Book of Jo: When bad things happen to almost good people
Part 11: Accursed
Start with Part 1. Or read a quick, spoiler-free synopsis.
September 20, 2016
Tuesday, 6:00 pm
I am walking down a long, dark hallway. It is empty. Cavernous. Seemingly infinite. My breathing and my footsteps echo in my ears. I pass a series of plain, pale gray doors. I try each one, but they’re all locked. Eventually, I see a door marked with a bright red hand print. I try it, and it opens.
The room is lit by one sickly bulb hung from the ceiling. There’s a bed in the center of the room. Someone is lying on it, covered by a white sheet. I approach the bed and pull the sheet away. I grip the fabric in my hands. It feels warm and flexible. Organic. Then somehow, I know. It’s skin. I let it drop to the floor and look down at my hands. They’re covered in blood.
The person on the bed is my mother. Her body. There are bloodstains on her cheeks and around her mouth. I want to wipe them off. She hated lipstick. Tears blur my vision. There’s something I need to say, but I can’t think of the words. I hear sirens in the distance. They’re getting louder. My hands start to shake. I still can’t remember what I’ve come to tell her. The sirens won’t stop. I scream and my throat feels tight.
My eyes pop open as I gasp for air. I’m alive and, apparently, awake.
I look around, tired and disoriented. The room is dim. I’m lying in bed in the same wrinkled clothes I’ve been wearing since yesterday morning. My mouth tastes like metal and my head aches. I flash back to snapshots from my nightmare. The dark corridor. The sterile hospital room. My bloody hands. I quickly scan my hands. I’m relieved that they’re clean. For a moment, it seems like my mother didn’t really die, that I imagined the whole thing.
I glance at the clock. It’s 6:00 pm. Shit. I missed my meeting with Western Bank, and no one at the office knows where I am.
I grab my iPhone from the night table and see a frighteningly long list of new texts, emails and voice mails. I can’t believe I didn’t hear any of the notifications. I’ve always been a light sleeper. Then I notice the little icon for airplane mode. Double shit. I must have shut down all the alerts at the hospital last night and then forgotten to turn them back on.
I need to notify at least one of my colleagues, let someone know what’s going on. The idea of recounting my mother’s death makes me feel vaguely nauseated, but it must be done. I decide call Margo, the head of human resources. She probably has experience with this sort of thing.
She picks up after just one ring.
“Margo Han here.”
“Margo, it’s me, Joanna.”
“Oh, thank God. We were so worried about you. Is everything OK?”
“No, I’m afraid everything’s not OK,” I pause and try to get myself under control. “My mother died last night. It was very sudden. We were at the hospital until early this morning.”
“I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Well, I’m afraid I missed a call with Richard Spokes, the head of communications at Western Bank.”
Margo interrupts me. “Oh, no. Don’t worry about that right now. It’s…nothing. Just focus on your family.” I immediately start to worry. The pause between “it’s” and “nothing” hints at something not-so-good. If the company weren’t doing so well, I’d suspect layoffs.
“Margo, tell me.”
“Western Bank is reviewing their relationship with us. They’re auditing all the projects we worked on for the past three years.”
“Because Whitney died?”
“Well…” Again, Margo pauses.
“Yes?”
“There are some financial irregularities. Serious irregularities.”
“But we bill hourly for services. It’s the world’s oldest business model. What, exactly, is irregular?” My voice is loud and shrill. I realize I am again on the edge of tears.
“Calm down,” says Margo. “Right now, the best thing we can do is to let the lawyers and accountants do their thing.”
I want to rush to the office and attack the problem. Drink black coffee. Pore over the numbers. Stay up all night. But I know Margo’s right. I know next to nothing about our finance aside from the timesheets I collect from my associates.
“Yeah,” I say, dazed by the past twenty four hours. Yesterday, I was a newly promoted executive at the fastest growing PR firm in the Bay Area. I had a living, breathing mother. Today, I’m just another thirty-something woman teetering on the edge of unemployment. One who’ll never have to buy another Mother’s Day gift again. Instead of crying, I surprise myself with a giggle, which I cover with a strangled cough.
