Paige Torn Page 12

I pull up a blank document on my computer, slip on my headphones, get my foot pedal ready, and start transcribing. The bummer about transcribing at the office during business hours is that every single time the phone rings, I have to stop and answer it, totally disrupting my flow.

  But I manage to crank through one home study by the time I get my late lunch of peanut butter and jelly on stale bread and a Ziploc bag of dried mangos I found hidden in the back of my pantry.

  It’s a lunch of champions for those who haven’t gone grocery shopping in over a week again.

  Peggy comes in from her lunch appointment and sets an envelope with my name written on it on the desk in front of me. I am attempting to eat a mango while typing. It is not going well.

  “From the Tellers,” she says, tapping the envelope. “And you are not as talented as you think you are.”

  “Thanks. And thanks.” I pause Candace’s recording right in the middle of her description of the clients’ living room. I don’t really want to know why the state cares so much about whether or not the couple has plug covers installed already. Usually, it’s at least six months if not a year from the time of a home study before a client gets matched with a birth mother. And really, how quickly do babies start sticking things in outlets anyway?

  I rip open the envelope. It’s a bright yellow card with Thank You! written across the front in happy, flowery letters.

  If Mrs. Teller were a card, this would be it.

  I open it, and a Starbucks card and a picture fall out. I grin.

  Paige,

  Thank you for your unending sweetness to us during a time of emotional stress! We will never forget your kindness or your smiles when we would come in for what was often a very hard meeting. Thank you! May God bless you!

  Love,

  Gabe, Cassie, and Samuel Teller

  She’s drawn a big smiley face below Samuel’s name. The picture is of the three of them at the hospital, I assume. Samuel has a little striped hat on his head and Mrs. Teller has obviously been crying. Actually, both Mr. and Mrs. Teller look like they have been crying. I squint at the picture. And so does Samuel. Though I doubt that his crying is from happiness like I am sure his parents’ tears are.

  I smile and tuck the note in my desk along with a few others I’ve gotten from clients. It makes my chest get all warm when I see a couple I really love finally get their dream baby.

  I pocket the Starbucks card and get back to work. Candace owes me a macchiato for dropping three of these on me at once.

  By five o’clock, I am about ten minutes away from finishing the second one. I click over to the third. It’s a four-hour tape. I squeeze my eyes shut. I do not want to stay here until nine. Plus, I promised to take Nichole out at five thirty. I’ve been putting off calling her to cancel because I was hoping I’d finish sooner than I thought.

  Plus, what kind of person cancels on a girl who has already gone through so much?

  Candace tries to sneak by my desk to leave.

  “Hey!” I shout.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought I’d already given you the first two, I honestly did. And then all of their lawyers called me last night and said they needed them this week, and I realized I’d never given them to you to transcribe. I’m so sorry,” Candace says, a hundred miles a minute.

  “Venti. Caramel. Macchiato,” I say very slowly.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll have it on your desk at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “Macchiato,” I say again as she opens the door.

  “Right. Got it,” Candace says. But I know exactly what I’ll read on my phone at eight forty-five tomorrow morning. WAIT, DO YOU WANT A CARAMEL LATTE OR A CARAMEL FRAPPUCINO?

  Candace isn’t a Starbucks regular, so she tends to get mixed up once she gets inside and starts listening to other people’s orders. One time, she made a Starbucks run for Peggy and me and came back with a tall, decaf, iced skinny mocha with an extra shot for me.

  I asked her to bring me a grande caramel macchiato and an apple fritter.

  And besides that, I do not understand the concept of ordering an extra shot of decaf. Why? To what end?

  I look at the clock. It is now five fifteen. I have finally finished transcribing the second home study, and if I don’t get any red lights and maybe speed a tiny bit, I can get to Nichole’s house by five thirty.

  It just means I’ll have to work on the third home study during the day tomorrow and bring home banquet stuff to work on over the weekend.

  Joy.

