Becoming Death (2 page)

I jumped forwards, hugging her. She gasped, patting my head. I had forgotten how beautiful my mother looked when she smiled. Her pale skin complemented her green eyes, and her stunning red hair was secured in a bun. Her clothes looked new, freshly ironed, and she walked with an air of confidence in each step. Since my father’s death, my mother had adopted the persona of a Stepford widow. She was proud of her accomplishments: she had been head of the PTA, ran her own book group and had won a blue ribbon for her blueberry pie recipe. Her social circle thought she was perfect, but I knew better.

Although my father hadn’t lived in the house for years, I could instantly smell his aftershave haunting the rooms. Our last happy family photo still hung in the hallway. Sometimes I wished my mother would move on, but a deeper part of me willed her to continue to cling to his memory. I walked into the living room and automatically let out a relaxed sigh. Something about my parents’ house always made me feel like a child again. The carefree feeling of having no responsibilities and time for anything made me feel better already.

I glanced at the adjoining dining room and noted a pile of files littering the dining table. I had forgotten it was April, tax season. I examined my fingers for mascara smudges before I sat down carefully on the bulky cream sofa.

“All those late filers keeping you busy?” I said, cocking my head towards the dining room.

My mother rolled her eyes before closing the adjoining doors. “Don’t mind that mess. Death and taxes, the only certain things in life. At least it keeps me out of trouble.”

“You forgot one.” I picked up a form from the side table titled R1P.

She snatched it from my hand and shook a finger at me. “Client confidentiality.” She placed the form in a folder on the sideboard.

My mother sat down next to me and folded her hands in her lap. The silence was heavy, as I had exhausted my knowledge of my mother’s profession.

“I don’t suppose you could squeeze in my taxes if I bring them over at brunch on Sunday?”

My mother raised a disapproving eyebrow and fiddled with the pearls around her neck. “Yes, I suppose, but promise me next year you won’t wait until the last minute. Clarissa had her taxes filed months ago.”

“Clarissa’s an auditor, she lives and breathes numbers. I’m a fry cook. There’s a tiny bit of a difference.”

“Maybe if you’d paid more attention and applied yourself instead of reading those silly comic books when I gave you both lessons, you’d be studying accountancy now,” my mother said.

I turned away and examined the nearby wall.

“You really do look lovely in that dress. So grown up,” my mother said, rubbing my shoulder.

I nodded politely. I looked down at the dress convinced a trash bag would be more elegant.

“It’s more tasteful than your normal attire. Maybe I could tag along on your next shopping trip. Give you some pointers. My treat, of course.”

I groaned inwardly. “If you really want to.”

“Great, it’s a date. You must be starving. What can I get you to eat or drink? I have some freshly squeezed lemonade or a piece of cherry crumble? It’s cooling on the window sill.”

I could feel an ulcer building in my stomach. “Actually, I’m not feeling very hungry anymore.” I scratched the arm of the sofa, wishing this was over with already.

My mother lowered her hand to my thigh and patted it reassuringly. “What’s troubling you, sweetheart? Is this about the funeral?”

I curled my fingers inwards, staring blankly at the duck-egg blue rug. I didn’t want to tell her about the letter. Being fired was another check mark to add to the inferior child list. No college or job. I was a failure.

“I don’t think I can go back to the Burger Hut. It reminds me too much of Linda. I miss her.”

My mother pulled me close, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “Sweetie, you’ll be fine. You’ll forget it ever happened after a while… You always do.”

I felt my mother shiver and I glanced up at her. Letting the tears appear at the corners of my eyes, I shook my head. “Mom, seriously, I can’t get her dead body out of my head. I haven’t slept in days. Every time I close my eyes, she’s there, just like Dad was.”

My mother’s bottom lip quivered. “Then you need to move on. It’s never easy to get over tragedies like Linda’s death. Have you tried applying for anything else? I’m sure you’d be able to get another position quickly if you put your mind to it.”

