“This shower is going to kill me.”
Fred’s voice echoes through the tiled bathroom. Despite keeping my hand over the phone speaker, his voice vibrates through the tiny stall I’m hunched in.
“Keep your laptop on the counter and put Netflix on,” I say. My voice doesn’t sound calm and collected like it’s supposed to. Like a counsellor is supposed to. Instead, it’s croaky, my hesitation palpable.
I’m sitting on the toilet seat, my feet pressed against the stall door to keep it closed. The lock’s broken, and there are words scribbled across the door. The usual mix of epithets and love declarations. If anyone comes into the bathroom now, they’ll hear me.
“Remember what we talked about,” I whisper into the phone. “Breathe first, act second.”
Fred’s response comes fast, accusing. “This is ridiculous.”
I lean back against the icy wall. You’re telling me, I want to say. I’m supposed to be teaching my first class of the day. Instead I’m hiding in a restroom, talking a man into a shower.
“You know, people do weird things to get by,” I say, feeling the cold air seep through the window. I can hear the drone of the morning traffic outside. Angry car horns. Squawking sirens.
Fred sighs. “Yeah, but who’s afraid of a shower?”
I picture him in his bathroom—somewhere, anywhere—stark naked and pacing. I imagine him placing his laptop on the counter like I’ve told him to, the Friends theme song playing in the background. In my mind, he trudges towards the shower, fear bubbling under the surface as he turns on the shower head and seeks the warmth of the water. The same warmth that reminds him it’s just that. Water.
I close my eyes and repeat our mantra. “Nothing is going to hurt me here.”
Fred’s distress reminds me of my own, months ago. A distress that still lurks. Only it’s not a shower that scares me, but a ghost.
“Anxiety makes us afraid of anything,” I tell Fred. “It can feel almost—”
I hear the door opening, the hinges creaking. Like a kid in a horror film, I curl up, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“What?” Fred calls. “You there?”
But I’m holding my breath, watching for shoes beneath the door.
Please don’t be grey heels. Please don’t be grey heels.
“Whatever, I’ll give it a try,” Fred says. I see a pair of platform heels under the door. They’re grey. I want to end this call right now and step outside like nothing’s wrong. But I can’t. Fred still needs to hear my voice and know that he’s safe.
It’s my job to keep him safe.
I straighten up. “You can do this. You’ve done this so many times.”
As soon as I’ve said the words, I feel the presence on the other side of the door turn towards my stall. They know I’m there.
“I will. I’m going now,” Fred says.
It’s amazing how quiet it is in this stall.
“Okay,” I reply, “I believe in you.”
He hangs up just as the voice on the other side speaks. “Cat? Is that you?”
Busted.
I want to stay quiet, but it won’t help. “Just a second,” I call, stuffing my phone into my back pocket. As though I’ve got nothing to explain, I get up and open the door to find Sam facing me. She blinks. Three times. Rapidly.
“What are you doing?” she says.
From this vantage point, she looks harmless. She’s almost a head shorter than me—even in those grey heels—with straight honey blonde hair grazing her shoulders, a contrast to my auburn curls. Her green eyes are large, searching.
I laugh nervously. “What do you mean? I’m using the bathroom.”
She cocks her head to the side, like she’s trying to look behind me. Around me.
“Where’s your phone?” she says.
Instinctively, my hand reaches for it, but it’s too late. She’s already seen the bulge in my pocket. When my eyes meet hers again, she’s frowning.
“You know how I feel about taking phone calls during work hours.”
I can tell her it was an emergency. A family member that needed me. But Sam already knows everything there is to know about me. It’s what I get for working with a friend.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “It was only for a second.”
She shakes her head. “You’re supposed to be teaching a class right now.”
Sam and I play this game often, where we pretend we’re just work colleagues having fun together. But in reality, Sam’s my boss and I’m her employee, working for her at the language academy she inherited.
It’s not fun. But money’s the hardest thing to make these days.
I try to smile. “It won’t happen again.”
“Who was it?”
Her question brings heat to my cheeks. “Who?”
She’s looking at me expectantly. “On the phone. Just now.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “My mom. You know how she is. She doesn’t know my work schedule.”
