believed in “tough love,” as in, “you better not screw this up, honey, ‘cause you’re on your own.” She had made it clear to me from a very young age that my mistakes were my own. My successes, however, she attributed to her stellar parenting. Classic mother.
“Those other kids failed because their parents let them,” she’d tell me, her carmine lips twisted into a smug smirk. “If it wasn’t for me and how hard I’ve pushed you, you would be just like them.”