your phone call.” I smiled.
Cheyenne pulled out her cell phone and shoved me back into the dressing room to try on more clothes.
“Ella, hey it’s Chy. I’ve got a make-over 911 here. What’s your schedule today? Can you fit her in?”
Geeze, make-over 911. I didn’t realize I was such a fashion train wreck.
“Gotcha all set up. She can take you now, but she’s gotta work you in between clients…she’s awwwwwesome.”
“Awesome. About the clothes; can you take it down a notch? I’m forty-two and…”
“Got it. How much do you want?”
“Ten, twelve outfits…and throw in a couple of those shoulder bags too.” I imagined my Versace purse would look a bit out place with my new wardrobe.
“Come back when you’re done with Ella and I’ll have everything ready for you. I’m here ‘til 7:00.” She handed me a business card with directions to Ella’s salon and I was off.
Five hours later I returned to the mall. My hair was chestnut brown with hair extensions down the middle of my back. My eyebrows were tweezed with a high arch, my make-up was flawless and now included eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, and eye shadow—none of which I had worn in a decade. My new look was complete with foundation, mascara and subtle pink lipstick. It wasn’t a make-over. It was a transformation. I could hardly stop looking at myself in the rear view mirror on my drive back to the mall. I didn’t look at all like myself. I was certain nobody would recognize me.
The mall was much busier now, but Cheyenne had all my clothes waiting. She had tops and bottoms—shoes, underwear, and jewelry too. She could hardly contain her excitement every time I came out of the dressing room. I walked out with a dozen new outfits and because she was worried I may deviate from her fashion prescription, she took photos with my cell phone of each one. I guess I can’t blame her for seeing me as stylishly handicapped…I like to think my style was just understated.
On the way back to the car I couldn’t resist a stop at the electronics store…in record time I had a new laptop, digital camera, iPod, GPS, memory cards, thumb drives and an external hard drive. Though I resembled a pack mule with bags hanging off my arms and neck, I felt whole again. Theresa wouldn’t let me take any of my electronics with me. Last stop was for luggage so I wouldn’t look like a homeless person when I walked into The Conrad Hotel—my new temporary home.
I picked The Conrad because it was close to restaurants, only four blocks. I had barely walked one block when I was quickly reminded why I had given up stuffing my feet into the torture chambers Cheyenne called shoes. The pain distracted me from fear, just as shopping at the mall distracted me earlier. Truth is, shopping could distract me from a missing limb.
Once comfortably seated in a restaurant, I had the uneasy feeling everyone was staring at me. I felt like a fugitive worried that at any moment someone would stick a gun in my face and state, “You’re coming with me.” Ruminating on that thought throughout dinner spoiled my appetite. I was on the edge of panic.
I walked with my head down back to the hotel as quickly as I could without attracting attention or breaking an ankle. I locked and bolted my hotel room door, leaned on it, and exhaled loudly. Safety. What I needed was a long bath and a good book.
After soaking in the tub for an hour I was shriveled up like a prune, but I was relaxed and looking forward to the down comforter that awaited me. The hotel provided a fluffy white terry cloth robe to wrap my wrinkled body in and I was headed out of the bathroom for phase two of relaxation—a good book. I rounded the corner out of the bathroom and landed face to chest with a monstrosity of a man; my face, his chest.
“Oh my God.” I breathed. I would have screamed, but all the oxygen seemed to have been sucked out of my lungs. I’m dead. He found me.
“No, not God, lovely lady…only your angel.” He waited for me to recognize him; his unusual dialect; his massive form. He was well over six feet tall and easily close to 350 pounds of solid muscle. His mocha skin bore a litany of tattoos and brutal scars. His arms were the size of my legs and bulged with muscles. Tonight his fierce face wore an expression of warning, but his voice was smooth and soothing. He worked for Theresa; without them I could never have escaped.
“Michael?” I whispered. “How did you find me? How did you get in? Are you following me? Has Lawrence found me already? Say something Michael…why are you here? Has he found me? Is that why you came?”
“Shhh, my lady. Theresa sent me to closely watch over you. Lawrence searches for you with much man-power. Be wary in all that you do. Know that I am close.”
That was all he said before he left.
4
After spending three days locked in my hotel room, I met with Lydia for just over an hour. I should have enjoyed the interaction, but since I spent the entire time lying to her, I felt awful. Nothing on my resume was true. Nothing on my application—except female—was true. I didn’t even look like myself with my long hair and new make-up. Even my clothing wasn’t me.
The three daycare centers I listed as previous Detroit employers were all out of business—I found them on the internet. I thought the references would be the tricky part, but you can basically buy them on the internet. It’s sort of sad—and scary. Not as easy as Googling fakereferences.com, but it’s pretty close.
Still, my interview went well with Lydia. She planned to check my references in the next couple days and have me out on interviews by Thursday or Friday. She kept her word and set up three for Thursday.
First Interview
Within the first three minutes I knew it wasn’t going to work with this couple. They couldn’t agree on anything. Both of them were equally ridged and controlling, but of opposite opinions on everything from scheduled nap times to what to feed the children and how to do it. Although they were completely cordial to one another’s opinion, there was an undertone of condescension as they offered their opposing views; it was amusing for the hour-long interview—maddening to work for, I’m sure.
Maybe if I had multiple personalities it would have been a fit. The interview ended with the typical pleasantries of we’ll get back to Lydia, thank you for coming. My thoughts—there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I would work for these parents.
Second Interview
I began to rethink my career path. The first twenty minutes of the interview went very well bonding with the parents. Lydia said to make sure to meet the children while I was there so once all the preliminary questions were out of the way and I was feeling good about this family, I asked to meet Brandon. Enter Brandon. I don’t know if I have ever been frightened by a child…but this one looked truly evil. I’m not sure who he reminded me more of, Damien from The Omen, Malachi from Children of the Corn, or the kid in The Shining. He wanted to take me to see his room and I hesitated fearing psycho-kid would have “REDRUM” written in blood on his mirror or maybe he was planning to spin his head around and spit green vomit all over me. I went anyway…briefly.
I was careful to exit the house cautiously making sure I didn’t leave any personal items behind or loose strands of hair that demon child could make a voodoo doll out of. I was sure I would have nightmares that night.
I
