Chapter 1, In which I do a good deed
I was lying on my back staring at the ceiling when the phone rang. It was too much effort to move, so I continued pondering the cobwebs on the fan overhead and waited for the answering machine in the front room to cover for me.
"Michael, please pick up!" It was a young woman's voice. "It's Stacey -- I really need to see you, and you aren't answering your cell! Please call me as soon as you can." There was a breathless pause and then she hung up.
Some women might get upset when their good-looking roommate got a call from a strange girl, but I wasn't one of them. It happened pretty often, actually, but usually Michael was there to answer them. See, he was a sex addict.
It's not what you're thinking -- he was a member of one of those "Anonymous" organizations and it had really straightened him out. He was a sponsor, too, and most of the time they were women; I guess they were less of a temptation because he was gay.
That was how we'd met, sort of. Not that I was a nympho or had a thing for gay men. Actually, with my travel schedule, I barely had any time for a social life, but when I did, I wanted a man who was ready to scratch my itch, if you know what I mean.
Apparently, Michael and my brother Peter had been scratching each other's itches, a lot. It had been a shock to discover Peter swung that way, because we were pretty close and he'd never given even the slightest hint he wasn't "normal." Sorry; that was my parents' viewpoint, not mine.
Anyway, they didn't take it well when he came out of the closet, probably because he
really
came out, if you know what I mean, and I guess Peter couldn't handle their rejection. Emotionally, I mean; he was financially self-sufficient by then. When he committed suicide, Michael was just totally broken up over it.
Daddy and Mommy wouldn't even acknowledge he existed, and I sort of felt we owned him and Peter more than they'd gotten. Michael had enrolled in this program and I'd moved in with him for awhile so he wouldn't be all alone. Daddy had cut me off, too, but it was something I'd needed to do. That had been two years ago; neither of us had raised the subject of my moving out again.
I liked our arrangement a lot. Aside from the benefits of sharing rent on a larger apartment than I could have afforded by myself, it was simply wonderful to come home from the trip of the week knowing there was unexpired milk in the refrigerator and my mail would be stacked on the end of my dresser. Michael told me having a totally unappealing shoulder to lean on had been literally a life saver.
It was the nicest rejection a girl could have.
The phone rang. "It's Stacey again," the woman said after the beep. "I'm sorry to keep bothering you, but I think I'm about to fall off the wagon.
Please
call me as soon as you get this, okay?" She sounded pretty frantic.
Reluctantly, I forced myself to sit up. The problem was, I had no idea of Michael's whereabouts. It was late Saturday morning and I'd just gotten home after spending an unwanted evening in Atlanta, courtesy of airline snafus, and he'd been gone when I arrived. I'd seen his phone sitting on the kitchen counter, probably forgotten when he set it down to write the cheery "welcome home!" note that had been waiting for me.
As if the mobile phone's electronic ears had been burning, I heard it beep in the other room, reminding its owner of waiting messages. I could guess who had left them.
I blew an errant strand of hair out of my face and leaned over to pick up the cordless handset on the nightstand. Michael had warned me, several times, not to get involved with any of his acquaintances from the program -- that they could be dangerous. I wasn't ready to go hang out with some hulking would-be rapist, but the girl on the phone didn't sound that threatening.
She sounded like she was in trouble. Maybe if somebody had been there for Peter, he'd still be alive. I couldn't just leave her hanging, waiting until whenever Michael might decide to return.
Stacey hadn't left a number, but that was what caller ID was for. I punched a few buttons and she answered on the first ring.
"Michael, thank God!" she gasped.
"I'm sorry, this is Linnea," I told her politely. "I just wanted to let you know that Michael is unavailable at the moment. Is there some way that I can assist you?"
There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, she spoke up. "Linnea? I don't know you, do I? Are you with the, um, counseling group?"
One of the things I'd learned in sales was that it was important to be assertive and confident. Nothing spooked a prospect like uncertainty. I couldn't help this girl if she hung up on me. "Oh yes," I assured her cheerfully. "In fact, I'm Michael's sponsor." We'd spent so much time talking together about Peter that it was a very small white lie. "I'd be happy to talk with you about whatever is bothering you, and lend you my support."
