| |
Linda Piper lived in a rent-controlled apartment in lower Manhattan and had so for years since her depressive episodes had made it borderline impossible to keep up her life of travel. For decades, it had been her joy in life to accept jobs across the world. She had worked as a waitress at a lodge in Alaska, a cook at the scientific outpost in Antarctica, a caregiver for the elderly in England, a newspaper delivery girl in France, a phone operator in China, and other silly odd jobs, from coast to coast and beyond. The depressive episodes had been like internal hurricanes of sorrow, starting around the age of forty-one or forty-two, and had grown exponential in their power. Now, at sixty-five, she clung to each moment of relative happiness for dear life, knowing full-well that it could be her last, at least for a while.
Linda’s apartment had been almost the same since her move-in fifteen years before. She had a single bed beneath a tiny window, which offered space only enough for her, as she never required any additional space for any extra people (men had left her life a long, long time ago). She had a single kettle on the stovetop, colored bright red, and a small table with two rickety-looking chairs, both of which she’d selected from the street after someone had left them there on moving day. A calendar hung on the kitchen wall, which she marked X’s across to note the passage of time.
Every morning, including this one, Linda ate the same breakfast: cream of wheat with a single cup of tea. She then read for twenty minutes from a romance novel, showered, brushed her hair, and dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater. Normally, she prayed for the early shift at her retail position, which meant she had somewhere to go first. If she had the later shift, like today, she was trapped. What was there to do with herself?
Linda’s work began at four and ran till ten. Beforehand, she decided to don her winter coat and walk the streets of Manhattan, feeling the snow as it kissed her cheeks gently and melted across her shoulders. She allowed herself to glide into the backdrop of the city where she had grown up, to become just another mechanism amid traffic and wild horn blasts and shuffling pedestrians. During her final job away from the city, which had been in Death Valley, where she’d worked as a waitress at a roadside diner, one of her co-workers had asked her where she planned to go. “Back to the city, of course,” had been Linda’s answer. “But won’t you be lonely there?” the girl had asked. “You’re never lonely in the city. You just have to look around and see hundreds of people around you,” Linda had returned.
She still believed that, although it was all a matter of perspective. It was true that she had very few connections within the city. Her parents were dead, and she’d never managed to re-contact her old friends upon her return, as she’d felt too much had happened in-between. Besides, hadn’t she had enough fun in her life? Did she truly deserve friendship?
It was almost Christmas. The streets were decorated, just as they always were, with strings of lights, bright red bows, and fake lines of greenery. With the snowfall swirling around her, Linda could imagine herself in a Christmas fantasy. Only her somber, aching heart brought her back down to reality.
About nine months ago, Linda had begun work at a high-end retailer in Manhattan, where she assisted incredibly wealthy Manhattan women on their quest to be “well-dressed” and “better than their peers.” It was a competition among the socialites to be nothing but the best. Linda herself had never had much money, but she did have expensive taste. As a younger woman in London, Paris, and Tokyo, she had scrambled through second-hand retailers to pick up the latest fashions by top designers. When she’d explained this to Connie, manager at “DENISE,” Connie had offered her the job on the spot. “There’s something about you I can’t place,” she’d said at the time. “Something high-society Manhattan women will appreciate. You blend into the background until you’re absolutely needed.”
Linda approached the boutique twenty minutes before her shift. Just outside the door, a young mother in a periwinkle blue winter coat bent down to fix the buttons of her young daughter's coat. A winter wind erupted through the streets and whisked the young girl’s hat from her head, which caused it to tumble across the pavement and land in front of Linda’s feet. She bent down, grabbed it and flailed it through the air for the mother to see.
“Oh goodness,” the young mother said as she righted herself and hustled for the hat. “Thank you so much.”
Linda could hardly look at her. She was fascinated with the beautiful young girl before her. “How old is your daughter?” she asked as she gave the hat back.
“Four,” the young girl answered for herself. She snuck the hat back on her head with finality.
“That’s a great age,” Linda affirmed. Memories spiked through her, as jagged as knives.
Moments like this always threatened to take her all the way down into the depths of her depression. She righted herself, smiled sadly, and then whisked herself into DENISE, where classical music folded over her with familiarity and the manager, Connie, waved to her from the cash register.
“Hello, Linda. We received a new order this morning. So many beautiful clothes. I hope you’re ready to push them!” Connie’s long earrings wiggled as she spoke, distracting her.
“Wonderful to hear,” Linda tried, although her smile hardly reached her eyes. “I’ll head back and take a look.”
Linda eased into the dark shadows of the back hallway and storage rooms, where she discovered the new boxes of clothing, all of which would have to be sorted and placed on the racks in the best-possible, most-sellable positions. It was essential to please the eye of the buyer or even someone on the street. Window shopping wasn’t yet a dead medium, not in Manhattan, and spontaneous purchases sometimes tended to be the biggest.
