Page 6 of Felonies are Forever

Dr. Stinson, DDS is the owner of the clinic where I’ve worked for going on three years. It’s a low cost, often free, dental care clinic. But don’t give him too much credit for that, he’s no philanthropist. He gets all kinds of donations from his high-end friends to run the place, and from what I’ve picked up, there are a lot of other ‘investments’ going on under the guise of his ‘charity.’

He looks at me, making me shiver with disgust. He’s been doing that more and more lately. Not just looking at me, but looking at me, in ways I can feel and they don’t feel good. “They’ll be here shortly. You don’t have any other plans tonight, do you, Cecelia?”

He knows I hate when he calls me that. I’ve asked him on numerous occasions to please not use my proper name. But I never should have said anything because now he does it as a way of showing me who’s boss.

And actually, yes, I do have other plans. Might not seem like much to anyone else, but I do have plans. Which I like very much, by the way.

Almost every Friday, I first zip into The Sweet Spot when I switch buses.

It’s a huge indulgence to buy two donuts for just under nine dollars, but oh my god are they worth it. And today, there is an extra added sprinkle on top because when I’d stopped by there earlier, there was this guy there and I caught about a two-second look at him, but I just can’t get him out of my head.

Totally unlike anything I’ve felt before. A jolt. Or a thud that hit me square in the chest with one quick look. I shook it off and practically ran down the street to get away, but a small part of me is hoping he’ll still be there.

Then next it’s back to my dinky little apartment above the little grocery on Ferguson Avenue. I had an amazing night planned, too. Two of my favorite authors have new bookscoming out and I’m an Advanced Reader, so they send them to me for free before release and I read and leave a review.

I won a Kindle in a contest on Facebook last year so I stepped up from buying used books in the bargain bin. I’d read all night every night if I could, but books cost money and I have to actually function at work every day. So my Friday nights are slated with book boyfriends and Sweet Spot gourmet donuts. And they are worth every penny.

One more glance at the clock and my shoulders fall. I’ve missed my regular bus and the next one isn’t until 7:20, so I guess my usual Friday night donut date is cancelled. The shop closes at seven and looks like I’ll be lucky to even make the 7:20 at this rate. I’m in my mid-twenties and staying home is more appealing to me than any bar or club. And, since Mrs. Takashima is the closest thing I have to a friend, going out clubbing is not in the cards.

Dr. Shit-son saunters off gloating that once again he’s won the battle to show me who runs the show around here.

I decide to be productive while I’m waiting, so I transcribe some documents while dreaming of working at the UN or somewhere I don’t have to feel like my hat is in my hand with every paycheck. I know I’m smart. I should be working somewhere better, but my name is half made up, I have no legal status to work here and honestly, I’m as happy as I am miserable.

Being no one suits me just fine. Except for moments like this when I realize just how much my existence depends on the mercy of Dr. Stinson and his willingness to look the other way when it comes to my less than adequate documentation. I managed to get a forged State Identification card so it’s barely enough to get me by. I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

The one upside to working here besides a steady—albeit meager income--is that I love working with the patients. I know what it’s like to feel disenfranchised. To be in pain and know you have no way to pay for treatment or help just because you did not come through the right channels to live here. I don’t make judgements either way; I’m just saying that humans are humans. When they are in pain, I’m just glad I’m here to help.

But staying after hours to tend to yet another of Dr. Stinson’s investors? That’s not my idea of a fun start to the weekend. I keep looking up at the clock, fighting with the urge to put my foot down and tell him I’m leaving. I almost do it too, but then the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle.

By the time I’ve tugged the headset off my ears, Dr. Stinson is right behind me, and I can’t help jumping half out of my seat.

“Jesus, fuck, you scared the holy crap out of me.” My heart is in my throat and I twist forward and away, trying to crane my neck to see what the hell he’s doing standing so damn close.

“Nasty mouth you’ve got there, sweetheart.” The top of his bald head is beaded with sweat. He’s not much taller than me but he’s nearly twice as wide. His lips are always wet and make me want to hand him a tissue to dry them off.

A sweet, sour whiff of Scotch hits me on his breath. His eyes are glazed and his nose rivals Rudolph’s.

I slap my hands down on the desk and roll my eyes back. “Oh you didn’t just call me ‘sweetheart.’” I’m all about keeping my job, but I’m not about dealing with this bullshit when I’m staying after hours to work and he’s been sitting in his office drinking. What the fuck? Anyway, the way he looks now I think I could call his mother a whore and he’d have forgotten by the morning.

Dr. Stinson opens his mouth to speak just as the lobby doorbell dings.

“Your investors are here.” I snap and lean away from him in my chair and cross my arms. He looks surprised, like he wasn’texpecting them, and makes no move to go see who it is. I guess the drink has addled his senses. “Fine, I’ll greet them, shall I?” The sarcasm drips from each word but Dr. Stinson barely acknowledges my snippy tone.

I’m happy to move away from him, truthfully. He reeks of alcohol and it reminds me of my father the night I left my parents’ house when I was eighteen and pregnant. The smell takes me back there and the wound is opened all over again.

How long since I’d stepped off the plane here? Almost eight years? I lose track to be honest. It’s hard to remember. But that day…I remember the day I left in vivid, Technicolor detail.

Philip, my brother, had been my touchstone in life. My protector. The one that understood me. Never judged me. We loved each other in spite of our loveless upbringing and the years that separated our births. He was more a father to me than my own.

That night, when I’d dropped the bomb of my pregnancy, Philip wasn’t there to protect me anymore because he was gunned down just a few days before. I remember the look of sheer horror in my mother’s already red-rimmed eyes and for a moment I wondered if I’d done the right thing. Piling yet more grief on her shoulders.

The sting of my father’s hand as it met my cheek was almost a relief. If he’d done it for the right reasons I would have understood. But there was no emotion in his dead eyes. There never was.

Not even in the days prior to when they returned my brother’s body to the family home. When he lay in our living room for two days as the masses of family and my father’s loyal business associates came to call and give their respects. The grief that struck me and my mother dumb seemed to roll off my father like just another business deal gone wrong.

When he’d smacked me, it wasn’t out of shame, anger, shock, grief, nor any other emotion; it was just to let me know who was boss. I deliberately chose that moment of pain to tell them I was pregnant. I heaped it on them because I wanted all the hurt to somehow bind us together.

As though a lifetime of a father to whom I held zero value would suddenly change when I told him I was knocked up. He smacked me because he knew I expected something from him. Some sort of connection, something that said he cared even if it was just to be ashamed instead of indifferent.

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