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Ellie and I had this secret language of hand gestures for when we were at work. This was to keep Perry and the rotating set of hires in the other two cubicles out of our business, but I liked thinking that this was more than a matter of convenience. I wanted it to be a sign of a deepening bond, a rock in a shared structure if not an outright shared life. Regardless of what that step in our relationship meant, on the 21st of June in the year of our exasperated Lord 2018, Ellie took one look at me, saw the residue of my conversation with Erika plastered across my face, and gave the gesture for a meeting in the break room. The exact nature of that gesture will be omitted here because that is personal information. However, undisclosed specifics aside, the message was received.
Ellie went off to do whatever she was going to do while I bent down into the cubicle, chugged whatever was left of my coffee, and stood up under the pretense of getting another. Because, as a modern woman in a modern office setting, of course I was absolutely dependent on the cheap caffeine the company served in the break room as a so-called “perk.”
Meanwhile, Perry was just waiting for me to do something she could get angry about. This action turned out to be that thing. She looked up at me as I stood, craning her neck until I thought it was going to snap, which was a choice on her part. I am not tall. Even compared to those weird cubicle dividers that encased us and her own height, I did not tower over them or her to the point that tilting her head had to be a drastic action. She took it upon herself to add that cartoony element. And I was not amused.
“Oh?” she said.
“PQRST,” I replied with as much sarcasm as you could put into a nonsensical response.
It did emphasize, however, that there was this sense in which I held her unjustified indignation as something to be mocked. And I could mock it, freely and in a way that might have made it seem like I was having a stroke.
While Perry did not know I didn’t need that job, she knew that I didn’t need to worry about keeping said job. I was good at it, and the way I did it still earned the company a bunch of money. Consequently, I could play fast and loose, and she could complain all she wanted about me and my double trip for coffee. It wouldn’t matter. If anything, her complaints would be met with a rebuke of some sort, a chastisement for being so deep within my business that she was neglecting her own. After all, this action of mine hardly affected her, and it would have affected her even less if she would stop pushing the other two members of this four-cubicle batch away. Then the vigil over this post would be divided amongst four not two.
Simply put, if Perry would drop the worst aspects of herself, she wouldn’t be so miserable. She would be able to get stuff done, and she would be surrounded by people who could help her get the rest of the stuff done. And with her workload now more bearable, she would then have less to complain about. Then a new cycle could begin. One step forward on the attitude front could unlock so many doors for her, but that step went against the life philosophy she had adopted. If she could stop shunning the idea of happiness, if she could stop building a barrier between her and it, things would actually work out for her. But building that barrier had become her life’s purpose. She had put too much time into it for her to ever give it up. She had given it too much and was now desperate to recoup that investment. But if she stopped to ask herself what specifically she had to gain, she might realize what the problem was.
In this uneven and woefully ill-advised standoff, Perry’s hazel eyes locked onto mine. As if she were being clever, she raised her eyebrow, and I raised mine right back as a reminder that such is a thing many people can do if they’re so inclined.
I thought about being extra snippy with her. It’s not a thing I’m proud of, but it’s a thought that crossed my mind because in the moment it would have felt good to act that way. It would have released some of the bitterness and tension in my body in a way that left me feeling self-righteous and smarter than her, but it would have only lasted for a moment, if that. I would have snapped, released that tension, and been left with a space that would have been quickly filled by more of the same thing in hardly any time at all. Anger is great at regeneration. You either get all of it out, or you’re going to quickly return to the occupancy you started at. And that might seem wise or profound, but that’s not the reason why I held my tongue. It was a combination of not being able to come up with anything to say (besides, “I’d offer to get you coffee if I could fight the temptation to spit in it”) and just being tired from the earthquake that hit me that morning. So I walked away with my cup in hand. And no one else in any of the other cubicle pods noticed because no one else needlessly concerned themselves with my comings and goings.
Well, no one but Ellie did. And I was happy about that. As someone who wasn’t used to asking for help, I was grateful that Ellie could sometimes just know that I needed it and how. Also, Ellie could keep me from devolving into a perpetual scream just from her very presence, so if her awareness of me kept me in her orbit, all the better. But even if it wasn’t a lot of direct labor on her part, it was still a lot to ask. So cue the guilt. Cue the inevitable guilt that was offset by the bestowing of anonymous gifts like the coffee she likes and a variety of treats around the office: anything that would make her smile but delivered in such a way that she would never feel obligated to return the favor, negating the potential for a transaction.
As I moved across the floor, I caught a glimpse of Ellie again. She had slipped into the office of the finance guy whose actual job title and literal purpose had escaped me. And for a moment, a sense of dread seized me. It wasn’t just that I had to go back to the room in which I had just taken a cursed phone call and muscle memory could be somewhat unforgiving, but Ellie was probably in some sort of trouble. Meetings in the finance guy’s office weren’t things to look forward to. And that might be true in literally every office ever, but that particular finance guy only permitted someone to enter his domain when something was horribly wrong. I would never want Ellie to be the one knee deep in muck, particularly when she was trying to get a promotion–not the one she deserved but the only one available to her right then.
