Digging a Hole by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
“Henry!” bellows Elle, stepping inside with a plate of food. “Stop squeezing the life out of Georgie. She’s turning blue.”
He chuckles and lets go. “Like you this morning? So much blue. Or was that green?” he says to Elle.
“Hey!” she barks. “You weren’t supposed to spill the baby beans until after dessert.”
My jaw drops. “I’m going to be an auntie! I knew it.” And I seriously feel like the news couldn’t come at a better time. We all need something positive and wonderful to focus on. A baby will breathe new life into this family. A fresh start for all of us.
CHAPTER SIX
It’s Monday morning, my first day at work, as I’m tapping my freshly manicured fingernails on my desk just outside Nick Brooks’s office. I have a company laptop, cell, and a temporary employee badge, which I bullshitted out of the hungover security guard at the front desk. If HR asks about my paperwork, I’ve got a complete list of excuses—already submitted it online this morning. Check with IT. Oh, yeah. I made a mistake on the form and need to correct it. I’ll bring it by later this week. Honestly, I’m guessing I can make it three months before anyone catches on that I’ve yet to submit one piece of paperwork, provide my Social Security number, or have been paid; however, by my estimates, I only need a few weeks to show Henry, Michelle, and Claire that I can work just as hard as they can in a real company.
And what do I need to prove it? A glowing endorsement from Mr. Brooks.
If only he’d show up. I glance at my cell and note the time. 10:31 a.m. And all I’ve done is get him six coffees, which he hasn’t drunk because he hasn’t been to his office. But I found out from one of the sales assistants that he takes his coffee black, and I want to make a good impression. So every thirty minutes since I arrived, I’ve changed his cup, just hoping he’ll come in and see how well I’ve attended to his needs.
Come on. Come on. I glance down the hallway for the hundredth time, hoping to hell that he’ll step out of the elevator instead of a steady stream of my new coworkers, though they’ve been more than welcoming.
Jim, assistant sales manager for the West Coast, is only in town for the day, but very nice. I met Sarah, the data analyst for Brooks’s team, who only crunches numbers for his direct reports because Brooks doesn’t trust anyone to do the master forecast or sales roll-up. There were six other people who came by to say hi—I can’t remember their names—but for the most part, everyone I’ve met this morning was helpful and pleasant. Oh, and they all chuckled as they wished me luck with Brooks. Needless to say, it’s put me on edge, and I am two breaths away from passing out, running for the door, or finding a potted plant to hide behind until the building is empty.
The elevator down the hall chimes, and I lean forward over my desk for a clearer view. A woman steps out.
Dammit. I drop my head into my palms and groan. “I’m in hell and the devil’s missing.”
“Nope. He’s right here, coming from the stairwell after an all-morning meeting upstairs,” says a deep, deep voice a few feet away.
I jerk up my head and find Mr. Brooks in a black suit and tie, staring down at me. For a brief moment, he seems almost pleased to see me—a subtle hunger in his light gray eyes. And the pleasant roll in my stomach almost makes me forget how horribly he treated me during the interview. Almost.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
His demeanor instantly shifts to something foul and acerbic. “Go get me some coffee, and don’t let me hear talking again—not unless I ask you to speak.”
My mouth sort of falls open. What the hell is this man’s problem?
He disappears into his office, and it takes everything I have not to say something to him about women’s rights. Or people’s rights. The age of kings and serfdoms is long gone.
“Sonofabitch,” I mutter to the coffee maker in the small break room on our floor. He’d better shit golden eggs.
I turn and head for his office, just one pucker away from spitting in his cup. When I get to his door, I hear him speaking quietly. “Yes. Yes, everything’s on schedule. Just get off my back and let me do my job.”
Strange. I wonder what that’s about.
I knock loudly. “I h-have c-coffee.” Goddammit! Why can’t I speak like a normal person?
“Yes. Figures in by two o’clock. And don’t be late,” he bellows to whoever’s on the phone.
I step inside with my java offering. “Your second cup, sir?” I say, barely able to speak above a whisper.
“I don’t recall getting a first. And is there something the matter with your voice?”
“No-no.”
“Then why are you whispering?”
Use your big-girl voice, Georgie. Come on. Instead I shrug and point like a moron to the window behind him at his first cup of coffee. “I tho-thought the sunlight would keep it warm.”
He glances at the windowsill. “How the hell am I supposed to see it over there? Coffee goes on my desk.”
I nod, set his cup down, and take two steps back like a timid little rabbit. I completely hate myself right now.
“And while we’re talking protocols,” he says, “I’d appreciate it if you wore something suitable to work. You represent me, and the last time I checked, I didn’t shop in a dumpster.”
Mortified, I look down at my clothes. I’m wearing a straight black skirt, brand new from Nordstrom. Claire never even wore it. My pink blouse has rhinestone buttons and a sash-style belt. It’s cute and professional. At least by my standards.
I seriously can’t believe the jerk just wardrobe shamed me. I want to say something like, “Back off, Miranda!” But instead, out comes the word yes. Followed by my gaze falling to my feet in the classic submissive move. Lift your eyes, you dipshit! But my body doesn’t obey.
