Thirty Days: Part One (8 page)

Mum staggers into the bathroom, half asleep. I can see her reflection in the mirror above the vanity.

“I have to pee,” she declares, sitting down on the toilet.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Once done, she washes her hands at the opposite basin and brushes her teeth.

I still fumble through her things.

“Let me do that,” she gripes in frustration. “Go and get a chair from downstairs. You’re too tall. I’ll fix your makeup for you.”

I can’t help but smile because I’m pleased. My mum is a good person. Okay, an
annoying
good person.

Returning with a chair, she presses my shoulders, lowering me down. Smooth liquid glides onto my skin from her steady hands.

“So how did last night go?” Her eyebrow lifts.

“Yeah, crap. You could have told me.”

“You wouldn’t have gone.”

“Would so,” I say like a child.

Mum does this laugh-cough thing she does when she knows she’s right. I hate it and she knows it.

“Close your eyes, petal. I need to put on some shadow. Do you want neutral or colour?”

“Neutral.” A comfortable silence falls between us. “I had one of those panic things again last night,” I mumble before looking into her tired eyes.

“I see. Do you know what caused it?”

I think for a few minutes about last night’s shenanigans before answering. “Probably talking about Mike.”

“That would do it. Maybe you need to talk to a professional?”

“Nope. You’ll do.”

She smiles sympathetically. “I’m a nurse, Abigail, not a psychologist.”

I don’t answer, so she allows the conversation to end there.

“And we are done,” she exclaims. “Now go put your hair up. You’ll do great. I need to go back to bed, honey. I’ve been pretty tired lately.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Her eyes bulge, shocked by my reply.

“I still notice things, Mum. I’m not dead.”

Her hand rubs my shoulder.

Have I really been that self-absorbed?
“Sleep tight.”

“Good luck, Abigail.”

I’m going to need it.

Unsuspecting

“Good morning, Bertha.” I tap gently on her hood.

Bertha is the nickname my dad gave to the VW on the day he bought her for me. She’s a bit slow to start, and I’m praying there’s enough fuel to make the twenty minutes into Maroochydore. The needle on the gauge indicates half a tank.

“We’re good to go, girl.” Relief washes over me before pulling away from the gutter.

Perched on top of the hill overlooking Alexandra Beach, I wait for other vehicles to make their way down. I can’t help but admire the sun glistening on the ocean. It’s heavenly. Traffic remains smooth and the drive keeps me somewhat distracted from the kaleidoscope of butterflies that is taking flight inside the pit of my stomach.

“Three hundred and forty-six…three hundred and forty-eight…three hundred and fifty,” I mutter before spying the three-storey glass like building. A gigantic red and gold sign is a dead giveaway.

Finding a park proves extremely difficult, especially since I’m so unlucky. I end up driving around the block about six times before a spot becomes available. The dash clock reads 10:40 a.m.

“Made it.”

The doors open automatically. A petite lady looks up and smiles.

“Good morning and welcome to Sims, General, and Klein Attorneys at Law.”

“Well, that’s a mouthful.” I snicker nervously.

“If you say it as many times as I have over the last four years, it’s not.” She exits behind the desk and makes her way into the lobby to greet me. Her name badge says Asher. A pretty name for a pretty girl. Long brown locks, very straight. Flawless makeup and a mesmerizing smile.
Yeah, she’s pretty.
“Hi, I’m Asher.” Her voice is kind.

“Asher?” I reply in a curious tone.

She giggles. “It’s Hebrew.”

I nod.
What a strange thing to say.

“I’m the receptionist and the first face a client sees. This is my desk here.” She points to the high marble counter.

I look back at her name tag—it has an emblem of a gavel on it. I picture me wearing such a badge.
I don’t like it.

“So you must be Abigail. Yes?”

“Sure.”

“Well, are you, or aren’t you?”

“Umm...you would be correct.”

“Good. Your interview is on level two with Jasmine, Mr. Sims’ personal assistant. Jaz is lovely, but to the point. Honesty is her motto. Now there’s a tip for you,” she adds with a wink.
“Good luck,” she mouths as the lift doors open.

“Thanks,” I mouth back.

Ting
. And the doors part a floor higher. I’m greeted by a long corridor. Looking left, then right, I shrug.
Which way?
Left is my decision. Of course I’m wrong. Thanks to an older, neatly dressed woman I literally bump into, I’m turned around. The walls have abstract art hung on display. I study each piece as I approach it.

“This is probably where Trish gets her love for it. From her dad.”

A clear door says Bernard Sims, Property Law, and it’s written in gold letters, catching my attention.

“Abigail McMillian?”

“Yes,” I reply to nobody, because I can’t see a single person.

“This way,” the voice says before the face of an Asian woman appears.

“Are you Jasmine?” My voice cracks before her name has completely left my mouth.

“Yes.” She’s very professional in tone and appearance.

We walk into a conference room, not far from the door I’d planned to enter.

“Sit down here. Pour a glass of water and get out your notebook and pen.”

Crap!
I wonder if only having car keys counts. “So…yeah. I don’t have one with me.”
Great start, Abi.

Her thin eyebrows lift and her mouth forms an ‘O’. She’s not pleased. Yep, she hates me. No shock there. First impressions are not my thing.

