Jaymes Grenier

I don’t think I’ve ever bolted from bed so fast. That’s what bad memories do to you. All it takes is one riff from “Here Comes My Girl” by Tom Petty to send me flying toward my alarm. Everything about that song reminds me of one person, and that person is the last one I intend to ever give any of my time to again. He just stole my usual five-minute bonus snooze.

Damn him.

The alarm clock is whacked and the song that reminds me of a life I let go of years ago is silenced. Tried to let go of . . .

Sometimes thoughts of that life still linger along with my girlhood dreams of marrying someone who loves me unconditionally, reminding me of what has become a fantasy. Disappointment sets in for like the billionth time. I know with all my heart that I’d never trade Ace for fulfilled dreams. Often I just wish fulfilled dreams and Ace could have gone together.

I flick my bedroom light as I walk into the hall and pad quietly past his room. Sneaking into the bathroom, I turn the light on and squint as I work my way to the shower and start the water. Stripping my pajamas off, I step in before the water heats up. The reality is it’s never going to get hot enough to make that much of a difference. I’m just hoping for lukewarm this morning. I tilt my head under the spray, keeping my body angled away. I’d rather deal with cold air than ice-cold water.

Five minutes later I’m out and drying off. Cold showers have taught me to be quick. It’s funny what we get used to when we’re out of options. While scrubbing the towel over my head I realize this applies to more than cold showers. I don’t dwell. It’s a trait I embraced wholeheartedly when I decided I would—and could—face whatever life threw my way. I’m not making lemonade out of my lemons quite yet, but I strive for it every day. For Ace. He deserves better than this life has given us.

A soft knock pushes the door open. As a single mom, I never use locks inside the house, but the bathroom one is broken anyway, so any pressure opens the door. I pull it open the rest of the way and smile when I see my sleepy little baby. “Good morning,” I say, leaning down and kissing the top of his head.

My sweet five-year-old rubs his eyes, the light from the bathroom blinding compared to the dark room he came from—from the darkness he came from. He’s good. So good. My light. My purpose. I would trade my dreams any day for him. No matter the circumstances, I’ve been blessed to be given this purpose, blessed to be his mom.

“Good morning, Mommy.”

The best name I’ve ever been called. “Good morning, buddy. You hungry?”

“Yes. Pancakes?” He looks up with all the hope I used to have. It’s contagious. Big brown eyes that don’t match mine, but I can’t help loving. Bright. Happy. I put that there. I’d give him everything if I could.

“I think we have just enough mix to make some.”

He jumps up with excitement. “Yay!”

“Go get dressed and I’ll start making breakfast.”

He runs off just as I bring our small apartment to life, switching lights on as I make my way to the kitchen. With a towel wrapped around my body, I start making the pancakes. I see the TV flick on a few minutes later and Ace sitting on the loveseat with the remote in his hand. The news is on, and he looks frustrated the way he’s handling the remote. The pancakes aren’t bubbling yet, so I take a piece of tape from the drawer and go to sit down next to him. Taking the remote, I flip it over and tape down the battery door. When it’s loose, it won’t work. I hand it back and he smiles when it works as if I just performed a magic trick.

Running back into the kitchen, I flip the pancakes and a few minutes later, I mentally add syrup to the shopping list in my head while serving the pancakes and the last of the syrup. It’s the simple things kids love and appreciate. I’ve become the hero of my son’s world just for making pancakes. Like being his mother, pancake hero is another title I adore. I relish. It’s good to feel loved without conditions, loved for just being. I treat him the same. This world will do its job and cause enough damage, so I’ll work hard to do mine and try to protect him from it.

With my hair dried and my skirt on, but unzipped, I pull my blouse on and give the warning, “Five minutes, buddy. Brush your teeth and hair and get your shoes on.”

“’K, Mommy.”

Ten minutes later, we’re heading out the door. I’ve learned to build in extra time. With a kid, it’s inevitable we’re going to be late. I don’t have that luxury though. I can’t be late to work or I’ll be fired.

The car starts with a gruff and a puff of black smoke kicked out the back, but it starts and that feels like a victory in and of itself. After dropping Ace off at kindergarten with a kiss and a lunchbox, I drive the twenty minutes to work. My backpack is slung over my shoulder and I head inside.

Leah, the office manager and one of my closest friends, greets me, “Good Morning, Jamie.”

“Morning.” I drop my pack to the floor behind the reception desk and take the chair.

She leans against the wall with a cup of coffee in her hands. “How are you? You look tired.”

My head tilts. “Geez, thanks.”

Shrugging, she laughs. “Sorry. I’ve seen you look better.”

