“Are you all right, Ms. Malloy? You seem… distracted.”
I shake my head then wish I hadn’t as dizziness fills me with its sick sparkles. “I’m fine. It’s just been a challenging week. Please, carry on.”
The recruiter studies me, then looks down at my resume for a moment. “Am I reading this correctly? You were employed at Elle Warhol until yesterday?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re already looking for another executive position?”
I try to smile. “I need a job, of course.”
“But the day after—” Her eyes widen. “And wait, I’ve heard your family name lately. On the news. You’re not the sister of—”
I bite my lip. I’d been so hoping she wouldn’t make the connection. I can’t let her finish the sentence so I blurt out, “Gloria Malloy. Yes, I am.”
She looks like I spoke in a foreign language she’s never heard before and she’s desperately trying to translate. “You’re… job-hunting? Today? The day after… that happened?”
I’d actually emailed her yesterday, the day it happened, the day Gloria died, after I finally managed to drag myself off the pavement and go home, but reminding her of that won’t change her opinion.
I didn’t have a choice. I walked into my apartment, saw my little pile of Gloria’s stuff to be investigated which had gotten me—and her—nowhere, and knew I couldn’t be unemployed. It felt wrong, dangerous. I don’t need a job right away financially since my savings are good, but I need something to do, something to occupy me. Something to keep me from thinking of the mess I’ve made of everything. So I looked up the recruiter who’d emailed me last year and arranged to meet her today.
“I need a job,” I say again, snapping the rubber band on my wrist beneath her desk to keep myself calm.
She keeps frowning and straightening out her face and frowning again, like she almost manages to understand then loses it again. “Don’t you have… things you need to do? Today, I mean, for your sister?”
Arranging the funeral. My parents are handling all of that. I emailed them last night, because I couldn’t bear the idea of hearing them speak, and told them I could only help with the arrangements after work. They don’t know I got fired and I’ve caused enough grief for them that I don’t want to give them any additional worry. Mom’s reply was one sentence: “We will take care of it.”
They don’t need me.
They probably don’t want me either.
My empty stomach clenches and I say, “No. Look, I’m only here to find a job. I don’t need your sympathy. Don’t want it either. Do you have something for me or not?”
There’s a new emotion on her face. I can’t quite read it. But it doesn’t matter because her words are all too clear. “I do not. Take care, Ms. Malloy.”
I give a single nod and walk out of her office, and I’m halfway to the subway when my exhausted mind finally interprets her expression.
Disgust.
Well, that’s understandable.
I’m disgusted with me too.