Linda returned to the front counter, where Connie conversed with a high-end customer who carried a Birkin bag. Linda headed for the front of the store again to ensure everything was lined up properly and all the sizes were in the correct order. Another customer entered, whom Linda greeted warmly before the customer promptly ignored her and texted someone on her phone. It was never easy to gauge how much a customer wanted help. Often, they wanted to be left alone, but Connie insisted Linda always engage them.
The endless ignoring-of-Linda seemed to extend out from the store and into the wide world. It was just nature’s course, especially now, at her age. Women over fifty didn’t get the attention they deserved and after sixty? Don’t even think about it.
Connie headed out for an hour around five-thirty, leaving Linda alone in the store for a good half-hour. Foot traffic normally picked up around six-fifteen as people finished their jobs and headed to meet friends for dinner. That rush extended to around eight when the traffic dwindled toward their nine-thirty close.
Linda was starved, as she had only eaten her cream of wheat for breakfast and neglected her traditional soup for lunch. Connie was on a perpetual diet, but kept various snacks at the counter just in case her blood sugar was low. Linda sifted through little packs of almonds and low-carb granola bars, but nothing called out to her. To the right of the snack-pile sat a selection of gossip magazines, which Connie confessed to reading in secret when patrons weren’t in the store.
Linda wasn’t so keen on gossip. However, she liked to see what the high-society women wore to various functions, as they gave her ideas on how to market to the ladies within the shop. As she scanned and sifted through the glossy pages, she discovered a large-block-lettered headline which read:
JACK POTTER’S WIFE AND MISTRESS REUNITED
Linda’s heart quickened. The headline was for a story on page forty-seven, which she hurriedly flipped toward. There, she found a photograph of Maxine Aubert and Janine Grimson Potter, two Manhattan millionaire socialites who had started out as poor Brooklyn girls before their rise in status.
According to the magazine, which was fueled by gossip (but normally found its way toward facts), Janine and Maxine had reunited as friends after the untimely death of Janine’s husband, Jack Potter. Janine had discovered Jack and her best friend, Maxine, had been having an affair back in May, which naturally led to the end of their decades-long friendship. However, in the wake of Jack’s death, “sources report having seen Maxine Aubert at the Katama Lodge and Wellness Spa, where Janine works as a naturopathic doctor. The women have come to a sort of resolution and have decided to rebuild what they once had, which was a powerful friendship.”
The magazine featured several far-away paparazzi shots of two women who seemed to be Janine and Maxine as they walked the streets of a beautiful-looking, quaint village called Edgartown, making their way in and out of boutiques. The women’s style was on-point and their faces were vibrant with smiles.
How was it possible that Janine had found a way to forgive Maxine for what she’d done?
It seemed outside the bounds of reasonable thought.
Had Linda ever found it within herself to forgive in such a way? Had she ever received such forgiveness?
In reality, maybe, she hadn’t stuck around long enough in any given place to actually work on her relationships. She hadn’t had to forgive, and she hadn’t had to be forgiven. What did that mean?
“Hey. Hello?” A sharp-nosed woman snapped her finger directly in Linda’s face. “Are you there?”
Linda shook her head violently and made her grey-blonde locks quake. “I’m terribly sorry. I drifted off for a moment. How can I help you?”
Linda couldn’t remember the last time someone had snapped directly in her face before. It terrified her. It made her feel less than a human.
“I’m here for a very particular reason,” the woman articulated. “I have several events over the holiday season and must be dressed appropriately for all. I’ve had luck in your boutique previously.” She arched her back and lifted her chest forward, as though she wanted to flash her ultra-expensive broach in Linda’s direction.
Linda shivered. “What sort of wardrobe did you have in mind?” She stepped around the counter and led the woman toward the back corner, where DENISE featured a fine selection of black-wear— long dresses with surging necklines or jumpsuits with well-placed details. The woman clucked her tongue with disdain.
“Perhaps you don’t quite understand what I require,” the woman snapped. “This sort of thing? It’s basic. It’s dull. It’s assuredly what every other woman at these events will wear. But I’m not just any woman. I’m Margorie Besman and I’m meant to be noticed.”
Linda wanted to articulate just how little she’d ever heard of Margorie Besman, but she figured that wasn’t the kind of thing you did if you wanted to boost sales.
“Right this way,” Linda replied instead as she led Margorie toward the front right-hand corner, where a selection of beige and taupe and teal dresses awaited. She flashed several to the front to display them better and discussed the sort of things they highlighted. Throughout, Margorie just clucked her tongue.
“Again, I feel you’re not hearing me,” Margorie told her.
