Page 61 of The Surrogate Mother
“Abigail,” she says sharply. “Can I speak with you in my office?”
“Now?” I say.
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Yes, now.”
I wordlessly follow Denise down the hall to her office. Her heels click loudly on the floor, echoing through the relatively quiet room. I look around and notice everyone seems to be staring at us. What’s going on here?
“Please have a seat,” Denise tells me, gesturing at the chair in front of her desk.
I settle into the chair, my heart now pounding audibly in my chest. There is no way this is good news. She’s definitely not telling me I just got a promotion and a huge raise.
“As you know,” she begins, her ice-blue eyes on my face, “yesterday, we completed company-wide urine drug testing. I was informed this morning that your test came back positive for methamphetamines.”
My…what?
“That… that’s got to be some sort of mistake,” I gasp.
“Is it?” Denise arches an eyebrow at me. “Your behavior has been increasingly erratic in the last several months. I’ve been suspecting drugs were involved for some time now. This only confirmed my suspicions.”
I feel like someone punched me in the gut. How could there have beenmethin my urine? That’s not possible! I don’t take meth. I don’t even knowhowto take meth? Do you snort it? Smoke it? Chew it? Mix it in a blender with bananas and yogurt?
The only thing I’ve been taking is an occasional sleeping pill. But I haven’t had one in a week… and anyway, I’m pretty sure sleeping pills don’t have meth in them. It would defeat the purpose.
“I don’t take meth,” I manage. “This is a big mistake.”
Denise rolls her eyes. “Well, in any case, the laws in New York State allow us to dictate our own policy for positive drug screens, and Stewart has a zero-tolerance policy. So as of now, you are terminated.”
I’m… fired?
I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve never done drugs in my life. I’ve never even smoked a joint! I’m too square for any of that. I know there are rumors about businesspeople doing coke and then there’s that opioid epidemic, but Inever do any of that! Hell, I’ve never even smoked a cigarette.
“I swear to you,” I choke out, “I never… I mean, I would never… youknowme, Denise…”
“Do I?” The woman who hired me right out of college more than a decade ago raises an eyebrow. “I gave you an incredible opportunity, Abigail. I put my trust in you. You’re the one who chose to throw it all away.” For a moment, her voice breaks. “I’m very, very disappointed.”
I think back to the day when I got the call from Denise Holt herself, telling me I was her new assistant. As soon as I put down the phone, I started jumping around the room and shouting at the top of my lungs. She was my idol. And those first few years, she was so good to me—she taught me everything she knew. Not just about the advertising business, but about life. She listened when I admitted things were getting serious with my mathematician boyfriend.He sounds like a keeper, Abigail.She taught me how to dress, how to smile, and how to be confident.
I still remember standing in the ladies’ room with Denise, the two of us giggling like schoolgirls while I attempted to twist my hair into a chignon. I doubt many people besides me have seen that side of Denise Holt. I haven’t seen it in years.
“Please, Denise.” I’m ready to get down on my knees. “You have to believe me.”
When she raises her blue eyes, that twinge of emotion has disappeared. “I’m sorry, Abigail.”
I’ll have to go over Denise’s head. I’ll have to talk toherboss, and figure out if there’s anything I can do. But it can’t be now because a security guard has arrived to escort me out of the building. They don’t even let me go back to myoffice. The guard marches me right out to the elevators, in front of everyone. I can hear them whispering.
Everyone knows.
I realize at this moment that I can never return to Stewart Advertising. My reputation has been irreparably tarnished. And what sort of job will I land with this in my history?
As soon as I get out of the building, I hail a taxi back home even though I usually take the subway. I need a taxi. I don’t think I can keep from crying for the length of a train ride. As it is, I sob in the back seat the entire way home. The taxi driver doesn’t comment.
When I get back to the condo, I can hear the water running in the bathroom. Sam must still be home. Thank God. I need someone to talk to about this. He’ll know what to do.
He comes out of the bathroom, his hair still damp from the shower, his face smooth and smelling of aftershave. His eyes light up when he sees me. “Abby! What are you doing home?”
It takes him another half-second to notice the tears in my red, swollen eyes. He sprints across the room, his brow furrowed. “What’s going on? What happened?” Before I can answer, he says, “Is Monica okay?”
“IsMonicaokay?” I practically scream at him. “Is that the first thing you ask when you see me crying?”