  I grab my purse, sling on my jacket, and run for my car. I drive as fast as I dare, since I’m not really in the financial place to afford to pay for a speeding ticket. My dad always flirts with ten miles an hour over the speed limit. No matter where he drives.

  But he also makes twice my salary.

  I get to Nichole’s apartment at five thirty-seven. Not quite the timing I was hoping for. I hurry out of my car, run up the walk, and tap on the door.

  “I am so sorry,” I say when she opens the door.

  She shrugs. “No big deal. Mom’s here, so let me tell her I’m leaving.” She opens the door a little wider. “Come on in. I’ll get my jacket too.”

  I step into her apartment. She and her mom have just moved here, so there are still boxes stacked against walls and piles of things in different places.

  There is a long shelf against the wall by the door that has a bunch of jars on it. I step closer to look at them. They’re filled with rocks, dirt, and little tiny bushes that look like they’ve been planted by gnomes.

  “My mom builds terrariums,” Nichole says, coming back into the room with her jacket.

  “Oh,” I say, because really, what else can you say to that? Terrariums and an extra shot of decaf are about on the same level of usefulness in my mind. But then again, so are goldfish, and there are plenty of happy goldfish owners out there.

  I assume they are happy anyway. I’ve never asked them.

  “So,” I say, climbing back in my car. Nichole buckles her seat belt on the passenger side. “Where would you like to go?”

  We end up going back to Starbucks, and I use some of what the Tellers gave me to buy our drinks. Nichole talks for the next hour about her dad and how she and her mom are doing.

  “I just don’t understand why he left.” She gets quiet and sips her vanilla bean Frappucino, tears shining in her eyes.

  And my heart just breaks. “I don’t either.”

  “Do you think this is God’s plan for my life?” she asks quietly several minutes later.

  I dig in my purse and come out with my Bible, which is still in there from Wednesday night youth group. I read a verse in Isaiah a few months ago that I remember all of a sudden. I flip through until I find the purple highlighted section. “The LORD will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs,” I read out loud to her.

  She takes another sip of her Frappucino. “I don’t feel satisfied.”

  I look at her and force a smile. I don’t either.

  I manage to finish the last home study transcription during the day on Friday. And Candace even manages to get my Starbucks order right. “I wrote it down,” she says, proudly setting the venti caramel macchiato on my desk. “And I’m sorry again.”

  I take a sip and nod. “You’re forgiven.”

  I reconsider my words as I stuff tax preparation forms and last-minute banquet calls that need to be made into a file folder and clip it with binder clips so I don’t lose anything. Tomorrow is looking like a fun Saturday.

  And I don’t even know what to think about tonight. Last I heard from Brittany, who texted me at four thirty, eighteen girls are now coming over to my apartment tonight. Eighteen. I have no idea where they’re going to park, much less sit. I have a used couch I bought at a garage sale four years ago, an overstuffed chair, and four tiny kitchen chairs. And that’s it for furniture.

  Another thing, how much pizza do eighteen teenage girls eat? I drive to a local pizza parlor pondering the question. A slice a person?
Two? I can usually eat two, but I’m not growing anymore, and I’m also not as concerned about my figure as I was in high school.

  Back in my “I’ll just take one slice” days.

  I pity past me.

  But then again, I’m not in high school where people are constantly judging you by your appearance anymore either. Now, I am in an office with two women who are always on Atkins and always telling me how lucky I am to be naturally thin.

  There are outside factors to this not caring as much.

  I end up getting three pizzas and drive home with my car smelling strongly of pepperoni and grease. The signs of a good pizza.

  I climb the stairs to my apartment and balance the pizzas on one arm while I unlock the door and go inside. I tried to straighten up a little bit before I left this morning just in case I ended up running late getting back home. There wasn’t too much to straighten up.

  I haven’t been home enough to make a mess.

  I turn the oven on low, shove the pizzas in to stay warm, and go change before the girls start showing up. As much as I like leggings, boots, and sweater dresses, movie-watching attire while lounging on a couch eating pizza they are not.

