Read an excerpt from my second novel: What He Told Me

Chapter One

Kat

First, you need to know, I’m not a stander outer. If you walked past me on a city sidewalk, I would not draw your attention.

It’s by design, sort of.

What I mean is, I avoid anything that may get me noticed. I’m of average height and I keep my brown hair shoulder length. My glasses are taupe plastic frames with conversion shades. I sidestep any kind of makeup, bright color – or anything that will draw attention.

I prefer not to completely slink in the shadows but will do so if the occasion calls for it. The occasion being a parade or any kind of brouhaha. Or perhaps you or anyone else paying undue attention.

You could say I’m a blender inner. 

Blending in purposely because I don’t wish to be part of you all. Associated. It’s easier that way. I don’t have to explain myself and better yet, I can avoid any kind of painful small talk. 

The thing is.

The thing is.

You frighten me. 

Your confidence. Your uninhibited laughter. Your curiosity. 

Your over-the-top all-consuming ways. I don’t get that you want to be noticed. Need to be noticed. Your blue hair. Tight jeans. Nose ring. Loud voice. Flashy accessories. They are all terrifying. 

I don’t get strangers talking to strangers for anything other than need-to-know information. You don’t know me …

This world mixed with sidewalks covered in old gum and sounding horns bouncing off rows of buildings; blinking lights and people on street corners with signs trying to convince me to give money - or repent and be saved - It’s just too much.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

I should have been born in another time. Perhaps an era of soft music and waltzes and lanterns that were turned down to save oil.

But I wasn’t.

I was born in a time of rock ‘n roll to parents who were too young, too naïve, and too self-involved to see what was happening around them.

But things were happening.

Scurrying across the crosswalk, at the flashing don’t walk sign, I pretend I don’t hear my name. The city streets are noisy and my claim that I didn’t hear anything will be valid. It’s Eileen from work. She’ll want to accompany me for the last few minutes of my walk to Grand Central Terminal. The last thing I need is inquisitive Eileen asking me all manner of questions that people ask to try to engage. Or is it just that they are nosy? I never know.

Him

I saw you walking down the sidewalk. Purposefully staying to the right to avoid any collision. People zoomed around you. In and out, dodging, passing. Driven, it seemed. On their way to work or appointments or delicatessens.

You stayed steady and kept to your path. I knew where you were going. You go five days a week. Grand Central Terminal, to work in the ticket station.

The same routine. The same coworkers and clocks and shiny floors dulling after so much foot traffic.

Today could be different though.

Today you could do more than assist travelers on their way to scheduled rendezvous. Today might be the day that’s not like all the other days. 

Kat

My cubicle is stuffy, even for a June morning. Usually, the summer heat waits until July to become this stifling. 

Reginald has a fan in his cubicle. It oscillates left to right and still his forehead is beaded with sweat.

“Good morning, Kat!”

“Mornin’”

I never include the ‘good.’ Best to avoid the oxymoronic term. 

He assists his line of customers. A bag of M&Ms hidden where no one can see it through his window. But I can see it. I always see his hidden snacks.

He’s smiling and greeting customers as if they are old friends. I should tell him they aren’t. Friends. Or anything else. They are simply people who need to get somewhere, and they need him for just one moment to purchase a ticket. Otherwise, he is nothing to them.

Him

I see you noticed your co-worker. His forehead. He makes an effort to be jovial as usual but looks – different today. 

You wish you had his fan. It is muggy for June. The Hudson River breezes down 42nd street peter out by the time they reach Park Avenue at Grand Central. Even the pigeons congregate in the moisture near tree trunks, watered first thing this morning.

Kat

Reginald's wavy strawberry blonde hair is matted to his forehead today. His usual joy-filled greeting to customers hangs in the stuffy air. I’ve worked alongside him for two years. He’s happy every morning.

Every morning.

When the rain is pouring. Happy.

When the snow comes and claims our sidewalks. Happy.

When the air is warm and his armpits are damp. Happy.

When grouchy customers blame him for a late train. Happy.

It’s enough to send me ‘round the bend. But that would make two of us. So, I remain stoic in the face of his happiness. 

***

“Two for Brooklyn.” The harried mom smiles while holding onto her young son, attempting to wriggle from her grasp. I wonder why people even have kids. She looks tired, her hair slipping out of its barrettes, the sleeves of her shirt worn at the cuffs. Her boy, intent on escaping.

“One for Kearney Hospital.” A distinguished man in an overcoat too heavy for today’s weather. I hand him the ticket and he lingers, peering at me over designer sunglasses, something is on his mind.

“You.”

I maintain as much decorum as possible and avert my gaze.

“Next!”

A slight shake of his head as he walks away. I know where I’ve seen him before.

Him

Kat. KAT. You cannot hide forever. Averting your green eyes behind librarian glasses. Avoidance, a self-imposed curtain you’ve created just for you. Something’s going to happen, and you will be seen. People will know, you are more than a ticket handler. Much more.

Kat

It happens in slow motion. His tall chair topples back. M&Ms rattle, bouncing to the floor. The fan whirs.

I jump. Assess. Get him on his back. Check that his airway is clear.