I wiped my eyes, smearing mascara on my fingertips. ‘I can’t right now. I just need a little more time. I want to find something I’m good at and somewhere I belong.”

“Maybe your sister could help you get a job at her office?”

“Mom, please don’t bring Saint Clarissa into this.”

My mother smoothed the top of her khaki-covered thighs. “How much do you need?”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” I shouted, lunging at her from across the sofa and wrapping my arms around her.

She shook me off as she rose from the sofa. My mother lifted her eyebrow as she looked down at me. “But this is the last time. Next time it’s a loan with twenty-five percent interest.”

“Don’t worry, I plan to pay you back as soon as I can. I promise this time I’ll start saving as soon as I get something.”

“I look forward to it. How much is this loan for?”

“I need about three hundred to cover my share of the rent and if I want to eat this month another two hundred for that, but I guess I could cut back to one meal a day if I had to. I’ve been meaning to start a diet anyway.”

“Alright, you’ve guilt-tripped me into it. I’ll get my checkbook,” she said, making her way towards the stairs in the hallway.

“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I would summarize its worth approximately five hundred dollars, give or take.”

I gave the air a well-timed punch and collapsed back onto the sofa as my mother walked upstairs to her bedroom. The expected soft landing was replaced with a jolt to my tailbone. I jumped up, swearing under my breath, and rubbed my backside. Annoyed, I tugged at the cushions, ripping them from the base.

My eyes widened as I saw the bottom of the sofa had been hollowed out and replaced with a large wooden trunk. The trunk looked ancient, with a heavy iron padlock mounted on the front. A name was carved jaggedly into the lid— my name: M. Clark. For a moment, I forgot I was in my mother’s home. I was overcome with an insatiable desire to open the trunk. Why was my name on it? Where had it come from? I pulled at the lock on the front, trying unsuccessfully to remove it. I had to open it. I had to know what was inside.

“Madison, what are you doing?”

I looked behind me to see my mother standing in the doorway frowning.

“Mom, what is this? Why does it have my name on it?”

My mother crossed the room in three steps, grabbed my forearm and began pulling me away from the trunk. “That old thing? It’s nothing important.”

“Mom, it has my name on it.”

“Stop being so dramatic, Madison. Honestly, it’s nothing to do with you.” She stuffed a piece of paper into my hand. “Here’s your money. I think you should go.”

I ignored the check and I turned back to the mystery trunk. “Mom, seriously, what did you do to your couch? Why are you hiding a trunk with my name on it here?”

My mother wrapped her arm around my shoulders and shooed me towards the front door. “It’s my trunk and it’s none of your business. Can’t I have a few secrets?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and planted my feet on the floor. “No, of course not. You’re my mother.”

She gave me a firm but gentle shove through the front door and onto the wooden porch. “Well, if you must know. I have someone coming over. He’ll be here any minute. I don’t want you to disturb us.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

My mother couldn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t even have a boyfriend. She was old— she didn’t date.

“Yes, I most certainly do. He’ll be here any second, so you have to leave,” she insisted before pulling the door to close it.

I wedged my foot between the door and the frame. “Really? I thought you were still hung up on Dad. Can I meet this new guy?”

My mother’s lip shook. “It’s been ten years. I have needs.”

“Eww, Mom, I didn’t need that image.”

“No, I need companionship and romance. Don’t you see, this is why you can’t possibly stay. I’ll see you on Sunday.” She pushed me back and slammed the door in my face.

Job hunting was my version of hell. When I was still in high school, I thought becoming an adult would flip some magical switch that would mean instant freedom to do everything I wanted and buy anything I wanted. The reality of it is you’ve got to work to live and live to work. I wasn’t cut out for fake smiles and trying to make being a fry cook sound glamorous. I had been lucky to find Linda; she didn’t put up with bull, and the first lie you told was also your last. We clicked instantly, but unfortunately managers like her in Juniper Bay were in short supply.

