Faux Souvenir

Chapter 1

I have a lot of questions, most of them about murder. Murder. Coercion. Conspiracy. But this is not the time to ask. I plan to ask. This, right now, is part of that plan, and I need to stick to it. I do have questions, not that I haven’t done my own research. In my heart, I know I’m grasping for moral answers more than legal ones, but—

“Let’s go to… Summer… On line three. Hi, Summer. Why are you calling Legal Lou today?” His delivery is booming yet jovial, commanding but fun. I imagine some might describe it as fatherly.

Hunched over the edge of the couch, I squeeze the cell to my ear. I don’t dare move even a fraction of an inch for fear it will fuck with the connection. There’s not a single place in this entire goddam mountain town where the reception is reliable.

“Summer? Summer?”

I like his voice. I like the way he talks. It’s why I listen every week, but it’s different listening to him on the phone instead of the podcast, and now that I’m a part of it, my nerves are—

“Oh! That’s me! My name is Summer.” I jump and fight the impulse to pace. Phone calls and pacing go together like Lizzy Borden and an axe. After five years here, it’s still a tough urge to overcome.

“Let me guess. You’re a summer baby? Born July? August?”

“August.” An amusement creeps over me that takes me by surprise. This may be the most normal introduction I’ve ever had.

“Where you calling from, Summer?”

“Susantown.”

“Susantown! There are only three reasons someone lives in Susantown.”

I stiffen, but it’s not like I haven’t heard the joke before.

“You work at the prison, you have a loved one in the prison, or you are in prison. Is this a collect phone call?”

The query isn’t for me. I’ve listened to the show enough to know. I carefully cradle the cell between ear and shoulder and press my hands into my thighs. My fingers type “L-i-s-a” on my jeans and secure the cell again. I long for the days of landline phone cords, like the obligatory ones protagonists twist in taut film noire conversations. Coiling a cord would distract my hands, and maybe I could finish a call without the interruption.

“Board Operator Lisa is shaking her head, ‘No.’ OK, Summer, what legal issue can I help you solve today?”

“I have an employment law question.” I continue without much of a pause for fear Lou might bring up the prison again, “I work in property management. I’m a manager at a housing complex. I live in a studio apartment on site.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“About four months.”

I rub my feet against the crunchy, poorly shampooed carpet.

“Got it. OK, what’s your question, Summer?”

“I work thirty hours a week at minimum wage, but I also live on site.”

“You said that part already. Get to it.”

“Um, yeah.” I’ve practiced what I want to say, yet he still finds fault with it. I push forward. “The thing is, they charge me rent for the apartment—”

“I think I see where this is heading. Are you required to live there as part of your job? Or can you move and stop paying rent to your employer?”

It’s impressive that he tracks with me so effortlessly. Is he really this good, or is he reading the call screener’s notes? She pumped me for a lot of information prior to putting me on hold for him.

“I have to stay here, which I don’t mind. I like my own—”

“You say you don’t mind, but you don’t have a choice. Am I right about that?”

“Yes, that’s correct. And after they deduct the rent from my check, I only have about a hundred dollars left for the month.”

“There’s a maximum amount they’re allowed to subtract from your pay in our state. If you work thirty hours a week, even at minimum wage, you should have some money left over if they deduct the rent correctly. I hate it when companies take advantage of young, under-educated workers like this.”

The description stings.

“This is a big company, Summer?”

“It's fairly small, a family-owned business.”

“Oh, those are my favorite. You know, my daughter practices employment law. She says ‘family-owned’ is a euphemism for nepotism run wild.”

Nepotism. The word has a sweet, syrupy sound to it, and I think of Neapolitan ice cream, strawberry, chocolate, vanilla co-existing side by side in colorful ribbons of sugary magic, offering something for everyone. But I understand what nepotism really is. I learned that at my last job when the owner hired his nephew, who, after I demonstrated how to use the fry scoop to fill the cartons, proceeded to stuff hot fries into containers with his bare hands for the entire shift.

“You know how there are laws against marrying your sister because you’ll screw up the gene pool? How about a law to prevent you from hiring all your relatives so you don’t end up with the workplace equivalent of mutant children? I went off on a tangent here, and I haven’t solved Summer’s problem yet. Are you with me, Summer?”