"I don't know," Stacey whispered. I let the silence stretch, feeling it wasn't time to push. She let out something that sounded halfway between a moan and a growl of exasperation. "I'll take the chance. Can you meet me at the Starbucks on Third in 15 minutes?"
It was my turn to hesitate. I could make it, but not unless I went in what I was wearing. I hated the thought, for several reasons. Another one of the things I'd learned in sales was that you didn't make the deal if you couldn't get the prospect to pay attention to you. And that it was still a sexist boy's club in the executive offices.
I wouldn't say I dressed like a slut, but my skirts were shorter, my heels higher, and everything generally tighter than I would have preferred them to be. I was a cup size short of the point where I'd never have been thought of as anything except "that blonde bimbo with the rack," but I had to fight to be twice as good as my male coworkers just to stay even, and
they
didn't have to spend two hours every morning in the hotel exercise room working off drinks from the previous evening. I tried really hard not to be jealous of Michael, who worked from home and could wear anything he wanted.
I'd resigned myself to it on the job, but the pinstriped pencil skirt and silk shell I had on wouldn't have been my first choice to meet with some poor woman who was in a sex rehab program. Worse, it all looked slept in, which technically wasn't true, but was damn close.
My hair looked equally bad. It was overdue for a shampoo, long past the staying power of my hair spray, and showing a little more "dirty" and less "blonde" at the roots than I preferred. I'd planned to have it fixed the previous week, but Annie had been out sick and I wasn't going to trust my look to somebody I wasn't familiar with. I'd had to cancel that morning's appointment, too.
I reminded myself it was all small potatoes next to this girl's problems. "I'll be there," I promised Stacey.
"Oh, thank you so much, Linnea!" she gushed. "You're a lifesaver!" Stacey hung up before I could ask how to recognize her.
"Shit!" I vented to the empty room, and stood up. I didn't have the energy to change shoes, and I'd need all the time I had to walk the half mile in my pumps, so I left without writing a note for Michael. I'd see him in a bit, anyway.
I thought I had Stacey identified about 30 seconds after I walked through the door. There was this intense-looking girl seated by herself at a table, staring hungrily at every woman that entered the place. I studied her, trying not to be too obvious about it, while I waited in line to get my iced double espresso. Laugh if you will, but it was warm out and I needed the caffeine.
She looked like she was probably in her mid-twenties, a few years younger than myself, and might have been a vampire if it had been night instead of daytime and this had been a fantasy novel. Her complexion was pale, but she had jet black shoulder-length hair, apparently favored really dark lipstick and nail polish, and everything she wore was black. I hadn't seen so much eyeliner since the last issue of Vogue.
"Stacey?" I asked, after approaching her table.
Her eyes raked me from head to toe. "Linnea, I presume?" She suddenly smiled, her white teeth incongruous against the lipstick. "The world works in strange ways."
"Forgive the appearance," I smiled back, seating myself across from her. "You caught me at a bad time, but it sounds like you're having a worse one."
Stacey took a sip from the cup in front of her. "Yeah; thanks for coming." She stared at her hands for a moment, and released an explosive sigh. "Jesus, it's been hard! They tell you to put yourself in a good place, to stay away from temptation, but..."
I nodded understandingly. "You have to keep working at it; stay strong. There's no quick fix." I'd heard Michael say that a million times.
She looked up at me beseechingly. "I don't know if I can hold out or not. I caught myself outside a salon today; they had a help wanted sign posted. My hand was
on the door
. Do you know how hard it was to turn away?"
"Well, you made it," I reassured her. I absently pushed my hair behind my ear while I tried to figure out the subtext of what Stacey was saying. What would be so bad about a salon? Belatedly it occurred to me that perhaps she was a lesbian. Well, if she was, there was nothing I could do now -- and that didn't make her less deserving of whatever support I could provide. After all, my brother had been gay.
And he'd died thinking he'd been rejected by his family. I reached out to squeeze Stacey's hand reassuringly. "Be fierce! You can do it, Stacey! Just stick with what's gotten you here."