“What was that?” He snarls with his silvery eyes. “I can’t even hear you.”
“I sa-said yes.”
He looks at me, disgust written all over his full lips, which I know aren’t used for loving or kissing. They’re weapons of evil. “You’re not brain damaged, are you?”
What an asshole! Yet I say nothing because I literally can’t. My heart feels like it’s going to implode with anger. My head is spinning.
“Oh, wonderful. I hired a mute idiot.” He points toward the door. “Leave. I’ll call if I need to be silently annoyed.”
You’re a complete fucker. I hope you’re hit by a bus. I turn and head outside, closing the door behind me. I’m furious. And the sad part is that I’m more upset at myself for saying nothing.
I suddenly feel the tears welling in my eyes. I can’t let him see me cry. Ohgod. No.
I speed walk to the ladies’ room just next to the elevators, lock myself in a stall, and begin to bawl. That man is a monster. If it’s the last thing I do, I will stand up to him.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to greet you on your first day,” Abi says as I’m driving home in my black BMW Alpina. I’m not one for fancy cars, but my father never really gave me a choice. Maybe it’s time to change that.
“Where were you? I seriously could’ve used a friend today.”
“At some boring emergency off-site thing for Rebecca, but how’d it go?”
“My first day was magical,” I tell her. “I learned where the coffee machine is. Oh, and the bathroom, where I spent most of the day crying.”
“Oh no. What happened?”
“He basically called me stupid and told me I dress like a bag lady.” I still can’t believe it. “He’s worse than my father.”
“What? Seriously? Oh, Georgie, I’m so sorry.”
“Why? I knew what I was getting into.” Okay. Not really, but why make her feel bad? I came here willingly.
“Yeah, but I figured he just had a lot of man-tantrums and stole the credit for other people’s work—your usual bad-boss moves. But if he really called you stupid, you can’t let him get away with that.” She sighs. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“H
“Well, I’m going to see HR in the morning. He can’t do that to my best friend.”
“No,” I protest. “I can’t have them getting involved. In fact, the longer they go without knowing I exist, the better.”
“But you can’t just suck it up, Georgie.”
“I won’t. I’ll stand my ground and slay the dragon—just like you said.” But first, I’m going home, putting on my favorite red PJs, and burying my face in my teddy bear to muffle the sound of my hysterical sobs so my mother doesn’t hear. Teddy and I go way, waaay back.
I hear Abi grumble on the other end of the line, and I know it’s because she didn’t anticipate this and feels like it’s all her fault.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I mean it.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to quit?”
“I can’t. Not after he treated me like that.” If I walk away without standing up to him, I won’t ever respect myself.
“Okay. Whatever you say, but I’m coming by for lunch tomorrow, and if he says one mean word, I can’t guarantee I won’t lose my shit.”
She’s a good friend. Really. But she needs her job, and I won’t have her losing it on my account. “Better we meet down in the lobby. And if I’m not there around noon, I’ll be in the women’s bathroom crying again.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Approximately Four Months Ago.
Michelle and I have been locked in a cement hut for over a week now. No sign of my mother or Claire. The only thing we know is that we are near the ocean, either some remote beach or on an island. Oh, and apparently, the people here do not wear clothes, but that’s not the worst of it.
Once a day, two women and an armed man visit us in their birthday suits to deliver fresh water and basic foods: mangos, bananas, and dry fish.
Wait. It’s weirder.
In order to get the food, we are forced to do thirty minutes of yoga poses on the dirt floor.
“Your mind cannot be healthy if your body is not sound,” the man said on our first day.
“Fuck you,” Michelle had replied back. “I’m not the one holding people against their will and letting her junk hang out. By the way, have any of you ever heard of a razor? Because those tumbleweeds on your crotches are just nasty.”
“No yoga. No food,” the man had growled.
Ever since then, it’s been a battle of wills, which always ends with us doing the sun salute or some fucked-up tree pose. Clothed, of course. And when we ask what’s happened to the rest of our family, they simply smile and bow their heads. “Namaste.”
“I swear,” says Michelle after having just completed today’s round of fitness torture, “if we ever get out of here, I’m doing everything in my power to make yoga illegal.”
“But did you see the abs on that woman?” I say. “She must live off nothing but tofu.”
“I’d like to choke her with it. I mean, what the hell do they think will come of helping Dad with his insane plot?”
Poor Michelle. I know she misses her husband, Chukwuemeka. She met him while on a business trip to Nigeria, and they haven’t been apart since. It’s sweet, really. I just know I’ll never have that kind of love with a man. Every guy I’ve ever met wants to take care of me, which I hate, so that means I’ll be single forever. Especially if we don’t get off this island.
“I just wish I knew why Dad was doing this,” I say.
“You heard Mom on the plane. He’s finally lost it.”
“But he didn’t show any signs of insanity leading up to this.” Quite the opposite. He was calm and cool during the crash, like everything was playing out according to plan.
“No signs?” Michelle scoffs. “For the last two years, he’s been doing naked yoga in his office at 11:00 a.m.”
