The Pink Slip

It wasn't right, she thought. It wasn't right that she gave it all. It wasn't right that she gave her years, her endless hours, her commitment, her all, as she stared down at the pink slip on her desk.

What was she but a cog in the corporate machine? What care had they for her overtime hours, not on the clock, or for missed dance recitals, t-ball games and soccer practices?

She put the picture of her children in the box. Janie was in Florida now, in her senior year in microbiology, walking in May. Kyle ran an espresso bar and internet cafe in Greenwood, CO, with twin boys and a wife who used some sort of rock crystal as deodorant, but was nice enough if you overlooked the smell. And Jeppson. Sweet Jeppson. Well, she visited his graveside on Sundays, trying to forgive the drunk teenager who hopped the curb and crushed the life out of her sweet boy.

She picked up her stapler, the one that had graced her desk, held together her accounting reports until the digitized system made printouts obsolete. She couldn't even remember the last time she had actually used it, or whether it could truly be considered company property anymore, or just a hunk of outdated technology.

Her hand hesitated, holding the stapler over the box, then put the stapler inside along with a mostly-used box of staples. She glanced around. The blinds needed to be dusted. Not much point in that now, but still, the urge for tidiness was hard to suppress. She sighed and walked to the janitor's closet for cleaning supplies.

Fridays. They always terminated employees on Friday. Less chance of workplace violence and employees acting out. In fact, high-risk employees were typically escorted out by security, Human Resources cleaned out their work spaces to secure company property and employee personal property was forwarded to the address on file along with confirmation of final pay deposit.

The office was quiet, most employees having opted to telecommute the last workday of the week, though log-ons and systems monitoring every three minutes ensured remote employees continued to get their work done.

She liked coming in, however. The quiet of her house with all the empty bedrooms, the picture frames reflecting times that she recalled fondly - it was too quiet now.

Her footsteps echoed on the polished granite, the gentle beeping of the keypad to the janitor's closet and the continual hum of the HVAC system the only noise in earshot.

How long ago that she felt complete, a mother, a wife, beloved and cherished. When her children came running to her for every bump and scrape, picked her bouquets of dandelions from the yard, their hands sticky and stained brownish from the drying milk, reading stories of fairies and trolls, knights and princesses to her rapt audience of wide-eyed babies. The days when George greeted her at the door with a kiss and tousled her hair playfully. It felt a lifetime ago.

The empty cubicles and flashing lights of terminals on standby accompanied her walk back, rags and industrial cleaner in hand.

George. That handsome and fun young man who swept into her life, matching her in intelligence and humor. She had resisted him a little at first, never imagining the power of his charisma. A couple of years of spirited debates, movies at the theater, and picnics on the lawn and she found herself in a ring and a veil.

George, the romantic.

She swept the rag down the length of the blinds.

George, the attentive husband.

The dust rolled off the blinds in little balls.

George, the loving father.

The rag wiped deliberately.

George, the man that was.

She pulled the blinds closed on the courtyard which was open to the sky. Where she had watched the trees grow from striplings, flower, shed their leaves, shed the snow, and bloom again instead of watching her children doing the same.

The box holding her belongings seemed pitifully small in comparison to the long years spent with this picture frame, this stapler, these walls. In exchange for numbers appearing regularly in her banking account.

The door clicked shut behind her with the thunk of finality. No security escort to stroll her out. Her fingerprint scan would be de-activated and she was as forgotten as though she never had been. A replaceable cog superseded by smart technology; a human component in an increasingly machine-driven android.

The route she had seen innumerable times flashed by the windows as her thoughts drifted through her recollections. Kyle's first place team in the local Little League division, team trophy nearly as tall as the boys who wielded it triumphantly. Janie's dance recital with the largest purple tutu a six-year-old could possibly manage to dance in, a china doll swathed in layers of tulle. Jeppson's first teetering steps to her waiting arms as adoring George cheered.

George pulling Janie and Kyle through the deep snowfall on a sled so fluorescent orange that it hurt her eyes while Jeppson tried to eat the snow and cried in shocked surprise at the coldness. Kyle's elated gap-toothed grin as he conquered riding his bicycle without training wheels, his glee at scaring his sister by hiding behind closed doors and in dark corners. Janie's straight-A report card and her beaming pride at yet another gold star from her teacher. Jeppson, her beautiful baby boy, gazing up from suckling her breast, enormous eyes framed by a fringe of downy lashes.