  My doorbell rings at exactly six o’clock. I’ve changed into my faded and nearly-ripped-in-the-back-pocket jeans, socks, and my old college sweatshirt. Three girls are standing on my porch. “Hi, Paige!” They all grin excitedly at me as they come inside. I think two are seniors and one is a sophomore.

  By six thirty, the sound in my apartment is reaching decibels it has never reached. Girls are everywhere — giggling, eating, drinking Cokes that one of the girls brought, and oohing over the cookies Mrs. Kleinman made.

  That are, in fact, decorated just like the paper lanterns in Tangled. It just makes me laugh when Paris walks in the door with the cookies. “Your mom is the best.” I take the huge box of cookies from her. “And holy cow. How many of us does she think there are going to be?”

  Paris shrugs. “She says if I have extras to just leave them with you as a thank-you for having us over.”

  I am suddenly much more concerned about my figure.

  I finally get all the girls to sit down with their pizza around six forty-five. I push the DVD in and turn the volume up. I turn around and try not to shake my head.

  There isn’t even breathing room, the girls are all packed in so tight. Nine girls have squished together on the couch, two of them are sharing the chair, and all four of the kitchen chairs have been dragged to the living room. The rest of the girls ended up on the floor.

  The movie starts and you can immediately tell who’s seen it before. Some girls sing along to the songs, others whisper the lines with the characters, which honestly is one of my biggest pet peeves. Particularly if I am watching a movie I’ve never seen before.

  But the other girls don’t seem to mind.

  I set the cookies in front of everyone about halfway through the movie. “Everyone has to take at least two cookies,” I say over the movie.

  “No problem.” Brittany grabs three. “These are Mrs. Kleinman’s cookies, huh? They are amazing.”

  Paris’s shoulders straighten proudly, and I smile to myself. It’s a good thing to be proud of your mom.

  I miss my mom. Most of the time I stay so busy I don’t notice, but every so often, a girl just needs her mom.

  Particularly if you’ve got a great mom like mine.

  The movie ends forty-five minutes later and none of the girls moves. “That is sooo good!” Tasha squeals from the couch. “That is the best movie ever!”

  I laugh. “Today, anyway.”

  She grins at me.

  And then the chattering starts again. And it doesn’t cease until the very last girl leaves at eleven thirty. And then there is silence.

  Just me, half a pizza, and forty-two cookies left.

  My floor is covered in cookie crumbs, my kitchen counter has pizza sauce and paper plates all over it, and someone spilled a Coke on the tile in the entryway and only used a dry paper towel to soak it up, so now the whole area is sticky.

  I look at everything that needs to be done, at the bursting file folder of work stuff, and then at my bed.

  And the bed wins out. Right after a shower to get rid of the greasy feeling I have all over my face.

  I climb beneath the covers and look at my Bible sitting on the bedside table behind me. I am so tired that my eyes are burning.

  “Tomorrow,” I promise myself as I turn out the light. Maybe I’ll even get in a nice hike with my Bible like I used to do.

  Then I close my tired eyes and am out before I have another thought.

  * * * * *

  I wake up blissfully at eight forty-five on Saturday.

  The latest I’ve slept in weeks.

  I roll over and look at the clock before rolling to my back and staring at the ceiling.

  My to-do list for the day reels through my brain.

  Shower, get dressed.

  Breakfast.

  Banquet calls.

  Tax prep.

  Clean bathroom and kitchen.

  Band previewing with Layla at one.

  Call Mom.

  Clean up Coke spill in entryway.

  It isn’t my favorite way to wake up. Particularly on a Saturday. I like to wake up slowly, make coffee, and then spend a quiet breakfast reading.

  I get out of the shower a few minutes later, pull on a pair of jeans and a gray sweater, and blow-dry my hair. I come out to the kitchen to make coffee just as my phone rings.

  It’s my mom. “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi, Mom.” I grin. One, because I’m excited to talk to my mom, and two, because I can cross two things off the list now.

