Page 6 of Shifted

"I say it's bedtime?" Joely didn't argue as her eyes struggled to stay open. I pulled her into my arms as she rested her little head against my chest. Her breathing slowed as she drifted off. I walked with her up the stairs and down the hall, pushing open her door. I delicately placed her on her bed and yawned, "I can't believe you are up this late." The Mom guilt I felt was unreal; I should've been the one picking her up from daycare, not Bella. She should’ve been asleep hours ago, and I should’ve been at home tucking her in.

Moving around her bed, I tucked her pink duvet into the sides, and as I turned, I felt her tiny hand wrap around mine.

"Mummy, wait, frere Jacques?" she pleaded as she snuggled into her pillow. It was the nursery song I’d sung to her since the day I brought her home from the hospital. My grandmother, Mary Ellen, sang it to me a lot as a child, so singing it to Joely was sentimental in some ways.

"Okay, if you promise me, you’ll sleep." She nodded her head lightly. I climbed into the bed, holding her against my chest, and began, "Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques." I sang softly as she lulled to sleep, her eyes fluttered shut. "Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?" As I combed her soft brown hair, sleep had entirely overtaken her.

"Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines, ding dong ding, ding dong ding." Her body went limp to the sound of my voice, and I slowly slipped out from under her, placing a kiss on her forehead. "Good night, baby girl.” I knew tomorrow would be a longer day with her due to lack of sleep. I was frustrated that Bella didn’t put her down at 7 p.m. sharp, but I should’ve been the one doing so. I switched off her light and headed down the hall to my room.

Stripping me out of my clothes, I turned on the blazing hot shower that was much needed. I stepped onto the cold rock tiling between the glass walls as they slowly fogged from steam. The contrast between the cold floor and hot water sends my body weird signals as it adjusts. I washed away my sorrows. Guilt didn't come with my job; I saw my job as an act of service. I’ve been eliminating the bad guys to stop them from further harming others, and I've been doing this since I was twenty. I was sick of the injustice we lived in and the murderers and rapists roaming free on the streets.

But for two years, I stopped. Having Joely at the beginning of twenty-three was hard; being a single mom was hard. Having this job on top of that with law school didn’t feel like a strength but rather a weakness. But as time passed and I grew, I knew it was time to return. I needed to do it for my daughter, to ensure her safety and that of others.

I never saw myself as a killer, nor did I ever picture the job I found myself in. But the family trauma I grew up with trained me at a young age. But I try not to ponder it much because I got out and found family elsewhere.

The soap suds seeped into my skin as I squirted a gob of vanilla shampoo into the palm of my hand. I rub it across my scalp, letting it sink into my hair and cleansing the oil away. Reaching for the loofa, I removed the blood painted against my skin. My wrapped hand stung from the dampness of the water.

Showers were a sense of peace at the end of the night. The blistering hot water against my aching and bruised skin helped. I was also showering my guilt away from leaving Joely some nights. Though she's only three, she could never know the truth for as long as I live.

?

I swung the silver liquor bag in my arm, slowly watching it go back and forth as I walked towards the carved oak door. The number 67 in gold was stuck to the front of it. The doorman in the lobby had already told me enough about what I was in for with this new life that Bella would be living.

"Elegant bastards, am I right?" My eyes shifted to the tall, lean, dirty, blonde-haired man with the darkest blue eyes gazing into mine. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, and his jeans looked worn. "Can't believe they're making us wait?" I turned back around to him as he walked behind me. "You don't have words?" He questions, his arrogance conceded in his voice.

"I don't know if I should speak to them?” He fiddled with his black wool coat pocket, fishing out a cyan envelope.

"Bride or groom?" I raised a brow, confused, "Come on, your friends with one of them. It's an engagement party. By the looks of this building, we are about to walk into a society ball?" I couldn't help but laugh. It was some type of elegance, but not that type. It reminded me of my grandmother's old Andover apartment as a child.

"Come on, it’s not a society ball.” I mused as he looked as if I were unserious.

"There's a doorman and not a buzzer? Their door is a literal carving. Look at these hardwood floors." I looked down and couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe he had a point. “The rent here is upwards of five thousand a month, and those are for the lower levels.” I scanned the hallway again, admiring the attention to detail.

"Does my hallmark liquor bag make me seem cheap?" He shook his head.

"No, I saw the same one today while buying this card." I sucked in my lips, nodding; if only he knew that a six-hundred-dollar bottle of Dom Perignon was stored inside this three-dollar bag.

"So we are in the same pod, huh? The two rich friends get married and leave us out on the streets?" I chuckled, shaking my head.

"Well, I'm most certainly not out on the streets. Are you out on the streets?" I voiced with concern as he shook his head. The playful banter of this was almost too fun, and he seemed to notice details I simply didn’t pay any mind to. I grew up not wealthy and savored everything life has offered me. But I wouldn’t object to or disparage someone else's successes.

"Ah, so you're just jealous that your friend... the future groom, I suppose?" He nods, “that he is wealthy, and you're not, huh?" He scoffed, almost offended by my words. But I was stating the facts because no self-respecting man wouldn’t be happy for their friend for their successes, and Grayson is a great person on top of that.

"Absolutely not. I'm just in debt." I crossed my arms, nodding, pretending to agree, but obviously, I wasn’t convinced. His last words prompted my next question, and I wondered all the possible reasons why he could’ve landed in debt.

"You're in debt, huh?" I poked at him, and a smug look came across his face.

"I’m a first-year surgical resident at Mass General." That's what the smug look was for—it was an arrogant one.

"Are you waiting for me to be impressed and to just fawn over you with questions? To be besotted by you? The dreamy surgeon?" He looked surprised by my bluntness. But I wasn’t here to deal with arrogance.

"Well, maybe a little." I rolled my eyes as he leaned back against the wall. It made sense; he didn’t have time to press or wash his clothes, so he threw on whatever he could.

"You know the all-black look gives an angsty bad boy. You look like you’re in some teenage flick where everyone hates themselves beside you?” He scans himself and looks back at me.

"Unfortunately, I wasn’t cast in the breakfast club. If it helps, your linen trousers and the white top say, "I want people to take me seriously, but not seriously enough.” I bit off more than I could chew, and now I was simply annoyed, so I turned my attention back to the door.

"Why the hell are we still waiting?"

---