JENNIE
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At least I didn't soil my pants this time. Or did I?
The hovering faces above me come into focus. Words gain clarity like someone unmuted this embarrassing scene.
"I'm fine," I declare after my fingertips graze the crotch of my leggings to ensure they're dry.
A short-haired brunette frowns an inch from my face. "EMS is sending an ambulance. I'm a nurse. You had a seizure."
My head rolls to the side, eyes surveying my surroundings. I'm in the bank lobby—cold tile at my back. Fanfuckingtastic. "Uh … no." I scramble to my feet.
"Don't try to get up," the nurse says.
"I have epilepsy. Nothing to see. I'm good. Totally good. Cancel the ambulance." I hold out my hands, giving everyone the signal to stop.
Stop messing with me.
Stop worrying about me.
Go on with your day.
Too late. I hear the sirens approaching.
All eyes in the lobby are on me.
A nervous laugh sputters from my chest. "Just a little seizure." I run my fingers through my hair. "Probably missed a pill. I'm good."
The bank tellers give me wary expressions and sympathetic smiles before encouraging the next people in line to step forward.
I glance at my watch, wincing from the pounding in my head. I'm going to be late for my job interview. And I can't be late. I need this job.
A young girl with braided pigtails hands me my bag.
I smile and whisper, "Thank you," before her mom pulls her toward the exit just as the EMTs push through the doors.
Before I can disappear into a corner—or a black hole—the nurse, who so kindly called for the ambulance, decides to rat me out when the EMTs search the lobby for the person in need of medical attention.
"She had a seizure," the nurse says to them while pointing at me.
"I'm sorry you were called. I'm good. Just leaving."
"You can't drive," the nurse says.
I'm not in a hospital. You're not my nurse. Thanks for your help, lady, but move along.
"Um …" I search my pockets and then my purse for my phone. "Yep. I know that. I'll call someone." Holding up my phone, I force a grin and turn in a circle like I'm threatening to detonate a bomb.
I have less than fifteen minutes to make it to my interview on time.
But I've seen that look before, the one the tall guy in uniform is giving me. He's not okay with me walking away.
Here we go …
After the EMT checks me out in a non-sexual way, I shoot a quick text to Lisa Manoban, letting her know I'll be late for the interview. Then I wait in my car—my temporary housing—pretending I'm waiting for someone to get me until the emergency vehicles leave the bank.
I have a college degree and live out of my car. There should be a program for that. And free therapy.
I waste no time changing my clothes, showing no regard for anyone who might see my half-naked body.
"You're going to be legendary," I say to the woman in the rearview mirror. "An artist of…" I frown, as does the reflection in the mirror "…of some sort. But today…" I apply gloss to my lips "…you're going to get this job. Clean toilets like DaVinci painted the Mona Lisa and be grateful for it like…" I twist my glossed lips "…Gandhi."
Damn … my head hurts.
After a short drive to my interview, I slick back a few flyaways of limp brown hair and climb out of my temporary housing, making my way to the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. It's not a million-dollar home or anything like that, but it's nice and the only one that doesn't look like all the rest in the cookie-cutter neighborhood with its low-profile roof of asymmetrical lines.
Windows wrap around the sprawling single-story, giving it a glasshouse appearance. I don't clean windows, so I hope that's not going to be a dealbreaker.
This should be a slam dunk if they're not upset over my tardiness. The Mumfords, an older couple and my best clients, referred me to the Manobans. I was told Mrs. Manoban is sick, and Lisa Manoban needs help cleaning so she can spend time with her wife. These new clients could be my ticket to stationary housing. Next step? A job that involves a camera and lots of traveling. Benefits like health insurance to pay for my medication and unexpected trips to the hospital would be nice too.
Giving my cuffed-sleeve blouse a quick adjustment to hide its wrinkles, I tug it down to meet the high waist of my capris.
Shoulders back.
Chin up.
Confident smile.
I ring the doorbell and gaze through the glass front door.
A few beads of sweat work their way to the surface of my armpits. I tell myself it's the heat, but it's only spring here in Atlanta. It's probably my concussion. Epilepsy can be a bitch—so can a life without health insurance.
A tall woman, maybe in her thirties, struts toward the door, wearing a kind, boyish smile, faded gray sweatpants, and a black tee. Their daughter or daughter-in-law, I assume. Before opening the door, she scratches the back of her head and yawns like she just woke up. Her dark hair is only slightly longer than the five o'clock shadow covering half her face.
