Read Online What Doesn't Kill You by Virginia DeBerry - Free Book Online Page A

week off.
    In any case, Amber didn’t need to know about my change in job status until I started looking for a new one.
    Actually, besides Gerald, nobody knew. I definitely hadn’t told my parents. They were all settled into their active adult community—I think that’s what the brochure called it. There was no point worrying them. I also didn’t need my mother talking about, “I knew from the beginning that woman wouldn’t treat you right.” Like Olivia died just to mess with me. And after twenty-five years, I was not convening a committee of friends to discuss what I should do and what so-and-so’s hairdresser’s daughter did when she got canned. I didn’t need advice and I was not collecting pity.
    The day the axe fell I called Gerald, and after I finished picking plant flakes out of my hair he took me to lunch. He didn’t say much, just that it was their loss. Like I didn’t know that already? But he listened to me rant, which is really all I needed. Whatelse could I expect him to do? It was kind of nice, seeing him in the afternoon. That didn’t happen too often. Afterwards I went home and pulled myself together for the surprise bridal shower Amber’s coworkers were throwing that evening, because those corporate monkeys were not about to stop our show.
    Anyway, I could feel Amber waiting for an answer, so I opened my eyes real slow and said, “I might ask you the same question,” to buy myself a few seconds to get my story straight. She presented exhibit A—her left hand. “Nail emergency.” I could see the broken tip on her index finger and I knew she could not tolerate any flaw on the newly banded hand. The child had been obsessed with her nails since she was eleven and asked for a manicure for her birthday. I thought it was cute and innocent enough considering some of the CDs she’d been asking for. Clearly, she was transformed by the experience, because the next thing I knew the girl was saving her allowance to get her nails done once a month. Since then I know she’s spent a fortune on tips, wraps and whatever else would strengthen the short, soft nails she obviously got from her father’s people.
    Amber put her hands on her hips, talking about, “I’m on lunch. Your turn.”
    I told her I was having a mental-health day. It wasn’t a lie—not exactly. Then she told me I deserved it, kissed me on top of my head, like she was the parent. I felt relieved—like when you were a kid and you got away with something. But I was so wound up I barely even remember the hand massage.
    Afterwards I met my fellow Markson outcast, Julie, for lunch, which wasn’t exactly relaxing either. She spent most of the time chugging Chardonnay and moaning about how hard it was going to be to find a job. Unlike her usual sunny self, Julie was sounding the alarm before the first flame, but I wasn’tgoing for it. She had hardly looked yet. Besides, I knew I was good at what I did. I would be an asset to anybody who hired me. Then Julie couldn’t believe I hadn’t applied for unemployment. So I didn’t tell her I hadn’t gone for my outplacement counseling session either. “After all those years and the way they treated us…” We had stopped using the M word. It was all “us” against “them” and Julie thought they should pay. “They owe us.” She had already gotten her first few checks and was looking forward to her twenty-six weeks of assistance—said it would keep her in wine, which was obvious, and out of trouble, which was not. Julie felt we were entitled, but I was not interested in taking a number and singing the blues in exchange for a handout. If I didn’t need one when Amber and I were first on our own, I surely didn’t need one now.
    But by days nineteen, twenty and twenty-seven I realized my little run-ins with Amber and Julie were the least of my