I wonder if he always repeats the caller’s name this often. I never noticed before. Is it so I won’t forget the name? Most of the callers must give false names, everyone pretending to be someone else, leaving out the parts they want left behind.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Well, Summer, you have a tough decision to make. The good news is you have a case, but the reality is that you might lose your job if you sue because this is an at-will employment state. Even though there are retaliation laws to protect you, I guarantee they will use any excuse they can find to terminate you. Are you prepared for that?”

“I like my job. I’d like to be promoted. I don’t want to screw that up.”

My hands are fidgety again. With phone still in my right, my left one fondles each of the oversized Christmas ornaments displayed on the coffee table. The pad of my thumb presses on the pointed tip of the Eiffel Tower. It’s dulled from all the handling over the years yet sharp enough to make for an adequate diversion.

“If I were you, I’d talk to someone at the company, see if you can get this ironed out. If you can’t, and you do pursue legal action, there are genuine consequences you’ll face. It’s not fair, but it’s the truth. You with me, Summer?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it makes complete sense.”

“If I was in your shoes, I’d look for another job now. Get the hell outta there, and then file a suit. The more I think about this, the more I think you need to come up with a plan to move on. If these people don’t have a handle on something this simple, what other violations are they guilty of? It’s just a matter of time before the whole operation implodes. It’ll be like rats on a sinking ship. You follow?”

Rats. I shudder. “Yes.”

“What else can I do for you, Summer?”

My heart beats faster in my chest, and beads of sweat break out on my brow. My left hand, my free hand, taps my thigh. Index, middle, middle, index. R-d-e-r. R-d-e-r.

“That’s all,” I lie, my voice shaky.

I’m disconnected, and I know he’s prepping to move on to someone else. He’s likely still talking about me. There are always a few snarky words about the caller after the conversation has ended. I wish they had just put me back on hold and let me listen.

All in all, this was a successful practice call. I’m proud of myself. I stuck to my plan. I toss the phone to the far end of the couch, and my newly freed right index finger taps furiously. M-u. M-u. M-u.

Chapter 2

The room has a smell. It’s a subtle, musty staleness that reminds me of a mortuary chapel. I hope the odor doesn’t cling to my belongings. I’ve hauled in four of the eight cardboard boxes that were stuffed into my little car, and I’ve made quite the mess. I did try to straighten up, but the boxes have shrunken in size since I purged them of their contents.

My mother would have called such a sight a rat’s nest, not that she much minded that sort of thing. Personally, I don’t use that phrase. I can’t think of a rodent without being haunted by images of the foster home, and the memory is tough to shake.

But none of that matters because now I’m here in Burton, far away from all of it.

I try on everything I own, subjecting each garment to an impromptu fashion show in the pitted motel mirror, a feat that requires I stand on the bed to see down to my shoes. I should have chosen earlier. I waited until the last second, and of course, I can’t decide.

I act out hypothetical introductions and conversations and hardly sleep. My mind runs wild with the fantasy, caught up in the promise of a fresh start. It’s a welcome distraction, but I worry I’ll be tired.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Trestler,” I will say confidently, with just the right amount of eye contact.

“Aubrey speaks highly of you, and everyone here at Simens-Trestler is impressed with your work, Miss Lowe,” he will reply.

I climb out of bed at five and search for directions on my phone. I chose a motel in central Burton. Fifteen minutes to anywhere in town, the ad had boasted. But the route on my cell says twenty. Morning traffic, I assume. Life in a big city will take some getting used to. I scrutinize the map and reenter the address. What the hell is Bates?

I shower, dress, load the car, and wait until quarter to seven before I trek to the lobby.

“Good morning,” I say, maybe too loudly.

I’m overly confident in my pressed slacks and crisp shirt. With my navy blue slingback pumps, I tower over the woman sitting crisscross-applesauce on the chair behind the desk. Barefoot, she’s leaned in close to one of the two computer monitors in front of her, and while the volume is low, I can tell she’s watching a newscast.

The woman doesn’t pull herself away from the screen on her own, so I finally go ahead and ask.

“I’m on my way to an address in Burton, but when I check the directions, my phone says my destination is Bates. Can you help me figure out why that is?” I tilt my phone in case she wants to take a look.

“Bates is nice,” she says, almost as if talking herself into it.

“That’s great. Thanks. But can you tell me what it is? It’s not Burton? I’m relocating for a job promotion, and it’s in Burton.”