I was never good at lying. And it’s a cheap shot, going after my mother’s forgetfulness like that. The way Sam’s looking at me confirms this. Like I’ve said something in bad taste. She gives a sigh and in a split second opens her palm towards me. In the time it takes my eyes to look down at it, she removes her hand and places it behind her back.
Was she going to ask for my phone?
We stare at each other. Me, blinking. Sam, fighting an internal battle. She wants to be in control, but she doesn’t want to make things uncomfortable between us. She’s struggling for the right thing to do here.
I decide to help her. “How about I keep my phone in the common room?” I offer. “You keep yours there too, right?”
Instantly, Sam looks relieved. “Yes,” she says, a tired smile on her face. “I do. We could do that.”
I nod and head for the bathroom exit, walking around her, hearing the click-click of her heels as she follows me.
“We only have to keep them there when we have class,” she says with newfound conviction. “We can use them anytime we have breaks.”
Sam’s excited by my conformity. I, on the other hand, am surprised by my words. Why did I just willingly give up my phone?
We’re in the corridor, and I take a moment to breathe. The smell of stale popcorn fills my nostrils—a smell passed down with the royal blue carpet of the place—mixed with the scented candles lit down in reception. They’re part of Sam’s efforts to make this rundown building seem more complete.
Around us are glass-walled meeting rooms with whiteboards. Some empty, some filled with faces turned towards standing figures.
Teachers.
I’m supposed to be one of those right now.
We walk into the common room, where I put my phone next to Sam’s in a drawer. I turn to look at her, and her face has softened. Moments ago, she was the boss. Now she’s just Sam. My best friend from high school.
“You like it here, don’t you?” she asks in a smaller voice, and immediately I want the earth to swallow me whole. I’m lucky to have this job. Not many people have jobs right now. Sam’s only ever been nice to me, throwing me a lifeline when I needed it most. And this is her business. One she’s proud of. The least I can do is be proud with her.
“Of course I am,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted lately, but it won’t happen again. I promise.”
Sam opens her mouth, then closes it abruptly. I’m thankful, because I know she wanted to ask about my other job. The one I’m actually passionate about. It’s moments like these that make me regret telling her about it.
We part ways and I rush towards my classroom. It’s called the Manchester room, which I associate with red brick buildings, even though I’ve never been to England. It’s fitting, because as I enter the room, I feel my face turn red. Seated students all staring at me.
“Sorry about that,” I say. When I look up, I see six students with notepads out. Waiting for me. I turn to face the writing board, the word Welcome written on it.
I study their faces, these people I’m teaching. They come from afar. Zimbabwe, Botswana, Swaziland. Some from Cape Town. They have all come to Johannesburg—the financial capital of South Africa—for a better life.
Where they’ll need to speak English.
The class passes quickly, with almost no questions. As I take the students through the curriculum, I think of Fred and wonder how he’s doing. If he could get into his shower.
I know I should care just as much about these people; the ones learning a new language to get better jobs. To put dinner on the table for their families.
But all I can think about is Fred and his shower.
Juggling two jobs is tough. An English teacher and a counsellor don’t have lots in common, and their work schedules don’t line up. This morning was evidence of that. But I need both jobs; one to feed my body, one to feed my soul.
When class is over, I take my worn army jacket and collect my phone from the common room. I head outside for a smoke, and the cold burns my eyes and my fingers shake as I light a cigarette. Sam’s language school is in a boxy old building, surrounded by similarly boxy buildings. The area isn’t bad; twenty minutes from the outskirts of Pretoria, technically still Johannesburg. But far away enough from the nightmare traffic of the CBD.
It’s the type of place people work day in and day out.
People like me.
But recently, I’ve been slacking off at work. Re-evaluating. My mind keeps bringing me back to counselling. Urging me to take what I love seriously and leave behind the conventional. Take a leap of faith. But at the same time, I’m cautious, scared I’ll mess it up.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. There’s a text from Fred.
Showered. Didn’t even need to watch Friends. Thanks!
There’s no question. If I could do anything permanently, it would be counselling. And as I walk back into the academy, I remind myself that I’m not that bad at it. I’m pretty good at it, actually. But then there’s another reminder that crawls into my psyche, one that sends a sickly feeling through me.
Pretty good at it, except for that one time.