Page 92 of Only for the Week
I giggle. “What’s wrong with that? You ashamed to be a reader now?”
He grabs me by the waist and pulls me close. “You know I’m not ashamed of anything and damn sure not anything having to do with you. But I already know she and her friends are gonna be doing too much with their book club. It won’t be fun like ours is.”
“I would hope not.”
The troubled look on his face is so cute I can’t help but squeeze his cheek like I would a baby. He pretends to bite my finger and shoos me away. “Okay, fine. I hope you’re prepared to hear all about my parents’sex life and all her friends’ sex lives for two hours.”
I lean up to kiss the underside of his chin. “I can’t wait.” I slip out of his arms and rush out the door before he can grab me again.
As I’m driving to work, I ignore yet another call from my mother. She will not ruin my day. I can feel my shoulders growing tight, so I detour from my usual route to see Labor of Love. A smile kisses my lips as I watch the construction workers shuffling in and out of the building. It’s really happening. Every day, I get one step closer to my dream; it almost doesn’t feel real.
I sit and stare at the building for as long as possible before continuing to my shift at New Beginnings. I somehow ended up with a light schedule today, so I’m squeezing in interviews with potential office managers during breaks. A few interviews are by phone or Zoom, but a few people come in person.
After about ten interviews, I’m feeling weary and frustrated. I’ve been trying to fill this role for months without any luck. I have to get this right because this person will be my right hand. They’ll keep me organized. They’ll be someone the patients need to trust and lean on, so I can’t afford to hire the wrong person. The midwives, doulas, and other medical professionals I’ve hired are people I’ve seen in action over my years in the field. They’re people I already know and trust, but this person will be new to me. I’ll be relying solely on my instincts.
I finish with my last patient of the day and head into my office to meet with my last interview. Tamara Raywood stands when I walk into my office. Her Senegalese twists sit in a bun atop her head, and her forest green pantsuit is exceptionally stylish. If this goes well, I make a note to ask her where she got it from.
“Thank you for coming in, Tamara. I’m Janelle.”
Her handshake is firm, the kind pretentious white men would spend hours praising. “Nice to meet you, Janelle. Thank you for letting me come in.”
We start talking, and I admit this is the best interview I’ve had since I started recruiting for this role. Her answers are very succinct but not cold. There’s a brightness to her. She radiates kindness and easygoing confidence.
“Okay, so tell me, why Labor of Love? You have a lot of office management experience but never in a medical setting. Why do you want this role?” I hate asking that question. If I were asked this, I’d say,“Because I need a job. The fuck?,”but all of Tamara’s office management experience has been within the accounting space. I find myself curious about the industry switch.
She adjusts in her seat and scrunches her nose. “To be honest, I want this job for personal reasons.”
My interest is piqued even further. “Are you able to elaborate on that?”
“This is probably way too personal for a job interview, but I want you to understand where I’m coming from. I’ve witnessed too much preventable loss, and I’m sick of it. I lost my sister a few years ago. After she gave birth to my niece, she felt like something was wrong, but the doctors wouldn’t listen to her. They ignored her pleas for help, and she died from internal bleeding. So, now my niece will never experience what a wonderful person her mom was.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say, handing her a tissue.
She nods as she takes it, delicately wiping her nose. “One of my best friends from college lost her son during childbirth. She passed out and had to be rushed to the hospital when they told her her son was stillborn. They diagnosed her with something called HELLP syndrome, and she had to go through multiple surgeries for them to save her. And that’s not even the worst of it. The worst was that she discovered after coming home that she had preeclampsia and didn’t know because they never ran that test. It’s a routine test; they should’ve done it.”
She’s right. HELLP syndrome is a very rare pregnancy complication, but women with preeclampsia are at a higher risk of developing it. If they had properly diagnosed her with preeclampsia, they could’ve been better prepared for the potential of HELLP syndrome, and her son might not have died. Stories like this are why Labor of Love was so important to me in the first place.
I watch Tamara shove a whirlwind of emotions back down her throat before she continues. “I could go on and on about this, but my point is that when I saw that this place was being opened and saw what you were trying to do, I knew I had to be a part of it. I want to be a part of a safe space like this. I need to be.”
The sincerity in her eyes undoes me. She’s exactly who I’ve been looking for. I need someone by my side who matches my passion. Someone who cares about the people who walk through the doors. Someone who will stand by them, see them, and comfort them.
I reach over to touch her hand, aware that it’s not appropriate, but we’re beyond that now. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I don’t take it lightly at all.”
“You’re welcome, and I’m sorry to dump all of that on you. It was so unprofessional.” I hope the chuckle I give her is reassuring. “Do you have any more questions for me?”
“Just one. When can you start?”
“I swear to fucking…” I take a deep breath to cut off my sentence. It’s not a big deal, but after this hellish week dropping my damn purse on the ground as I go to get out of my car is about to be my thirteenth reason.
This week has been one disappointment after another. There was a setback in the Labor of Love renovations, I had two heartbreaking cases to help my patients through, and the red-tape insurance bullshit has been especially irritating this week.
I scoop my purse off the ground and notice Rome’s car in the driveway. That brings a small smile to my face, as we haven’t seen much of each other lately. We can’t get our calendars synced up to save our lives. Whenever Rome is home and available, I have a work emergency that forces me to stay until the early morning hours. When I’m home and available, Rome is tackling a crisis that requires him to go to the office. I haven’t even had a chance to unpack my boxes from moving in, and the date night we planned has been rescheduled so many times we’ve both given up.
Unlocking our door, I’m treated to a beautiful sight. There are fairy lights hung all around the living room, covering my many boxes. The couches have been moved, and a picnic has been set up on the floor using blankets and pillows. I can faintly hear a Coco Jones song playing in the background.
“Rome?” I call out to him.
He walks out of the kitchen with two glasses of wine, his smile bright and mysterious.