So I shouldn’t tell her about the phone call, I suddenly realized as I crossed the threshold into the break room. I should probably spare her that emotional weight and come up with some other reason for looking so bad, which would be a hard plan to commit to considering the premise under which this impromptu meeting was called, but I had to at least try, right? For her own sake. I had to do something to protect her, to ensure she wasn’t overly weighed down by something that should have been mine to bear.
But that would have been lying to her. And could I come up with a decent lie right then? I doubted it.
In desperation, I searched for something to occupy my mind, but really, the only thing worth considering in that break room was the coffee machine. Making myself another cup of coffee was just a pretense before, but it was looking like a worthwhile endeavor now, at least as some sort of distraction. So I picked a random coffee capsule from the display and waited for Ellie, drowning in my own dismay.
But it might not have been so bad for her, I reminded myself. The finance guy didn’t fire people; he only made you wish you were fired. Or so I was told. My job centered on handling client accounts. For the most part, I didn’t have to directly work with the company’s money at all, so I didn’t have to deal with him. And if I did, maybe he would do what Perry only wishes she could do: push me out of this job and claim the so-called bragging rights she assumed were there.
But that wasn’t the case. So even though Erika wanted me to be writing and Perry wanted me to be anywhere else on the planet, I was at my day job that I thought I was pretty good at, waiting for some sort of shoe to drop. It wasn’t a pleasant wait, I had to admit, which led to other questions, other things I had to but couldn’t explain.
Erika didn’t understand why I wanted to stay at said job. And I had no answer for her. That in and of itself was a reason to stay and not be a professional person who strings words together because even in this very specific situation, in which my hand was held and the narrative pre-built, I could not string together the words to make sense of this seemingly dumb impulse to stay at a job that I thought I was pretty good at despite it being boring and surrounding me with a rotating cast of people I couldn’t have any sort of genuine connection with. And I knew that there were reasons to leave in that sentence alone. Many people use (objectively or subjectively) terrible coworkers as excuses to leave jobs they don’t like, or maybe they prefer to focus on the boredom they experience. Either works. But another reason is often the money, and I was in the rare situation (for writers especially) to be well off enough financially to survive a few years of unemployment, which would be full of time for more writing. And–in theory–maybe if I didn’t have this day job I would actually be able to string together more than a few decent and quotable sentences, packaged in a book-length vehicle that could appeal to people’s desires to be seen as better than they were. And that would mean I wouldn’t need to survive any number of years of unemployment beyond whatever time it took me to get that manuscript out.
When you make any sort of tally on the subject, you would come to the conclusion that I needed to quit, even if it was just to get another job. Jobs that you think you are good at come only when you are looking for them. And I would have more time for looking and for writing if I left.
It sounded so simple when written out, but at the moment, it didn’t feel simple at all.
The coffee machine let out its usual strangled cry as it made my second cup. While I pulled my drink out of the machine, I came back into the moment and out of my anxiety spiral with rapid taps of my fingernails against the cup. In that slightly calmer state, I waited. I wasn’t sure how long I would be waiting, but if Ellie was confident enough to give me the sign for an immediate meeting then maybe her time in the pit of reckoning (otherwise known as the finance guy’s office) would be brief.
Which it was. I hardly got a sip in before Ellie burst into the room. And suddenly we were alone. Together but alone together.
At the sight of her, relief flooded my senses. The warmth of her light soothed all my sore and aching muscles, including those in my soul. I knew we were not going to have an easy conversation, but at the same time, Ellie was there. That was enough to make me feel better. For a moment.
“Bloody Hell, Mia,” she exclaimed in her Chester accent. “You look as off-colour as you can get.”
She meant it in the ‘you look sickly’ sort of way and not in the ‘slightly inappropriate joke’ way. That might not be so obvious.
I should clarify. (Or I will clarify, and you can gloss over the next couple paragraphs if it bores you.) A Chester accent is likely a term I made up. Ellie comes from the United Kingdom. Technically speaking, I think the most common and accepted term for her accent would be British, but there’s some variation within the British accent spectrum that should be acknowledged. Or maybe that’s the American perspective, but you wouldn’t in good conscience lump together a Texan accent and a Bostonian accent. And if you did, you would likely get punched in the face at certain bars.
I can understand that but little more. If there’s a regional term or potential prefixes that could offer clarifications when it comes to people from England, I didn’t know them or where Ellie would fit in amidst all the nuances. So in line with the grand theme of doing the best I can, I connect her manner of speech to the place where she came from.