“Why don’t we try over here?” Linda again guided her toward the back left-hand corner, where she showed off a glittery gold get-up that seemed both over-wrought and flashy.
Still, she could see Margorie wasn’t so sure. “I’ve explained to you what sort of woman I am, have I not? Sophisticated. Ethereal. The sort of woman people in Manhattan look to with the assurance that...”
“That she’ll be endlessly snobby and belittle them?” Linda blurted, even surprising herself.
Margorie’s lips parted with shock. She wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to like that. “I beg your pardon?”
Linda was just as surprised as Margorie, perhaps even more so. She wasn’t accustomed to any kind of attitude from herself, either. As an awkward silence stretched between them, Connie arrived back from her break and greeted them brightly.
“Good evening! Welcome to DENISE.”
Margorie yanked her perfect body around to glare at Connie. “Are you the manager?”
“I am.” Connie’s smile remained trained across her face. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes. This employee here has spoken out of line.” Margorie’s nostrils flared as she stepped back so that her heel clacked against the ground.
Connie continued her focus on the customer. “I am sure I can help you with whatever you need.”
“No. I believe you, too, have misunderstood what I just said,” Margorie continued. “I have come to spend a considerable amount of money on outfits that I need, and I feel that...”
But as Margorie spoke, Linda’s ears began to ring so intensely that she could no longer hear what Margorie said. It became muffled, as though she’d pressed her ear up against a wall to hear beyond it. Linda took several steps backward and collapsed against a clothing rack, which fell back behind her as she crumbled onto the floor. There was a cry of alarm, but Linda’s only focus remained on the ceiling above her.
Where was she? What had she done?
Minutes passed, during which she spun with worries and fears but still couldn’t move her small frame. After what seemed like a small eternity, her eyes found focus with the soft face of Connie. Connie spoke her name yet again, trying to draw her out from this other realm. But Linda felt far, far away from anything real.
What had happened? Why did she feel so useless, like nothing? Why did the world look at her like a speck of dust? Why did Linda feel on the verge of death all the time? And why had she been robbed of her single chance at happiness all those years ago?
“Come on, Linda. Breathe with me. Drink something, please.” Linda blinked her eyes open to find Connie with a glass of water outstretched.
Slowly, Linda lifted her head and upper back to lean against a soft pile of clothes. She gripped the glass of water as, bit-by-bit, she returned to the earth. Her first sips allowed her to speak.
“What happened?”
Connie turned her head to glance back at the boutique, which was empty save for them. “You fainted. I don’t know.” She didn’t sound pleased.
Linda squeezed her eyes shut for a split second as Connie patted her shoulder again.
“Come on, Linda. Let’s get you back up. I don’t want another customer to leave.”
Linda tipped herself forward, gripped the counter, and hauled herself to a standing position. When she glanced in the mirror to the left, she saw a well-dressed sixty-five-year-old woman, her hair puffy from her fall and her eyes manic, as though she still lurked in another dimension, far, far away.
“Linda? Are you okay?” Connie looked at her with sharp-edged disdain.
“Yes, I think so. I’ll be fine.” This was yet another lie in a long stream of lies that Linda had told others and herself over the years. She was fine. She was always fine.
But after nine-thirty, when they flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, Connie led Linda into her back office and told her she had to let her go.
“You treated a customer poorly and created a bad ambiance,” Connie explained formally. “Under no circumstances can I allow that to go on. It only takes one of those ladies to talk about their bad experience here to give us a bad name. I’m sure you understand.”
Linda’s throat tightened. She wanted to ask this woman what else she was meant to do with herself. She wanted to ask her how she was meant to pay her rent. She wanted to ask her what she, a woman of sixty-five, was meant to do for comfort in this cruel world.
But Connie had problems of her own. They were on far different treks of life. She had to do what she had to do.
“Thank you for this opportunity, Connie. I wish you well.”
Linda rose, grabbed her coat, and gazed lovingly at the large stack of boxes from the new order. How she’d wanted to touch the new fabric with tender fingers; how she’d wanted to arrange the pieces artistically throughout the boutique.
How she’d wanted to arrive there every day for her shift, if only so her body had a place to go throughout the day.
Now what?
Linda returned to the street, which continued to swim with snowflakes. A young man across the road screamed at the sky while passers-by marched along, pretending not to notice. Linda wanted to join him. What was the point of human consciousness and empathy if it wasn’t used? What was the point of money if she couldn’t make it? What was the point of aging if all it did was make you sad and tired?
Linda continued her trek home as her shoulders slumped forward even more. Perhaps she was the loneliest woman in the world. But the worst thing about being the loneliest woman in the world was just how easily you slipped into that world, unnoticed. She could have been anyone— someone’s mother, someone’s best friend, someone’s lover. But she was none of that. She felt utterly alone.