“Call 911!” I shout to Eileen. Her eyes huge under painted brows.

Check his pulse. Hands joined, palms down, compress on the lower half of the breastbone. Compress. Compress. Compress. 30 times. Mouth to mouth … 1, breathe, 2, breathe, 3, breathe. 

Clammy. Salt mixed with remnants of chocolate. Compress. Keep going. 1, 2, 3 …

I’m not sure how long I provide CPR to Reginald before paramedics arrive. Grand Central has its own medical unit of sorts.

His skin is sallow. His hair is damp. I give them his name when they take over. Checking vitals. A stretcher.

I think he’s breathing. Is he? Oh God. Did I do it right?

My supervisor has put the window shields up so no one can see into our cubicles. Customers have been rerouted.

“Kat. Are you okay?”

I kneel on the floor. My hands still clasped and my shoulders heaving.

“Kat!”

Someone is calling my name.

“Are you okay?”

Am I okay? I just relived the second worst moment of my life.

“I’m okay.”

Concerned looks. Eileen shakes her red curly head. I hear someone say I need to be evaluated.

A paramedic accompanies me to my supervisor’s office. 

She checks my pulse, shines a flashlight into my eyes and asks me my name.

I give her the formal version, “Katherine Angelica Thomas.” The version everyone thinks led to my nickname. But they are wrong.

She asks me questions while she takes my vitals.

“What year is it?”

“1999.”

“Who’s the President?”

“Bill Clinton, and Hillary’s pissed at him.”

She smiles. 

“What’s new?”

She is petite and pretty with short, cropped hair and smooth skin. Younger than me, I think.

“You did a good thing just now.”

I don’t want to ask; I want to be anywhere but here. Eyes on me, people are waiting for something. A response to her statement, I think. 

“Is he okay?”

I know she can’t discuss details. A slight frown, she seems to weigh her response.

“I’m not sure. They took him to Mount Sinai Hospital and will evaluate him there.”

And looking to my supervisor, “She’ll need the rest of the day off.”

Then to me, “Take it easy. Stay hydrated. Get plenty of rest and if you feel anything – unusual – fatigue, a headache, nausea, anything amiss; call your doctor."

She pauses, giving me an appraising look, pats my shoulder and gathers her medical kit.

I nod as if I’ve got her instructions down. Of course she has no way of knowing. My whole effing world is amiss.

*This 300-page novel is currently under consideration by literary agents*

Chapter One

Present Day

Imbecile. That’s what my assistant is. The presentation was shoddy and had she been presenting only to me, I would have cut her off and told her to bring me something worthy. Freda Mae Waters would not have put up with such a debacle. 

I should know. Freda Mae Waters is my mother. And an expectation of perfection is her weapon of choice.

Now, it would be up to me to explain to management why my assistant couldn’t make the grade. A particularly unnerving thought since this is my third assistant in eleven months, and it’s entirely possible I will look like an idiot who cannot control her subordinates. An imperfect manager swimming in a sea of incompetence. Yours truly. 

Why I cannot procure and keep someone worthy is beyond me. The pay is above standard with good benefits. The fashion industry is invigorating. This job should be easy to fill with a reasonably talented employee.

Of course. The whispers show up right on cue. It’s you, Ema. You’re the problem. I ignore them because they are stupid and serve no purpose here; these whispers from my past - a reminder that I’m the one at fault. Burying the thoughts is the best course. I hide them under 30 years of not-enough-ness and remind myself I am enough. 

They are the problem.

***

The knock on my office door is expected. Pulling the hand mirror from my side drawer I smoothed my dark hair, pulled sleekly back in a high ponytail, and added a smidge of lip gloss. Replacing the mirror – I sit ramrod straight in my chair – ready for the attack.

“Come in.”

It’s Leo. He’s here to tell me my team is a wreck, I’m sure. My boss, with his perfectly combed gray hair in his impeccable navy-blue suit enters, closes the door and gestures to a chair opposite me.

My slight nod is calculated – not friendly – but professional. “Have a seat.” He pulls his slacks up at the knees and sits, setting his notorious manila folder on my desk. The man goes nowhere without his folder. I think he must take it to bed with him. 

Placing folded hands atop the folder, he smiles. 

Smiles?

“That was the best presentation I’ve seen … in a long time. Maybe … ever.”

Ever?

Perhaps Leo is an imbecile too. It could be going around. I wait for the other shoe to drop. This moment was made for the other shoe.

“You’ve done it!”

Done it?

“You’ve created a team worthy of you, Ema. Katy did a fine job presenting – but I know you are the brains behind the new line. It’ll be fantastic! I want complete Fall boards in two weeks.”

He hadn’t seen the mistyped header in column ‘E’, and that she had the date wrong on tab two, and do not get me started on the number of times she said ‘umm’.

I say none of this, of course. 

“You’ll have them!” It’ll be tight, but I can do it. We can do it. There is no ‘I’ in team. Or some such lame saying I heard in a course on team management.

“And Ema?” 

Here it comes. The other shoe.

He opens his folder. Retrieves one neatly typed sheet and turns it toward me. An offer sheet. I’ve 

prepared many of them. But this one has my name on it.

