Page 12 of Love and Other Lost Things

How did he still have the power to affect her like this? To fill her with this old longing?

Jane straightened her shoulders and turned to Mrs. Andino. “I won’t keep you standing here in the cold. But it’s lovely to see you. Truly.”

“Oh, you too, honey.” Mrs. Andino wrapped her in one more hug and hopped back into her car. “Stop by before you head back to California if you get the chance.”

Jane nodded, knowing she wouldn’t. She couldn’t afford to get mired in memories, in wishes, in words like love. Not after everything she’d done to get this far. And not when her survival—and her daughter’s—was on the line.

SIX

TEN YEARS AGO

Kait hadn’t been kidding when she’d warned Jane that Los Angeles was a hard city.

As Jane opened her motel room door and stepped into the dim hallway, she was immediately hit with a now-familiar cacophony of sounds: the cry of a baby down the hall, the raised voices of two people fighting, the electronic crashes of a video game, the low moans of the couple who always seemed to be having sex. Nobody in the building besides Jane seemed to mind that the walls of this rundown motel were paper-thin or that she was an unintentional observer of their constant chaos.

Jane coughed as pot smoke wafted out from under the video-gamer’s door and quickly hurried along so it wouldn’t seep into her department-store blouse and trousers.

When she had wandered in looking for a cheap place to stay, the woman at the front desk had offered her a long-term lease. “Twenty percent off,” she’d offered. But Jane had opted for day-to-day. She didn’t have the money to pay upfront, and she’d hoped to be able to move somewhere nicer once she found a job. But now Jane wasn’t sure if that was going to happen. Los Angeles was so much more expensive than she’d imagined, and she’d never had to think about things like rent or the cost of food before.

Two weeks had already gone by since Jane arrived in Kait’s SUV, and the only work she’d managed to find was a job standing on the edge of a strip mall holding up a sign advertising a car wash to people driving past on the main road. Mostly, it seemed like her role was to stand on the corner and put up with the constant catcalls from people zooming by. Nobody seemed interested in the car wash, a fact that increasingly angered the car wash owner when each day passed without any new customers.

Jane’s hands shook each evening as he handed over the paltry roll of bills he owed her for her work. The job paid cash under the table, and cash was something she desperately needed to pay for her never-silent motel room and the packets of ramen noodles from the minimart on her way home at night.

She’d gone on a handful of job interviews, mostly for entry-level office positions, but so far, nothing had panned out. There must have been hundreds of girls like her in LA, maybe even thousands. Girls who’d moved out to California in search of a better life and who were looking for something to pay the bills in the meantime. Jane had encountered them in insurance office elevators and law firm waiting rooms. Many of them had been cobbling jobs together for years, and most had far more impressive resumes than she did.

As Jane made her way down the motel hallway, past the room with the fighting couple and wailing baby, she winced as the voice of a man behind the door grew louder, more aggressive. The woman was crying along with the baby now. A tiny part of her considered calling 911, but Jane knew it would likely only make things worse, so she put her head down and kept moving.

Outside the motel, the clamor of her neighbors was replaced by the chaos of the busy four-lane road that cut through the center of the neighborhood. When Jane had imagined Los Angeles as a kid, she’d pictured palm trees and Malibu beaches and the Hollywood sign. She hadn’t been prepared for freeways and strip malls, gas stations, and seedy nightclubs with bouncers posted outside, who glared at her as she hurried home from work in the evenings.

Jane passed one of those clubs now, marked by an imposing black door in an otherwise nondescript warehouse building. At 9:15 a.m. there were no bouncers outside, and the neon sign with the name of the club had been switched off.

For the first time, however, Jane noticed a hand-written sign taped to the door.

Help Wanted: Server.

Jane paused on the sidewalk and eyed the sign. She’d never worked as a server in her life, and it seemed like a steep learning curve. To be honest, she’d never really had any kind of job in high school other than volunteering at the library and hosting the open mics at the Grassroots Café, because Dad had never allowed it. But it seemed easier to fake experience filing paperwork and answering a telephone than it did balancing cocktails on a tray and weaving through a crowd of drunk people.

Jane headed down the sidewalk, picking up her pace so she wouldn’t be late for her interview—a law firm this time. She found the building—a storefront in the far end of a strip mall situated between a dry cleaner and a Nepalese restaurant. Her stomach growled as the spicy scent wafted down the sidewalk, and Jane squeezed her eyes shut. Please God, let this job work out. She didn’t know how much longer she could live on microwave noodles. The waistband of her dress pants was already fitting looser than the last time she’d worn them to church in Linden Falls just a few weeks ago.

Jane paused in front of a sign in the storefront window that matched the one she’d seen on the bus stop a few blocks back. It depicted two middle-aged white men in suits helping a third, older and infirm white man limp toward a hospital bed. The tagline across the top read, Injured? We’ve got your back. And across the bottom, Morgan and Morgan, Attorneys at Law. Free consultations.

Jane pulled on the glass door, and it opened with a jingle. She stepped into a waiting area where a bored-looking receptionist barely glanced at her before she went back to typing.

Jane stepped up to the desk. “Hi, I’m Jane McCaffrey. I’m here for my nine-thirty interview for the administrative assistant position.”

The receptionist’s fingers continued to tap across the keys. “Have a seat.”

Jane sank down in one of the worn upholstered chairs lined up in front of the window and checked the clock on the opposite wall. 9:20. The receptionist kept typing. Jane took in the cheap office furniture, stained carpeting, and slight buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. This was not one of those high-powered law firms where she’d interviewed earlier that week. But it was a job, and maybe here the competition wouldn’t be as stiff. She sat back to wait.

The clock slowly ticked. Jane shifted in her seat, looking from the receptionist to the closed door behind her, and then back to the clock.

Her interview was scheduled for 9:30. Jane had been hoping that if she showed up early, they might have the interview over in time for her to get to the car wash for her scheduled 10 a.m. start, or maybe only a few minutes late. Or even better, maybe they’d offer her the job, and she wouldn’t have to worry about the car wash anymore.

The clock ticked again.

At 9:50, she was beginning to sweat. Finally, the door behind the receptionist opened and a man stepped out. Jane recognized him as one of the Mr. Morgans on the storefront and bus stops. Today, he wore a polyester polo shirt and a pair of wrinkled khakis. He looked younger in his photo standing next to the other Mr. Morgan. In person, his hair was thinning and his blond comb-over had streaks of gray.

The receptionist looked up. “Interview for you. Jane McCaffrey.”

---