“Here.” She slides a book and pen down the large conference table before sitting and silently reading through a document. “A moment, please.” She walks to the wall beside me and punches numbers into a phone. “Yes. No. Okay. I’ll check the schedule and ETA in thirty minutes. I don’t think I’ll be long here.” She shakes her head, then places the phone back onto the wall.

No job for me.

“Abigail,” she starts, returning to her seat, angled towards me. “Thank you for coming in today. I’m Mr. Sims’ personal assistant. I’m sure you’re aware that this is a very busy law practice with many offices located throughout Australia.” She doesn’t allow me to answer. “We will have to make our talk short.” Her fingers mimic the word short, which makes me wonder why she said the word and then used body language at the same time.
Weird.

“Yes, of course.” I’m rattled. This woman is intimidating.

“The position we are looking to fill will require you to do the following duties: take dictation, answer calls, scheduling, copying, and filing. You will be in charge of mailing and banking. Also, you will chase up payments on accounts. A normal nine to five, Monday to Friday job as the assistant to the personal assistant. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Mr. Sims has already requested you to be given a three-month contract. You start tomorrow at nine a.m. Don’t be late.”

I nod.

“Shocked?”

“Yes,” I blurt out, closing my mouth that has gaped open.

“This is a new one for me, too. Never has an applicant been granted immediate employment. I’m not the boss. His call. Asher will have uniforms for you. Please report to her now and get them. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thank you.” Confusion has my head spinning. I offer my hand, which Jasmine shakes. “Umm. How much does it pay?” I murmur as I’m embarrassed to ask.

“Forty-nine thousand annual. Four weeks holiday and ten days sick leave paid. I’m sure you will be happy with this. It’s the customary starting rate. Now I must attend to my duties. See you in the morning.”

“Okay.” I’m hesitant.

The door closes on her exit.
Holy crap, what just happened?

The lift tings before the doors open on the ground floor. Asher is waiting for my return.

“Congratulations! I hope you like it here.” She’s a little too excited for my liking. “What size are you? Before you answer keep in mind our sizing is big.”
How does she know already?

“A size six, I guess. I’m normally an eight…”

“I thought you would be. You’re so skinny. That way.” She points, handing me a bag containing what I assume is the uniform.

“Sorry, what’s that way?”

“The amenities. Try it on for size…the uniform.” She gestures to the bag I’m holding.

Nodding, I follow her instructions.

“Not too bad,” I say, looking into a mirror above the hand basins. “Red suits me.” I’m still baffled by my immediate employment.

The uniform consists of a capped sleeve dress with a gavel logo and the company name embroidered on the breast. It also includes a gold and red checked scarf and a gold gavel dress pin. I don’t even know if I want this bloody job. Now I have a uniform and start tomorrow.
Frick.

My skin becomes clammy, every breath becomes harder than the last one to take, and dizziness overcomes me.
Panic.
My clothes are scooped into hurried hands as I rush from the amenities.

“It fits!” Asher calls out happily as I race past her.

“Yep…fine…good.” I dart towards the automatic doors.

“Abigail, there’s two more here for you to take,” she calls after me.

“Great. I’ll get them in the morning,” I shout.

A light breeze rushes across moist skin. My feet pick up pace as I run to Bertha.
Safety
.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth,” I repeat three times before feeling a sense of relief to be out of there.

I drive. Home was where I intended to go, but it’s not where Bertha stops. She glides with ease, pulling up under a large tree. The smell of fresh air in the open space is refreshing. Peace and tranquillity wraps around me comfortingly as I stroll past a lake, stopping briefly on a foot bridge to ask myself, “Why here?”

Cemeteries normally give me the heebie-jeebies, but not Buderim Lawn. This place is my security—it’s where my dad now lies.

Nestling down beside a small squared rock on the ground, I run my fingers over chiselled letters.

“Fletcher McMillian.” How I miss hearing this name.

Roses and azaleas surround the stone, and as I close my eyes, the smells of the flowers and sounds of the birds chirping above us help me picture his face, a face I haven’t seen for nearly seven years. I see those same green eyes, the ones gifted to me, his narrow lips, curly brown hair, and bearded chin.
How I miss him.

“Hi, Dad. Sorry it’s been a while.” A sudden ache fills my chest. “So how have you been?” I pause as if expecting an answer. The laughter that follows tells me just how uncomfortable I am. There haven’t been many times I’ve sat and spoken to Dad since his death, but the times I have come here were when I needed him the most. “So, yeah. Life,” I mumble, confused. “Well, you’re not missing much. Mine has personally gone to crap. I did get a new job today, so I guess that’s something?” I fidget, rolling a few strands of loose hair around my fingers. “I’m not good at this. Hell! The last time my lazy arse visited I was howling like a baby. You probably didn’t understand a word I said. Sorry for springing that on you.” My mind drifts away to the last time I was here.

***

“Dad, you need to be here right now. You can’t be gone anymore.” I cried, holding Bella tightly in my arms as tears streamed down my cheeks. “Please, Daddy! It’s not fair. I can’t survive this.”

Bella escaped my breakdown, opting to lie in the garden under the shade of a fern. The afternoon glare from the sun was harsh. It pierced my eyes with a burn, causing more tears to fall.