“True. But what if it’s all part of a plan?” My father is cold and calculating. He’s always thinking one hundred steps ahead.
“Doubtful. And it doesn’t change the facts: We’re locked in here, and he almost killed Claire, not to mention us. I don’t care what motives he has; the man has a screw loose.”
“Agreed.” But while Michelle has been spending her time stewing these past few days, I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open. I know the ocean is directly to the west because I can hear the waves when the wind blows just right. I can see the sun rising in the morning through a narrow crack in the cement wall. I know that we can’t possibly be far from the mainland US because we were flying east out of Houston for four hours. I know because I had the window shade up the entire flight, and had we been traveling south, I would have had to close it since the sun would have been west and shining right on my laptop screen. Plus, my dad is no fool. He knows like I do that entering into another country’s airspace, say Mexico or Cuba—the only countries within a four-hour reach from Houston—would require us to file additional paperwork and another flight plan. No, he wanted to keep it simple and make it look like we vanished into thin air.
We’re in the Florida Keys or on a private island nearby. That’s my guess, anyway. And if I’m right, it won’t be too hard for us to get away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Present Day.
It’s day two working for the Antichrist, and I’ve spent the entire morning mentally preparing my speech, which will set the ground rules: “Mr. Brooks, first, I want you to know how excited I am to work for you because I’ve heard you’re a genius and I am here to learn. Second, I’m willing to work hard and stay late doing whatever you need of me, and you won’t hear me complain about it either. Third, but most important, you need to know that I will not tolerate being spoken to like a piece of dirt. You are not to comment on my clothes, my body or looks, or on my intelligence. It’s hurtful and wrong.” I’m banking on the fact that he has a soul hidden somewhere deep inside and can’t really feel good about being such a dick to people. Plus, there were the looks he gave me. Was I wrong when I sensed something between us?
More like crazy or delusional. I could never have a connection with a man like him. He’s horrible, and I’m going to tell him so.
Sitting at my desk, I get out my compact to give myself a little nonverbal encouragement. You got this, girl!
“I know you’re not sitting there doing your makeup like a tenth grader,” says that voice I’ve come to loathe in world-record time.
Oh no. Brooks. Obviously, he thinks he’s caught me primping like some vain airhead. I drop my compact and feel my body tighten up in some weird flight-or-fight response reserved for life-or-death danger.
No. No. I can do this. I can set him straight. I lift my chin to tell him that we must talk. Immediately. In his office. I can even hear my voice inside my head saying the words with a tone that’s “all business, buster!” But when I open my mouth, the self-esteem-gobbling gremlin reaches in and snatches away my words. Holy shit balls! Really?
Brooks stares down at me with those soulless pale eyes, his silky dark brows knitted together. “You know, Gail, I planned on firing you first thing this morning. I figured, what’s a guy like me going to do with a dumpster in a skirt who can’t even speak.” He leans down, placing us almost nose to nose. “But you know what?” he whispers, the disdain in his voice oozing from every syllable. “I think I’m going to keep you around.”
“Wha-why?” He clearly hates me, though I’m unsure what I did to deserve it.
He stares for a long moment and suddenly licks his lips. And screw me, but the way he’s looking at me doesn’t feel like hate anymore.
He jerks upright and straightens his tie. “Because it’s actually therapeutic to tell you how pathetic you are. You’re so unnoticeable that I can look at your face and imagine any loser who’s managed to piss me off. Now get me some coffee, Gail. And then book me a flight to New York for tomorrow morning. I’ll return next Wednesday evening.”
What the fuck is the matter with this guy
I lift my chin and rise from my desk, certain that this is the moment. My moment. But when I notice him waiting expectantly, like he’s itching for me to wow him with a bit of claws and teeth, I buckle.
“What’s that?” He bends down, cupping his hand to his hear. “Couldn’t hear you, dumpster girl.”
Oh no. Oh no. Don’t, Georgie. Please…But my plea falls on my own deaf ears. Before I know it, this evil, deceivingly beautiful man is witnessing a warm tear trickle down my cheek.
He shakes his head. “Goddamn, you’re pitiful. Let’s do us both a favor, sweetheart. You stay home where you belong, crying to your mamma, who I’m sure is just as delightfully trashy-looking as you, and I’ll forget I ever hired you.” He turns and heads into his office. “Don’t forget to book my flight before you go.” He slams the door, and I run to the ladies’ room to sob.
“Sydney? You in here?” Right around noon, Abi’s voice is outside the stall where I’ve been sitting for the last hour contemplating the nature of my failure. I’m furious at myself. Furious! But of course, that only leads to more tears.
I sniffle in response.
“Oh, honey…” Her voice is sadder than I’ve ever heard, and I know what she’s thinking. She wants to save me. She wants to protect me from that epic dickhead, but she can’t. Even if she could, it’s not what I want. Imagine that your biggest dream in the universe is to play Rachmaninoff on the piano and to play it to perfection. Standing ovation. Packed music hall. Now imagine your best friend pats you on the back and tells you to stand beside her while she plays for you because you can’t figure out how to do it on your own. That’s not a dream fulfilled. It’s a dream that’s fizzled in the worst way possible.