Her mind counted down the minutes to her destination, idly noting the "For Sale" signs posted in her neighborhood, the encroaching monolithic high-rise apartments complexes eating up all the available land and shading out the historic single family homes.

The front door needed to be painted, she noted, box against her hip where her babies used to nestle. The house was quiet, as usual. A dim, cold light shone under the door leading to the basement and she sighed, a sound full of both longing and regret.

The box went onto the kitchen counter, the study long ago having fallen to disuse and holding Christmas decorations and boxes of old photos that neither she nor George had the courage to sort through. Maybe once Janie had graduated they could fly her home and she could do it.

Perhaps they were best left in the boxes.

She pulled open the freezer, selecting a chicken pot pie and a lasagna, settling in at the table to await the oven timer.

They had enough to retire. George had gotten them a generous settlement against the teen drunk driver - or rather his parents. And she had contributed the max allowance on the days when there was such a thing as employer-matching contributions.They would be all right. But could she stand the quiet of this house day after day, the cold bed night after night?

She thought of that teen-aged boy sometimes, that boy's bad decision that changed all their lives. One day. One mistake. More lives than just Jeppson's permanently impacted. Of course, that boy was no longer a teenager. She wondered where he ended up. Involuntary manslaughter.

The ding of the oven brought her out of her reverie. Hot pads and two forks, balanced precariously, she turned the doorknob to the basement.

George didn't turn. His hand was slack holding the bottle, afghan slipping from his lap to pool around his feet. The steady glare of the screen in front of him served as the only illumination.

"I brought you dinner," she mumbled, trying to keep the indifference out of her voice.

He stirred, and the bottle slipped from his grasp to thud on the floor. They ate in silence, his heavy breathing disgusting her, yet she unwilling to leave. She retrieved the bottle, sour-smelling suds in the base. She gathered up the forks and set her foot to the stairs when George said something. She couldn't quite hear it, and half-turned.

"What?"

"I only left him for a second." His eyes looked up to find hers. "I swear, Mary, I only left him for a second. He was in the playpen. It was so hot in the sun, I just went for a lemonade. It was only for a second..."

Mary stepped off the stair, carefully, suddenly unsure of her footing. Her heart jumped and she felt a bit woozy, as though she had been the one drinking. George's head bowed, and she could feel the waves of his grief, see the gleam of his tears in the ambient light, but could not bring herself to go to him.

She looked past him through the open door. Kyle's room, left exactly the same, rows of trophies, stacks of comics, high school Letterman jacket still on the hanger. Just as Janie's room upstairs with her collection of  porcelain ballerinas, Jazz dance team photo with girls in sequins and heavily-rouged cheeks holding their first-place ribbons. And just the same as the door to the room beside their own. The door to the room they never opened. The door she had walked past all these years carrying the dagger in her heart. The reason that George slept in the basement - the door he could not pass, the pain he could not drown.

Trembling, she walked to the shell of the man who had been her husband, who had struggled with the same pain, and who had lost.

His voice quavered, "I had a call from Kyle today. He put the boys on the phone... Isaac and Micah, they called me Grampa."

Mary reached for his hand, as unsure as stroking a stranger's dog.

"I need help, Mary." His voice broke. "I want to be... Grandpa. I was too late for Jeppson, but I could be a grandpa to Isaac and Micah, if they'll let me. And I need you too, Mary."

His hands clasped hers with a new ferocity. "Will you help me?"

She felt a hot tear roll down her face, and before she even realized it was her own voice she answered. "Of course, George. Of course I will help you. It wasn't your fault! I love you and we will get through this too. I love you, George!" The words tumbled out of her and suddenly they were weeping, she holding him to her chest where she had comforted their children. Eventually his sobs faded, and she laid him down, pulling the afghan up and around his shoulders, kissing his forehead when he drifted to sleep.

She collected the forgotten dishes and tip-toed quietly upstairs. The box sat on the counter where she had left it. She took out the photo of her children, kissing it and running a finger over each of their bright faces, Janie looking askance at Kyle as he probably had poked her just before the flash, baby Jeppson pleased to be sitting upright by himself and looking right into the lens. She put the stapler beside the picture and carried the box down the hall. Heart hammering, she stood in front of the closed nursery door, at the knob she so often had failed to turn. She glanced into the now-empty box, steeled herself, and pushed open the door. The door creaked a bit as it swung open, and she kneeled down to place toys into the box.

It was going to be all right, she thought. It was finally going to be all right.