"Good morning. You must be Jennie?" She breaks my name into its three punctuated syllables. It's a little amusing. Jyen-ney.
"Yes. Jennie Kim." I return a half-smile with a slight squint, trying to read her.
She offers an easy nod and steps aside. "Please, come in."
"Thanks." I slide my feet out of my Birkenstock knockoffs. "Are you the daughter? Daughter-in-law?" Stray hairs brush my face, so I tuck them behind my ear on one side.
Eyes narrowed, she purses her lips into a tiny grin and slants her head to the side as if I'm not speaking English. Maybe I slurred my words. Is my brain okay?
"Or …" I wrinkle my nose. "A family friend? None of the above? I'll just shut up now, and you can get Lisa. I texted her that I was running late, so I hope she's still here."
She gives me a hesitant laugh as confusion deepens along her brow. "Um … I'm Lisa."
My eyes widen as my lips part, but I have no words yet.
"I got your name from the Mumfords," she says.
Ever so slowly, I nod. The Mumfords, a sweet couple in their seventies, said they gave my name to "friends" of theirs. And for some reason, my head painted a picture of another old couple because elderly people only have elderly friends. Right?
Wrong.
"I …" I clear my throat. "I made an assumption." My face sours into a cringe. "An incorrect assumption. This is a … little embarrassing. I thought you were …"
"Old?"
With a nervous laugh, I nod. "My bad." I rub my temples for a few seconds.
"You feeling okay? If not, we can do this another day."
"No." I drop my hands and force a smile. "I'm fine. There was an incident at my bank. Someone had a medical emergency. By the time the ambulance arrived, and things settled down, I knew I wasn't going to make it here on time. And I hate running late. So I'm fighting a little headache from the stress." Half-truth. I should get partial credit for not completely lying.
"Not like an armed robbery or anything, I hope."
"What?" I squint. "Oh. No. Just uh … a customer passed out. They're fine. I assume." Does she sense how flustered I am? My mouth moves. Words spill from my lips; however, I'm not sure they're the right ones.
I need this job.
I need some sleep.
I need my brain to cooperate for once. Just this once.
"Well, the Mumfords rave about you, so I'm glad you made it."
"They're good people."
"Just old," Lisa says with a slight grin, once again, eliciting a nervous laugh from me.
"Older than me. And uh … clearly you too."
"I'll have you pop into the powder room and wash your hands. Then you can meet my wife. After that, I'll show you around."
Oh great … a germaphobe. It's not what I need right now. Germaphobe equals pain in the ass. I follow her around the corner to the powder room. I've worked for a few others like her. It's not my preferred working environment, but I can play the OCD part when I'm desperate for money … which happens to be right now.
After I do a surgical scrub with the door open so she can witness my attention to detail, she leads me into a sunroom. And …
Oh my god …
It's the Amazon. I'm not exaggerating. I've been in homes with a fair number of plants, but this is next level. In the middle, there's a woman settled into a basic gray, oversized recliner. A vibrantly colored patchwork quilt covers her elevated legs. She applies lip balm and adjusts the floral scarf around her head as we approach.
"Welcome to the jungle," Lisa says. "This is my wife, Rosé. Babe, this is Jennie Kim." Lisa squeezes her foot, and she playfully bats her hand away with a tiny kick.
My gaze flits between Lisa's warm smile and Rosé's impish grin.
"Nice to meet you, Jennie. I'd shake your hand, but it will cause Lisa to panic. She's afraid I might get sick and die." She laughs. "Newsflash. I'm already sick and dying."
Okay …
It's not that I don't have a good sense of humor. After all, I'm homeless with a neurological disorder and a pile of past-due student loans and medical bills, and I haven't slit my wrists. However, I don't know if it's appropriate to laugh at Rosé's joke.
She's laughing.
Lisa grins and shakes her head.
I'm ninety-nine percent certain she has no hair beneath that scarf on her head because she's also missing her eyebrows. So they're laughing at what I assume is cancer, and I play along and laugh a little—my perfected nervous laugh.
Hehehe … yeah. I'm back in the uncomfortable zone. Cancer humor might be an acquired taste.
"Sorry. Bad joke in front of a stranger," Lisa apologizes.
