If.
I clutch my father’s shirt to my chest and stare at the ceiling, wondering what kind of person takes a job living in a stranger’s house, caring for their child, when she can’t even take care of herself.
The answer is simple: me.
Thursday morning arrives gray and cold. The sky looks like it forgot to finish loading shortly after dawn. I stand in front of my closet in my underwear and an old BU sweatshirt staring at my options.
Options. That’s generous.
I have three work-appropriate outfits. Two are from Target’s clearance rack. One black dress that’s a little too tight in the waist, and one gray skirt-and-blouse combo that makes me look like a secretary from 1987. The third is a pair of navy slacks with a small bleach stain on the left knee that I’ve been pretending isn’t there for six months.
None of them say,“Hire me to live on your estate and educate your child.”They say,“I am doing my best on a budget that would make a college student weep.”
I go to the bathroom to wash my face. In the mirror, I tilt my chin up.
Sure enough, the marks are there. Four faint ovals on the right side of my neck. One longer mark on the left where his thumb pressed.
They could be anything. A rash, a sunburn, the imprint of anecklace clasp. But I know what they are. I know the shape of Landon’s hand better than I know my own. It happened too many times to forget.
I pull my hair forward and test different positions. Down and loose covers most of it. A scarf would cover all of it, but a scarf at an interview would give the impression I was trying to hide something. I am, but they can’t know that.
Hair down. That’s the answer. Hair down and a smile. That’s an act I’ve been rehearsing for so long now that sometimes I forget which parts of me are real.
I grab my coat and my last twenty from the emergency jar. The thrift stores on Milwaukee Avenue are my usual hunting grounds. I know them all by name and by smell.
Second Chancesmells like lavender and old books.New To Yousmells like fabric softener and mild regret.Goodwillsmells likeGoodwill, which is its own category entirely.
I start atSecond Chance.
The owner, Gloria, sometimes holds things back for me. She’s a seventy-year-old Dominican woman who calls everyonemi amorand once gave me a cashmere scarf for free because she said I needed a soft touch.
Today, nothing fits. Or rather, nothing fits meandis fitting for an interview. I try on a blazer that’s two sizes too big. A dress with a zipper that won’t close. A blouse with a stain I don’t discover until I’m already buttoning it.
AtNew To You, it’s the same story. I stand in the narrow dressing room under fluorescent lights that turn my skin vaguely green.
By two in the afternoon, I’m sitting on a bench outside a Walgreens with a granola bar and a growing sense of dread.
The interview is tomorrow at two. I have nothing to wear. I have seventeen dollars. I have a debt that follows me like a second shadow, an abusive ex-boyfriend who knows where my best friend eats lunch, and a list of qualifications Iassume is at least three pages shorter than every other candidate’s.
Stop.
This isn’t the time.
I’ve been through worse. I held my father’s hand in a hospital room and watched him die. I signed my name on a debt that wasn’t mine because I thought I could fix it.
And on top of it all, I moved to a city where I only knew one person and built a life out of nothing. Hell, I did it with less than seventeen dollars too.
If I managed to survive all of that, this should be a piece of cake. Really, finding an outfit to wear is nothing in comparison.
So, I burn a trail home and dig with renewed conviction through my closet. In the back, behind the winter coats and the box of donation clothes, I find a forgotten white button-down.
Simple. Clean. A little wrinkled, but the iron still works. I pair it with a black dress that’s not too tight and has a neckline high enough to cover the marks on my throat.
I set them out on the bed and steam the wrinkles. Then I polish my only pair of black flats. They’re scuffed at the toes, but they’ll do.
It’s not perfect. It’s not what I’d choose if I had money, time, or the luxury of options. But it’s clean, and it fits.
When I try it on and check the mirror, the marks are hidden, and my eyes are clear. I almost pass for a person who, in the right light, might deserve a chance.