New Title: Director of Fashion Development. A promotion. I calculate quickly that the new salary is at least a fifteen-percent raise. My dream is within reach. But he’s done that weird thing he does where the salary ends in random numbers. I round up and name a perfectly reasonable amount. This is a moment for zeroes.

He smiles. “Done!”

Maybe I should have asked for more. We shake on it. I even have the presence of mind to thank him. 

“Boards in two weeks!”

“Yes, Sir!” I say, resisting the urge to salute the man.

I will get the team started on the boards and I will do something I believed this morning was unattainable. I will begin shopping for a new home. A home I will own.

It’s a rare moment because I feel a sense of enough-ness. But who am I kidding? Enough-ness never lasts.

Chapter Two

1995

I was eight years old when we arrived in Portland, Oregon. Eight years old and wishing fervently to be my seven-year-old self again. Those were the days of bliss - when I still had a daddy.

Shortly after we arrived, Mother insisted we try all the churches within a ten-mile radius. Except for the Baptist ones. She was leaving the Baptists behind, and as far as she was concerned, Greensboro, Georgia could have them.  

After trying several churches, my mother settled on a Presbyterian Church in southwest Portland. One Sunday, mother shared with me that the brick and stone structure was over 100 years old and on the national register of historic buildings. I didn’t doubt it; I counted eleven white-haired attendees sitting in the polished pews and wonder if they were on the national register too.

Looking down at my checked dress with puffy sleeves and a ruffled hem, I feel like a clown. A clown sitting amongst historians. One thing I can be grateful for, at least there is no lace. Lace is hideous. It itches and makes me feel like a baby. Or a bride, depending on how you look at it. 

But my dress is of little interest once I notice the thin man. He has tanned skin and black hair and is smaller than the other grownups; his neatly pressed clothes hanging on him. During the praise songs he pushes his palms upward. He’s the only one. To my recollection, I’ve seen a few pointers and maybe a crier or two in the Baptist church in Greensboro, but never a pusher. 

I made up a nickname for him. In my mind, he became ‘Push Up.’ 

Later when I asked my mother if she’d ever seen the Baptists push their palms into the air like the man did; Freda Mae Waters looked at me as if every last marble had fallen from my head. ‘Never! We have decorum!’, she replied. 

It’s a moment for sighing inwardly, something I do regularly to avoid crossing my mother. ‘Decorum’ another word I will need to look up in the dictionary. Decorum. Noun. dignified propriety of behavior, speech, dress, etc. 

My mother believes she is the height of decorum. A model for all things dignified. She is a southern lady! But maybe she is not as dignified as she believes herself to be. And I further the notion when my mother asks me if her slip is showing - I tell her it isn’t even when it is. It’s a small way to get back at a woman who’s always trying to be perfect and show her best self in church - and at the grocery - and to the neighbors. Always portraying the perfect southern lady. 

I take it one step further and write the imperfect things about my mother in a journal I keep hidden behind my dresser. An empty book I’d received the previous year for Christmas, when my first-grade teacher handed them to each of us telling us they were for practicing our writing. I hadn’t practiced because I was already the best writer in the class with the best penmanship. The journal had never been written in, but still I’d thrown it into my suitcase on a whim before we’d driven across the country to Oregon. 

Lipstick on teeth. Run in nylons. Forgot to say thank you to Ms. Cunningham. Are among the imperfections I list about my mother. 

My journal also has drawings of fashion and favorite quotes, plus personal notes to myself confirming my mother is not the boss of me. 

For example, when my mother tells me I should marry a rich man, I pull my journal from its secret place behind the dresser and write: No rich husband. I will attend fashion college. I will be independent. I will design clothes for career women, and my dresses will not have lace or need slips.

***

My new school is another matter. I’m teased for my accent. Of course, the Northwesterners do not realize they are the ones with an accent. But, still, to them, I sound different. 

I learn quickly that I’ll need to practice sounding like the others. The bathroom stalls work nicely for listening. I sit and make mental notes of the other girl’s speech. Their words are more clipped than mine. Mine are longer, more drawn out. I will work at clipping my words. I will practice sounding more like a Northwesterner and maybe the teasing will stop.

They think they are hilarious when they call me ‘Peach’. As if ‘Georgia Peach’ is a new and unique phrase. Watching the popular girls on the playground, they swoop their long hair. Mine is not long enough to swoop. When I practice, watching myself in the bathroom mirror I move my head in a half-circle of sorts, keeping my face forward. I will grow it longer so I can swoop my hair like Melissa Smart.

The one who does not swoop is Dotty. Short for Dorothy. She introduced herself to me on my first day of school. Her hair is bright blond and pixie short, her large blue eyes dance. Which matches her walk. The walk of a dancer, I think, as she glides down the hall, her long arms moving in rhythm to a tune only she can hear.

“Don’t listen to them. They’re just jealous.” She says when they tease me. Maybe they are jealous of Dotty with her cute blond hair and upturned nose. But with my brunette hair, gray eyes and southern-ness, I’m pretty sure they are not jealous of me.

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