"No. I … I'm sure it's important not to take things too seriously when you're dealing with something out of your control," I say, but what do I know? Maybe they do have control over it. Perhaps they've done all the experimental treatments, or they're choosing to let her die at home with dignity in the middle of eighty billion plants. I really don't know. And if I didn't need the money, I'd hightail it out of here. I'd rather not be scrubbing the toilet while a woman dies in the same house. What would be the protocol? Keep cleaning? Slither out? Call an ambulance? Do you call ambulances for dead people?
Twenty-three-year-olds like myself don't have enough life experience to deal with a stranger's death. We barely know how to deal with the loss of our favorite characters on whatever show we're bingeing during any given week. Well, I haven't binged anything in a while. Homeless people don't have Netflix.
"Smart girl." Rosé winks at me. "I beat this once, and now it's back with a vengeance. My boobs are gone, but the cancer is back. Go figure."
Yeah, I'm way out of my comfort zone, and yet my next words are, "I have epilepsy, so …" It's out of my mouth, a dog off its leash and two blocks out of reach in a blink.
So? Where am I going with this? So what? Why tell them that? Is epilepsy the new cancer? My illness shouldn't kill me if I take my medication and follow precautions, which I don't do that well, but that's on me. It's not like Rosé can pop a pill, avoid taking baths alone, and surround herself with shatterproof glass, and her cancer will stay in check.
"Oh, sorry. Have you dealt with it your whole life?" Rosé actually acts interested, like I didn't just imply I know what she's going through because I've had a few seizures.
"I was diagnosed a year ago. It's no big deal. Really. Except for the time I had a grand mal seizure and lost control of my bowels. And … I forgot to switch my emergency contact. The hospital called my ex-boyfriend, who was still listed as my emergency contact. Oh … he was also married with a child. Imagine getting called to the hospital for your ex-girlfriend … who had a seizure while in bed with another random guy she met on a dating app. The early twenties are brutal … even for an optimist."
Silence.
Too much silence.
I overshared. A lot.
There's never a rewind button when you need one.
Lisa and Rosé share a look—something between a grin and a grimace.
Why did I think my best way out of the cancer topic was to talk about epilepsy, swiping right to hook up, and wetting the bed?
Lisa clears her throat. "Are you on medication for it?" Of course, she wants to know if she will have to deal with me seizing while she's taking care of her sick wife.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I stare at my feet. "I am," I whisper past the suffocating embarrassment. "And I'm uh … sorry." I glance up, nose crinkled. "That was more than you needed to know. I'm good. It's a mild form of epilepsy, and I'm basically cured if I take my meds."
IF I take my meds. IF I can afford them.
And what's a "mild form" of epilepsy? They're not calling me out, so I stick with it.
Rosé's grin works its way to her eyes. "If you can't find a little humor in tragedy, life will kick your ass."
I return a stiff nod.
"In the meantime, let's talk about your outfit. It's adorable." Rosé eyes my shirt and capris. "Girl after my own heart. Anthropologie?"
Glancing down, I run my hand over the bottom of the wrinkled top. "Uh … maybe." I smile. "I'm not the original owner." I bite my tongue for a second. "That sounds weird like I stole it. I didn't steal it. I …" They don't need to know I buy my clothes "gently used" because my bank account balance doesn't support my expensive taste. I think the bedwetting confession is enough for today.
"I love Anthropologie," Rosé says as if I didn't just verbally vomit my way through a shitty explanation as to where I buy my clothes. "I bet that's where they're originally from. I haven't been there in forever. Lisa isn't much of a shopper."
Lisa tries to give her an exasperated expression, but it won't stick to her face. She can't look at her for more than two seconds without her blinding adoration stealing her features and settling into her golden-brown eyes. It should be every woman's goal in her romantic life to never settle for someone who looks at her with anything but that level of adoration.
I'm pretty sure Random Hookup Guy was not gazing at me like that the night I seized in his bed and wet myself. And I know this because he texted me the next day requesting I buy him a new mattress. Apparently, the urine seeped into the padding.
"Baby, I love doing anything with you," Lisa says.
That's it. Right there. Life goals. I need to find someone that says, "Baby, I love doing anything with you."
"Follow me …" Lisa nods in the opposite direction, keeping her attention on Rosé for a few more seconds.
That adoring, lingering gaze also gets added to my wish list.
"Nice meeting you." I give Rosé a smile that I hope erases my ridiculous epilepsy comparison to cancer and my cringe-worthy oversharing of bedwetting.