By the end of Friday, part of me expected a phone call from the Guinness office; six rejections in one day had to be some kind of record. I had tried, I really had, but everything seemed to be against me. I had practiced my interview answers most of the night with Aaron only to draw a complete blank on every question. My lack of sleep had gotten to me. I couldn’t think straight anymore.

I had made an effort, wearing my only suit and a new pair of sensible heels that had looked respectable and comfortable in the store. They were a lie; these were not shoes but mini torture devices set on rubbing all the skin off my ankle. I had at least three blisters on my right foot, and my left was so sore it had gone numb hours ago. My mop of red hair had been tied back in a suffocating bun, but somehow it turned into a knot of hair soaked against my head. I pushed back an escaping wet strand of hair from my forehead as I cursed the unseasonably warm weather. A black suit had been the wrong choice for today. Instead of looking professional I was sweaty and smelt ripe.

I just wanted this to be over. I held my last resume in my damp fingers. This had to be the one. My daily newspaper horoscope had assured me there would be a change in my life. I channeled every motivational speaker I had seen on TV and gave myself a quick pep talk. I would get this job. Nothing could stop me. I was the perfect candidate. I lifted my sagging shoulders and forced a smile across my lips. I could do this.

I wobbled under the neon sombrero as I opened the door to El Taco restaurant. The smell of stale burritos and the sound of Mariachi music engulfed me. The walls were painted a bright orange, and everywhere I looked piñatas, pictures of donkeys and ponchos covered the wall. The lingering smell of french fries and dried milkshake had been burned into my nasal passages but this was somehow worse. I held back a gag as a plump Hispanic woman wearing a mini-sombrero in her hair waved me inside. I walked across the room to the yellow counter and was met with a welcome smile.

“¡Hola! ¿Eres Madison Clark?”

I tilted my head, playfully replying, “Hola.”

“Por favor sigame, mi nombre es la Señorita Garcia,” the woman said, motioning for me to follow her.

I fumbled with my resume and took a step back. “Sorry I don’t—” I started to explain, but the woman walked away towards the back of the restaurant. Rolling my eyes, I followed her down the ugly green hallway to a door that read “Jefa.”

Señorita Garcia’s desk was decorated with cheap looking plush toys she had clearly won from a claw machine. “Sentarse,” she said, motioning at the chair.

I sat down in the chair opposite her and placed my resume in front of her. She pushed it to the side without a second glance.

“I think—” I tried to explain again but was interrupted.

“¿Cual es su experiencia previa de trabajo?”

This couldn’t be happening. I rubbed my forehead. Why wouldn’t she just listen to me for a second? The ad didn’t say anything about being fluent in anything.

I closed my eyes, tried to remember any of the Spanish Aaron had attempted to teach me over the years and replied, “Sí?”

Señorita Garcia raised her eyebrow. “¿Sí? ¿Dónde estaba su último trabajo?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Muchas gracias.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at me. “¿Usted no habla Español,verdad?”

“S’il vous plait.”

“¡Salir de mi oficina ahora, niña tonta!” Señorita Garcia shouted as she pointed towards the door.

I didn’t need to understand Spanish to know what she had said. Her “loco” tone was understandable in every language. I grimaced as I stood up from the chair. “Excuse me, but you never said in the advertisement that this job required you to be fluent in Spanish. Maybe you should ask next time?”

The woman picked up an advertisement with a sentence in Spanish scrolled across the bottom. “Yes, I did. Usted es un fraude y una mentirosa.”

Blushing, I turned away from the woman and retreated to the door.

Shoving my sweaty palms into my pockets, I sprinted out of the restaurant to my Beetle. I slammed the door and rested my head on the fuzzy pink steering wheel cover. That was it, seven rejections. I considered a lawsuit against the
Evening News
for the false hope of their horoscope. I jammed my key into the ignition and heard my car’s engine stutter.