Despite living in Chicago for a few years, her accent remained pretty thick. And that made sense considering she didn’t leave Chester until she was already (essentially) an adult. She came to the US for college (or ‘university,’ as she put it) because her dad’s side of the family was out in the states, and her grandparents weren’t doing that well. They helped her pay for school and wrote in their wills that their Hyde Park home would be hers when they passed. And given how expensive housing can be, it was the sort of offer she couldn’t ignore. So she grew roots, and despite the culture shock of it all, she’s made it work.
But regarding what she actually said to me, in her Chester (or British) way, she was drawing attention to the way I was carrying that phone call and the news it brought. Her remark wasn’t exactly a question. She knew that there were things about my life I didn’t talk about and asking was pointless. That secrecy was a habit of mine that could not easily be overcome, only accommodated. Consequently, she had no choice but to leave this observation floating in the air for me to respond to as I saw fit. It was an open door, so to speak, that I could do with as I pleased.
But I know she hoped I would walk through it. She always hoped for that. And so I wanted to give her that, but with that desire came the impulse to say more than I meant to. My earlier inhibitions were cast aside, and I tried to walk what I thought was a fine line. But really, I missed the mark by at least ten feet.
“I’m okay,” I replied, but I didn't even believe it. “I got some news today.”
I left it there at first, which wasn’t a great thing to do, but I still did it. In this unintended dramatic pause, Ellie was scrambling to put together whatever this news might have been. Which wasn’t easy. On the surface, I lived a very uneventful life, so there were very few things that could be guessed. And this whole “apparently having another sister whose daughter looks a lot like you” is the sort of thing that cannot be guessed. So for a second, Ellie was quiet as she waited for me to fill in the gaps, chewing on her lower lip while concern and fear filled her eyes.
I sighed. My secrecy was going to bother her just as much as the disclosure would. So if it truly was a “damned if I do, damned if I don’t” situation, then I had to tell her the truth. She didn’t deserve to be lied to.
Unless it was for her own good, of course. Then all bets were off. All is fair in love, war, and protecting Ellie.
“So,” I started.
But then my resolve wavered a bit. I reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose just for a small boost. Technically, I could have used coffee in my hand for that, but even though it was heating up my hand to a worrying degree, I had forgotten about it. Priorities, and all that.
“Okay, I might need to fill in some gaps.”
“Perry?” Ellie asked with an eyebrow raised.
The mention of a common plight brought me back into the moment. My hand returned to the cheap cup and to the tapping.
“Surprisingly no, but give her like twenty minutes. This is the second time I’ve left my desk today, and she’s already a bit snippy, but... Okay, remember how I told you That Shitty Guy who was on the news a while ago for abusing his sisters and cousins was actually signed to the same literary agency I was.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“And this led to all of us having to get background checks done with the knowledge that we could get dropped if something bad came up.”
She nodded.
“Well, okay, so I don’t bury the lede: I’ve never done anything bad, so I knew nothing would come up. But well...” I took a deep breath. “Erika called me today because apparently the investigator found my sister.”
All Ellie could do was stare. She was much too confused for anything else. “Which one? Don’t you have two sisters?”
I winced and forced out the words. “Apparently I have three, including one nobody knew about until she started trying to find her family history.”
I sighed. My lungs were trying to rid themselves of the weight that was pulling me down, the feelings that had flooded me when I finally took in the news, when I finally accepted what I had been told. My body didn’t know what else to do with it besides trying to purge it. And that made sense. The human body wasn’t designed for something like this. It wasn’t something evolution ever cared about no matter how possible, likely, or inevitable secret siblings were. It wasn’t a direct threat to you, so why worry about it?
I went on, “Erika thought I should hear it from her. And not a strang– Not...”
I didn’t know how to finish that thought. There are so many different ways someone can reveal a sister to you, and in that moment, I realized how difficult it would be to compare or rank all those ways. There were also so many different things you could call the private investigator digging into your life and the sister who gave birth to your clone. Either of those two people could have also been the ones calling me. And neither of them seemed more appealing than the other.
“Not someone else that I don’t know as well,” I finished.
My voice cracked a bit towards the end. It was the shock bursting through the seams. I couldn’t contain it or control it, but I could be glad that I hadn’t completely fallen apart. And I was grateful for that. It was a small relief.
But the poorly delivered revelation shocked Ellie too. She also went “off-colour” and covered her mouth with her hand. It wasn’t her life, but when you have that much empathy–to the point that other people worry that it actually hurts you–you feel things like this.
Then you hear what you think is a sign of someone coming and everything has to stop.
Ellie looked at me and whispered, “Lunch today? We can talk more then.”
I started to nod, but then something else hit me. “Wait, lunch hasn’t even happened yet?!? It’s still morning?!?” I let out a hushed scream.
Cue mild panic. Details notwithstanding.