Chapter 9

Isabelle

The next morning, at exactly 9 a.m. I was standing before the restaurant manager of Maddison's Food Republic. He sat behind a desk, barely sparing a glance in my direction as he typed away on his computer. His name tag said "Collins."

"Good morning Sir. I'm Isabelle. I'm here–"

"Good morning Isabelle." He cut in, his head finally moving up as he swept a gaze over me.

"I appreciate you coming in," he said, "but I don't think this is the right fit."

Panic flared in my chest and the words tumbled out of my mouth before I could hold them back. "No sir. I have experience. I can work any shift. I'm capable–"

"From what I can see, you are pregnant. Aren't you?"

I don't know why these words hurt, even though he didn't sound harsh.

"Waiting tables is exhausting. You'd be on your feet for eight-hour straight. The stress alone..." He shook his head. "I can't hire someone in your condition. It wouldn't be fair to you or to my restaurant."

My breath went still for a moment. "I can handle it. Please, I really need this job."

He looked at me one more time, eyes holding sympathy. My stomach twisted and my eyes began to water. Why did it have to be like this?

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I can't hire you."

I stood there for a bit, waiting, hoping that he'd change his mind. When he went back his business, not minding if I stood there, I turned and left, my face burning with shame.

From there, I dragged my feet to a nearby compound where an elderly woman named Mrs. Catherine asked me to come for an interview for a cleaning job. When I arrived, her eyes widened when she saw my stomach.

"You're…you're the one who called about cleaning?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. I have experience. I'm very thorough–"

"Honey, I can't have you on your hands and knees scrubbing my floors while you're pregnant. What if something happened? What if you fell?" She shook her head, her face full of pity. "I just can't do it. I'm sorry."

"Please," I pressed, my tone laced with desperation. "I really need this job. I promise I'd be very careful–"

"No, sweetheart. Go home. Take care of yourself and the baby."

I faced yet another rejection, the worse of them all at the Hilton's Supermarket – a big store in town. The manager, a woman named Victoria cut me halfway through my pitch.

"We need someone full-time. Stocking, cleaning, operating the register. It's a lot of work. I can't have someone going on maternity leave in the middle of the season."

She turned back to her computer. "Next?"

"Wait," I said. "I won't–"

"Next," she repeated, not looking up.

I left, head down, eyes stinging with tears. Why was this happening to me? Why?

Back at my apartment, I locked the door behind me and sank onto the floor.

Three rejections in one day. Three doors closed in my face because I was carrying a baby.

The tears I'd repressed for so long, came gushing forth. I covered my face with my palms, trying to stop the tears. I'd promised to be strong. Why did I keep breaking down over and over again?

But what could I do when I was reminded of what I had lost everyday? How could I stop thinking of the near-perfect life I had before?

I buried my face between my knees, sobbing until my legs were wet.

When the tears could no longer come, I rose to my feet, searching for something to do. Anything to distract me from this pain.

I moved into the kitchen and grabbed the bag of groceries I'd bought last night. Finding some potatoes, onions, carrots and peas, I decided to make a simple soup.

I filled a pot with water and set it on heat. An odd sense of comfort sparked inside me at the sound of boiling water.

Taking out a cutting board, I started dicing a potato. My hands moved automatically, muscle memory from cooking too many dinners for Jason. To please him. To win his love. So much for being a lovely wife. What did I have to show for my efforts now?

I tried distract myself from thinking about him, about them, yet I couldn't stop.

A scream ripped off my lips as the knife slashed my finger, pain shooting through my hand at once.

The knife clattered as I threw it on the counter, while staring at fresh blood pouring from the cut.

I wrapped my hand in a dish towel, pressing hard. My eyes stung as I watched the towel get soaked through within seconds.

"Damn, Damn it," I said, my voice cracking.

I hurried to the bedroom, looking for a first aid kit. When I found it, my hands trembled as I opened it up. It was a miracle how I managed to wrap the finger with a bandage.

My entire body shook with rage as I sank onto the mattress. Why was everything so hard? I couldn't keep my husband. I couldn't get a job. I couldn't even cut a potato without hurting myself. How was I supposed to have a baby? How was I supposed to survive this?

I walked back into the kitchen and turned off the gas cooker. The pot of water was still there and the potatoes sat half-chopped on the board.

When I returned to the bedroom, I collapsed onto the mattress. After tossing and turning for a long while, I drifted into a restless sleep.

Around midnight, I woke with a start, a short, raspy breath rushing out. My whole body ached as though I had been injected with pin and needles.

I rose from the mattress, walking in the direction of the washroom to relieve my bladder. My steps were stiff and laboured as though I was trudging through quick sand. A scream hovered close to my lips but I held it back by pressing a palm over my mouth.

My head pounded like heavy bricks were stacked above me. My eyes spun and my vision turned hazy. Before I could catch myself, my feet slipped and I was falling face-down towards the ground.