Page 31 of Finally Mine
I think “poor little Gloria Parker” bothers me because that’s how I see me. And I don’t know how to see me without someone else in the picture…
Work is good. Hard. Terrifying. I don’t want to disappoint anyone. I’m still half convinced I’ll fail. My friend told me to talk to myself like I’m my own best friend. Which is ironic, considering I started talking to myself for company years ago. But I didn’t realize Glenn’s voice in my head is me, too. That I can change those words.
I can change that voice. When I remember. When I can take a step back and remember that it’s not the truth whispering around my brain.
I guess what I’m saying is I’m still lost. Still scared most of the time. Still lonely. I don’t know how to be a part of anything. Aldo’s gone, and I worry about him. National Guard. Afghanistan. Bad things happen to soldiers every day. I know we’re not together, and I know I can’t hang my happily ever after on him, but can I handle it if something happens to him? Can I handle anything? Everyone’s working really hard to build this safe, happy bubble for me. My mom, Harper, Della.
But I can’t help but wonder if I can survive without the bubble.
So that’s where I am. Grumpy, confused bubble girl.
16
The two dozen white lilies seemed funeral-ish to Gloria, but that’s exactly what Mrs. Nickelbee ordered for her fancy annual sorority reunion tea and pastry party centerpiece. Claire Garrison had done a lovely job making the arrangement pretty and fun with twists of greenery and baby’s breath. But as a whole, it still said RIP to Gloria’s thinking.
The customer in question bustled through the front door, chatting animatedly on her phone, her synthetic auburn wig clinging lifelessly to her shoulders. Cursed with low thyroid numbers, she had a different snazzy wig for every day of the week. Some were better than others.
“OfcourseI’m making mojitos,” she said in a huff.
A lifetime ago, Mrs. Nickelbee had taught Gloria’s Sunday school class. But it was likely she had no recollection of Gloria as she’d faded from existence, a shadow of her former self.
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes widened when she spotted Gloria behind the register. “I have to call you back, Flo.” Unceremoniously, she disconnected and dumped the phone in her purse. “Hello there, Gloria!”
Okay, maybe Mrs. Nickelbeedidremember her. Perhaps it had been her stirring performance as donkey number two one Christmas Eve?
Mrs. Nickelbee cocked her head. “Howareyou, dear?” she asked, her tone dripping with sympathy.
Or perhaps it was that everyone in all of Benevolence knew that Gloria had spent the last decade getting knocked around.
Gloria forced a cheery smile. “I’m just fine, Mrs. Nickelbee. Aren’t your flowers lovely?” She slid the vase closer and stuffed her hands in the pockets of her bright green apron.
“Ofcoursethey are,” Mrs. Nickelbee crooned. She whipped out her husband’s credit card with long-practiced skill. Mrs. Nickelbee had never had a job in her life either. She claimed running a childless, petless household with a part-time housekeeper was work enough. Mr. Nickelbee either enjoyed having his wife home or was too terrified to voice his opinion. Either way, he spent his free time “yes, dearing” her.
“I hope you know we’re all rooting for you.” Mrs. Nickelbee beamed at her. “It’s never too late to turn things around.”
“Thank you,” Gloria said, feeling both humbled and humiliated. She swiped the card forcefully.
“Have you heard from that unfortunate Glenn since his arrest?” Mrs. Nickelbee prodded.
Gossip was a second language in Benevolence, and everyone spoke it fluently. With shaking hands, Gloria tucked a shallow cardboard box under the vase for Mrs. Nickelbee’s short drive home and wondered if she could sink behind the counter and lay on the floor until the woman left.
“Mrs. Nickelbee! I hope you like your lilies!” Claire, angel disguised as a part-time floral designer, appeared at Gloria’s elbow. “Are you using your ivory tablecloth?”
Gloria took the opportunity to duck into the back room, her cheeks warm with shame.
Of course, it wasn’t any protection from Mrs. Nickelbee’s stage whisper. “I think it’s lovely what Della did, giving poor little Gloria Parker a job.”
The stool next to the work table protested when she dropped down on it in a huff. Impatience niggled at her. How was anyone ever going to see her as anything else but “poor little Gloria Parker”?
She heard the chimes of the front door and breathed a sigh of relief knowing that Mrs. Nickelbee had fluttered away to wreak havoc on someone else’s life.
Claire poked her head into the room. “You okay?”
She was tall and lean with work-roughened hands and a soft smile. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn in a dramatic pixie cut that suited her to a T. She was also incredibly kind without being condescending.
“Thanks for stepping in,” Gloria said, studying her fingernails and wondering if she should take up chewing them to help cope with the feelings that bubbled up within her and threatened to overwhelm.
Claire pulled up a stool next to her and stretched her long, denim-clad legs. “I didn’t want you knocking Mrs. Nickelbee’s wig off her head.”