“Oh, you poor thing. Look, Dan and Willa are handling the audit. We’ve sent most of the associates home. And your assistant, too. Why don’t you take the rest of the week off, and check in on Monday? We’ll call if we need you.”
“Alright,” I say, trying not to give in to hysteria.
“Take care of yourself,” says Margo. “You really shouldn’t be stressed right now. Not in your condition.”
Oh yes, the baby. Can’t forget the baby, that green, fragile shoot of hope.
“Thanks, Margo,” I say, putting down the phone.
I collapse back onto the bed. I know I should look in on Ashley, Jenna, and my father. Confirm that my mother’s body has arrived at the Restful Arms Funeral Home and Crematorium. But all I want to do is sleep. I close my eyes and try to think of nothing at all. I’m just drifting off, when someone rings the front buzzer. I squeeze my eyes even tighter together, and will whoever is outside to go away. It doesn’t work. My visitor is persistent.
I get up with a groan and head downstairs. Cedar is standing outside, leaning on the buzzer and holding a giant floral arrangement. For a moment, I’m confused. I’m sure I haven’t told any of my friends about my mother. There just hasn’t been any time.
“Hey, Cedar,” I say, opening the door.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I bought you flowers and then I realized it’s such a total cliche,” she says, breathless. She places the flowers on the marble floor and throws her arms around me.
“No, they’re very nice,” I say. “Gardenias?” She nods. “Mom would have loved them.”
Upstairs, we find Jenna in the kitchen, trying to coax my father into drinking a nutritious vegan protein shake.
Cedar hugs Jenna, and they spend a few moments complimenting each other’s Facebook postings. Oh, so that’s how Cedar knows about my mother. I’m surprised that Jenna doesn’t seem to know that I’m pregnant. She probably missed Cedar’s post. Like it or not, I’m going to have to tell her.
“So how did you two become Facebook friends?” I ask.
“Remember when Jenna came with us on the training run for the Nike Marathon?”
“Yes,” I say, not remembering at all. I’ve been on so many training runs that they all sort of meld together in my mind unless something spectacular happened, like a downpour or a serious injury.
“We had so much fun chatting, I friended her the next day,” says Cedar. “That was around the time I went vegetarian.”
“Oh, so that’s how you knew about Mom. I guess it’s all over Facebook?”
“It’s not like Mom’s death is some deep, dark shameful secret,” says Jenna, frowning. “I’ve been posting about my feelings. About what a shock it’s been and how much I miss her.”
“Don’t worry about it. If you hadn’t posted, Cedar wouldn’t be here right now,” I say, terrified that the conversation will come around to my pregnancy. I know I should just tell Jenna now, and make a joke about how I accidentally announced it to a room full of people. Instead, I say nothing and stare at the wall.
We sit quietly for a moment, then Jenna starts slicing oranges and bananas to make fruit smoothies. My father stares down at the table, his head gently swaying. His hands shake with a light tremor. I make a mental note to ask his doctor how many meds he’s on.
Jenna brings the smoothies to the table. They taste fresh, clean, and completely free of exploitation. My father finally takes a tentative sips of his protein shake. His hands tremble even more with the effort of lifting the glass.
“Here,” I say, “let me help.”
When I reach out to steady the cup, my father flinches away and drops his glass. It shatters and covers the floor in shards of glass and nutrient-dense mush. I am thankful my father is wearing house slippers. But he’s unsteady on his feet, and I instinctively extend my arm. He pushes me away, and I fall into the mess on the floor. I look at my father. His eyes are wild with fear.
“No,” he yells, pointing at me. “Not her! She’s accursed!”
I stay on the floor, bleeding from my hand, until Jenna and Cedar lead my father away.
Book of Jo is a homeless novella that is going to crash on Medium for a few months. I will release new parts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, until the whole story has been posted. Enjoy!
Read Part 1.
Read Part 2.
Read Parts 3 & 4.
Read Parts 5 & 6.
Read Parts 7 & 8.
Read Parts 9 & 10.
Read Parts 12 & 13.
Read Parts 14 & 15.
Read Parts 16 & 17.
Read Parts 18 & 19.
Read Parts 20 & 21.
Read Parts 22 & 23.
Read Parts 24 & 25.