“What room are you in?”

I tell her, and she hesitantly pulls away from the reporter long enough to look at the second monitor and tap at the keyboard. She’s a fast typist, but my fingers are faster.

“Noelle Lowe?”

I nod.

“You were born at Christmas?” She perks up at the thought.

Even after twenty-four years, I bristle. She’s got a copy of my ID. My birthdate is probably right there on the screen in front of her. I consider going into my spiel about uneducated parents, the one where I replace illiterate with quirky for politeness’ sake. I’ll avoid telling her they put no thought into baby name selection, and even if they had, they never would have sussed out the complications of bestowing a Christmas name on an August baby.

This conversation has gone on for far too long.

“Mm-hmm.”

“You just got in yesterday? You’re new in town?” she asks. “Have you seen the news?” She points to her screen.

“Yes. I mean, yes, I am new in town. I’ve never been here before. But no, I haven’t seen the news.”

I stretch over the counter, tiptoed, thinking I might catch a glimpse of whatever event had transfixed her. Perhaps a plane crash? Some international act of terrorism? If that’s the case, wouldn’t I have seen it on my phone?

“A girl got murdered downtown last night.”

“Oh?”

Suddenly, I’m touched with the same affliction that struck my cardboard boxes. I shrink in size, and my feet return to the floor. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed. Truth is, my clothes and shoes are insignificant.

“Did you go downtown last night?”

The woman’s eyes widen, and I stare back.

“No,” I assure her, “I don’t know anything about it.” I continue, treading lightly, “Anyway, can you maybe tell me about Bates?”

“Listen…” The woman sighs and pushes her chair away from the desk. “I’m gonna be straight with you. Bates is a tiny little hicksville, hardly even a town. If you’re on the border, you get a Burton zip code, and if you have a Burton zip code, you tell everyone you’re in Burton. You can put Burton on your mail, and miraculously, it will get delivered. Mail doesn’t know the difference. New people, like yourself, don’t know the difference. But everybody around here knows.”

This revelation stuns me. Hadn’t everyone told me the corporate office was in Burton? Even Aubrey called it Burton.

Back in my room, my head spins as I scour my phone for facts about this new place. What is Bates? What it isn’t is a town with a board of tourism putting a positive slant on the situation. I find pictures of grassy fields and hay bales, barns and tractors.

I select a route that allows me to use surface streets, and the commute does lift my spirits some. Busy roads fill with taxi cabs, and important people scurry on sidewalks in expensive suits. Cars honk. Serpentine lines twist in front of coffee shops. Steam rises from metal grates in concrete. This is where I want to be. But my car is headed out of the city, toward… What did the girl at the front desk call it? Hicksville.

The traffic eases, and the lanes whittle down. Bates begins, and I am greeted by a dilapidated wooden placard as if the change in scenery hadn’t been enough to demarcate the separation between where I want to be and where I’m headed. It looks wrong. It feels off. But I can’t turn back.

Chapter 3

It’s too late to go back but still early enough for a detour. I pull over, adjust the navigation on my phone, and return to the road.

The final turn is paved but looks like something that shouldn’t be. I question my phone. I question my judgment. And then I lurch forward and reach the sign. There’s no mistaking it; I’m in the right place. I read the first line in silence, “North Pacific Vista Garden Tower.” The second line is smaller and, I must confess, baffling. I scan the two words over and over, but it doesn’t help. I employ a new strategy and read them aloud, “Senior Housing.” And then again, “Senior Housing.” And a final time, “Senior Housing.”

When I tear myself away from the sign long enough to examine the property itself, I learn the hard way that North Pacific Vista Garden Tower is nothing like the pictures on its minimalistic website, pictures that, I now realize, were mere stock photos.

Despite its name, the place is actually comprised of two separate buildings. The first, a one-story flat-roofed structure, is bland and boring, and though there is no signage, instinct tells me it’s the rental office.

I park in the mostly empty lot and stare at the ugly stuccoed exterior of the second structure, looking up and down the three stories that hardly qualify as a tower. The building’s surface is fissured and dirty, tan plaster streaked with grey. The windows are old and cheap. I imagine the place is draughty as hell. In one window, I see a cat asleep on a sill. It’s tough to make out, just a furry black blob pressed against the glass. I wonder what other feral animals have taken up residence.