I push my hair back away from my face and sigh. “I am tired. My classes are tough this semester. I’m not getting much sleep. I was up until three studying for a test I have tonight. Six a.m. was painful.”

“Oh no. You should have told me. I could have talked to David.”

“You know he doesn’t allow anybody to be late, so it wasn’t even an option to ask.”

She sighs, standing back up. After glancing at the clock on the wall, she says, “True. Well, if I can help out this weekend with Ace, let me know. Roger’s on the road through Wednesday. So I’ll be around.”

“Thanks. I might take you up on that offer. I have to go to the library at some point and do some research. It would be easier not having to keep one eye on Ace the whole time.”

“You got it.”

Through the windows to the side, we both spot the king of used cars—at least in a two-mile radius—also known as our boss, parking his very shiny new car. “Off to work we go.”

She hurries to her desk, both of us at our stations for the day, exactly how he likes us. The door swings wide and he grumbles until he sees me. It’s only eight in the morning, but his balding head is already beading with sweat. Traffic is hell when you drive in from a fancy neighborhood like Brentwood each day to slum it with us on the south side. Five graying hairs cling to his brow before he brushes them to the side. The only thing he’s missing is the beer belly. He may not have a lot of hair, but he’s relatively fit, so he can catch a woman’s eye. It’s his personality where he falls flat. Recently divorced, he has become a man on the prowl for his next ex-wife. I’ve managed to say no despite the very attractive drunken proposals I’ve received. I mean, I’m still surprised I was able to resist his lecherous hands cupping my ass when I was changing the toner on the printer last week. He told me I was missing the opportunity of a lifetime. I kept my eye-rolls in check until he left the room. I also added another shot of bourbon to his coffee the way he likes it. The thought of his hands on me still makes me cringe. With the smile I know he expects to see on my face, I say, “Good morning, David.”

“Mornin’, Jamie. Any calls?”

I covertly click the after-hours voicemail system off, and reply, “None so far.”

“Good. I’ll be busy most of the day.” When he says this, it means he’ll be playing poker online. He has a nasty gambling habit. “So only disturb me if it’s absolutely necessary or to close a deal.”

“Gotcha.”

He stops in front of my desk, and his eyes seem to have problems focusing on mine. He talks to my breasts regularly. Even though I’m buttoned practically to my chin, he still stares, and then disappointingly sighs. “You’re very dressed up. You’re not interviewing somewhere else, are you?”

No. I’m keeping your eyes from molesting my chest. With a plastered smile still on my face, I don’t say what I really think because I need this job. “Nope. Just thought I’d look nice.”

“Well, you do,” he replies somewhere between giving a compliment and feeling left out of the party. The phone rings. Thank God. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Turning away to start my day, I answer with fake enthusiasm, “It’s a wonderful day to buy a Calvert Car. How may I direct your call?”

And so it begins . . .

---

I’m startled awake and turn to the window. Jose, our top salesman this month, is just outside my car. I wipe the drool from the side of my mouth and check my watch. Shoot. The door flies open and I’m already dreading going inside. “Gracias, Jose.”

“Mr. Calvert’s looking for you,” he replies in a thick accent. His smile is gentle, leaning toward sympathetic. He knows David can be an asshole.

“Thanks,” I say, dashing for the door. I undo my top two buttons, needing to use any ammunition I have, before reaching the door. It swings open and I step into the air conditioning. It feels good against my heated skin. My lunchtime nap in the car wasn’t long, but I can’t afford to leave it running. The afternoon sun is strong through the cracked windshield, so I feel a little sweaty, the cotton sticking to my back.

David is sitting at my desk. “The phone rang.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, rushing toward him to take my place. “I fell as—”

His hand goes up, stopping me before I can finish. “I’ll let it slide this time, but you can stay late on Thursday to make up for it.”

Not a question, though he likes to hide behind the ambiguity of it. “Sure.” I have no choice. I’ve tried to argue before, but to no avail. I’ll just be reminded how he’s done me a favor and if I don’t appreciate it, I can find work elsewhere.

He stands. I sit, and then ask, “Did the call get taken care of?”

“No. I can’t be answering my own phone. How would that look to customers? Small time.” He knocks on my desk. “That’s how.”

Small time. That’s how I feel. Small.

I’m left to do my small job, in my small life, and my even smaller future. “I’ve got to graduate next semester,” I mumble under my breath. So much hinges on that one thing. Graduation. With my degree, I’ll finally dictate where and who I work for. I’m not wishing for the stars. I’m not dreaming above who I am. But I will be more than a glorified customer service operator working for someone who hired me in hopes of sleeping with me.

I’ll never be anything more than someone else’s employee, but at least I’ll be respected. At least I’ll have that.