32
Three hours had screeched past in Don’s office. Tamara was ready to grab a pillow, lights out. “I’m pooped. I’m going to cut out on you,” she said. Her determination voted to stay longer but conceded to fatigue.
“We’ll be wrapping up in an hour, tops. You want me to arrange a car? Or if you can hang around, I’ll give you a ride to the hotel,” Don told her.
“Thanks for the offer, but I really am exhausted. I’m going to leave now.” Sleepless nights were commonplace since she arrived in Detroit. She hoped her sheer exhaustion meant the night had been productive. Tomorrow represented her debut as a seated board member. She had to be well rested.
“I can’t let you leave alone.”
“Then I’ll take a taxi instead of the bus.” Might as well splurge on a taxi ride home to celebrate her progress, she thought.
“Okay, that works for me,” Don said.
Tamara left Don’s office. She waited in the lobby as the security guard called her a taxi. Fifteen minutes later, her ride was out front.
“Where to, miss?”
“Hilton Garden downtown, please.” She eased into the backseat, peering into the night. “Excuse me, sir, can you change that to Rochester Hills?” she said, rattling off the address and not sure why. Drips of fear trickled in. For a few nights, she’d forgotten how rampant fear felt. She hadn’t dwelled on Remo in days. Thirty-five minutes deposited Tamara in front of her mother’s mansion, the prison of her childhood innocence. “Can we please sit here?”
“Sure, miss. I’ll have to keep the meter running.”
“Fine.” She wanted to speak as little as possible. Tamara stared at the house. She got out of the car to get a closer look, protected by the twelve-foot gates separating her from the grounds of despair. She was numb. So much of her life was tied up in the skeletons of the past. Tamara was weary from lugging the emotional anchors, broken beyond immediate repair. She yearned to be whole again, to be free from her shattered existence, but fear kept her crippled. Letting go meant facing the pain head-on, anguish that had been strategically suppressed. She’d mastered running. It was her sedating drug of choice. Tamara gripped the iron fence, and her emotions crested and broke into a steady flow of warm tears streaming down her cheeks. She remained silent in the dark, and not for the first time. She clutched the fence tighter, clinging to the fragments of her broken soul.
She could grab her suitcase from the hotel and vanish into the world, returning to a life she understood and controlled. The urge was there, undeniable. But the feeling that she had a right to be there was greater. Had her world been uninterrupted, maybe she could have learned the family business and been the savvy marketing executive her mother and brothers were known to be. She never got the chance to craft her future. It was savagely forced upon her. Zeal burned inside her, fueling her tenacity. She wasn’t going anywhere, not until she was ready. No more running. She was tired of instability. She slapped away the tears, building courage. She was a Mitchell, born and raised, and it was time to assume the benefits. Strength and resilience were her birthright.
Tamara declared that this was her moment. She’d paid the price; now it was time for the retribution. No one and nothing was going to stand in her way. Tomorrow, she’d move out of this tiny space and into an office befitting a board member. The salary was also open for discussion. She’d ask Don for more money—much more.