  “Just calling because we’re getting ready to go to the store and I wanted to see what you want when you get here soon,” she says.

  I frown and walk over to my planner, checking the date. “I’m not coming for about six weeks, Mom.”

  “I know. But I want to have everything ready.”

  I grin. Mom misses me too.

  “I’m good with whatever, Mom.”

  “I’m thinking we can go to Carroways for dinner one night.”

  “Perfect.” My favorite local restaurant. They have the best onion rings in the whole state of Texas.

  “And I’ll make a brisket, of course. And Dad’s going to make his rolls.”

  My dad doesn’t cook. He once ruined an entire batch of pancake batter because he misread tablespoon instead of teaspoon of salt. But for whatever reason, Dad can make the lightest, fluffiest, buttery-est, yeastiest rolls ever. It’s a miracle of nature. Mom always tells me she thinks God gave Dad that gift because, otherwise, she wouldn’t have taken a second look at him way back in their dating days.

  “Daddy is a nerd, honey,” she’d say then.

  And then Dad would sigh, remind her that his nerdiness was why they were now able to afford a nice house, and then he’d go make another batch of the rolls, just so Mom didn’t get any ideas about leaving him for someone who didn’t still wear knee socks.

  Yep. That’s my dad.

  I suddenly have a strong craving for brisket and rolls, and the oatmeal I am making never looked worse. “That sounds so good right now.”

  “And I’ll make you sweet potatoes.”

  My mother is about the most southern cook I’ve ever met. I’ve heard this rumor that sweet potatoes can actually be healthy for you, but considering I’ve never seen them any way but fried or covered in butter, brown sugar, and marshmallows, I have a hard time believing it.

  The oatmeal really doesn’t look good now.

  “When do you think you’ll get here?” Mom asks.

  “I have to work that Thursday, so I’ll probably just leave as soon as I get off work.” If I have my duffel bag in the car when I go to work that morning, I can leave straight from the office. “So, maybe around eight?”

  “So, not in time for dinner but maybe in time for dessert?”

  “That’s in
time for dinner, Mom. We can just have a late night.”

  She laughs. “Sweetie, Daddy’s doctor told him he has to start eating lighter meals earlier at night, so we’ve been eating grilled chicken on salads at five o’clock for the past month.”

  I have a hard time imagining my father going along with that diet plan. “And he’s really doing it?”

  “He sure is,” Mom says proudly. “We eat every night at five, and then we each get a small snack around seven. I’ve been making us that fat-free popcorn and adding a little of that no-salt seasoning to it.”

  Really can’t picture Dad willingly eating like that. My father is the king of beef and carbs. His favorite meal is steak with a huge loaded baked potato and about six of his rolls.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “We’re getting healthy. I’ve even got him up walking with me every morning at six before he goes to work.”

  I try picturing that one and suddenly realize that my parents are getting older. Eating at five, walking at six in the morning. Old people do that. If my mother tells me she’s started wearing khakis as lounge pants, I’ll have to look into retirement communities for them.

  “Wow,” I say again, trying to calculate how old my parents are. I don’t remember them being this old before.

  “Yes. But don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll make all of your favorite meals while you’re here. It’s good to allow yourself to splurge every once in a while.”

  “Uh-huh.” I look at my congealing oatmeal. Maybe her comment is God’s sign to me that I should go get an apple fritter from Starbucks and just not worry about my eating-out budget today.

  I wince, thinking of my eating-out budget. Sometimes I miss being a little kid who doesn’t get the concept that money isn’t endless. At some point, you can run out. It is a jarring lesson to realize. I learned it three weeks after I moved into this apartment and suddenly noticed I had exactly $212 in the bank.

  And nothing else.

  There were lots of prayers said before that first paycheck finally arrived.

  “So what do you have planned for today?” Mom asks.

  I push the oatmeal aside and grab a paper towel and some of my floor cleaner spray. “I’ve got to do some cleaning and some work on the agency taxes before I meet Layla to preview bands for her parents’ party.”