"You too, Jennie. I hope this works out."
"Jen." I give her a tiny shrug. "My friends call me Jen."
"Jen …" Rosé nods several times. "Jen it is. And my friends call me Chaeng."
"Bye, Chaeng," I say over my shoulder while following Lisa.
She turns on the light to a bedroom. "We're just looking for basic cleaning."
Nothing about her or this house seems basic.
"Thorough dusting. Thorough sweeping. Thorough mopping. Thorough—"
I chuckle. "Save some oxygen. I'll assume all duties are to be done thoroughly unless otherwise stated."
Lisa gives me a sheepish grin that shows just a hint of her white teeth. "Fair enough."
She turns on the lights in the main bathroom, and I step inside, taking mental notes of what needs to be cleaned. Large tile shower. Soaker tub. Two sinks. Vanity with backlit mirror.
Next to the vanity, there's a huge jar filled with flat rocks. Each rock has writing on it.
"She's always called me her rock," Lisa says, drawing my attention away from the jar and back to her. She leans her shoulder against the doorway. "After she was diagnosed, I started collecting rocks. Every morning, I wake up early and write something I love about her on the rock." She shrugs. Extra color floods her cheeks, and she glances away for a second. "Every day, I give her a rock, so she knows there are an infinite number of things I love about her, and all of those little things are what gives me strength."
"That's …" I'm not sure of the right word.
"Pathetic?" She chuckles.
"No. I was going to say romantic, but that's not the right word either."
"Cheesy?"
I laugh, inching my head side to side a few times. "Definitely not that. Endearing, and it's … yeah. Endearing."
Lisa's lips twist for a second. She's contemplative, which makes her a little mysterious. She says a lot with her eyes, but I don't know her well enough to translate her expressions into words. "I'm sticking with cheesy."
I can't hide my grin.
"Anyway … where were we? Oh yeah …" She heads out of the bathroom and down the hallway. "We have three bedrooms, two full bathrooms, and a half bath. Living room, office, and kitchen. I don't expect you to do laundry, prepare meals, or wash dishes. I do all of that. And I'll clean the jungle."
"And what a jungle it is." I follow her through the kitchen to the opposite side of the house and the two other bedrooms.
Lisa laughs. "It's her favorite room. Better air quality. I'm not going to lie; she talks to her plants. One of those infinite number of things I love about her."
No one has ever said they love an infinite number of things about me. Either Rosé is the greatest woman ever, or I'm not that great—definitely not infinitely great.
Or … and this might be the correct answer … Lisa is not like most other wife or husband.
"I'm not mocking it," I say. "It's a wonderful room." I mentally add a houseful of plants to my list of future goals, along with finding someone who cooks, cleans, washes the dishes, does the laundry, and loves an infinite number of things about me. How did my mom manage to find every man who was the opposite of Lisa Manoban?
"These bedrooms don't get used, but they still need a thoro—" Lisa catches herself and smirks. "They still need a good dusting and vacuuming every week. We'll provide all the supplies since we want certain products used in our house. If there's anything extra you want or need, just let me know." After turning off the bedroom lights, she heads back to the kitchen. "Any questions?"
"Do Tuesdays work?"
She fills a glass with water from a stainless-steel dispenser on the counter. "Every week?"
I nod, tucking my fingers into my back pockets.
"What time will you start?" she asks.
"It's up to you, but I'd rather not start later than nine."
Lisa twists her lips. "Nine-thirty?"
With a soft laugh, I lift a shoulder. "Sure. Nine-thirty will work. Do you have any other questions for me? More references? My social security number so you can run a background check on me? Fingerprints? How much I charge for my services?"
"No." Amusement flickers in her eyes. "The Mumfords are the only reference and recommendation I need because they are very particular and diligent. And old."
I roll my eyes.
"I'm sure you had to pass at least one lie detector test to work for them."
"They are older. And thorough," I say, nodding several times. "And I know you're a fan of thorough."
"Indeed." She focuses on the glass of water in her hand for a few seconds. Since she's not drinking it or offering it to me, I assume it's for Rosé.
"Well, thanks. I look forward to working for you. I can … uh … let myself out and see you Tuesday at nine-thirty."
"Thank you, Jennie."
"Jen."
"Jennie." She presses her lips into a firm line like she's biting her tongue.
Okay, she prefers Jennie. I bolt out of the house before she has a chance to see my grin.
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