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My name is Audrey Fitzgerald and this is how I died.
It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It was a clear afternoon with not a cloud in sight; the sun was shining and all was right with the world. Wait a second, no, it wasn’t. Oh, I got the weather part right, but this story doesn’t start all bright and bubbly, sunshine and unicorns. Oh no! This is the day I died. So no, all was not right in my world.
With such a monumental event looming I would have thought the skies would darken, thunder would boom, and basically the heavens would announce their displeasure that I’d been taken too early, too young, that it was not my time to die. But considering my tendency for clumsiness, I’m not that surprised, to be honest. It’s an affliction I’ve had my entire life and I’ve got the scars to prove it! If anyone were to walk into a closed-door, trip over an invisible bump in the carpet, spill hot coffee all over herself, it would be me.
But I couldn’t live my life wrapped in bubble wrap. Life was to be lived and that meant heading out into the big wide world and facing each day as the blessing it was. Mom and Dad always used to shake their heads and mutter, “It’s a wonder she survived her childhood,” whenever I relayed the latest disaster to befall me.
Being clumsy shouldn’t define you, yet I could categorically attribute my clumsiness as the reason for my being fired from every single job I’d had. Usually, it involved spilling a hot beverage on someone. Typically the boss. On more than one occasion—because they’re not monsters, they’re not going to fire someone for spilling a drink. But after a trip to the ER with burns on your, er, delicate bits from the coffee I’d just spilled in your lap, the word “liability” starts to get thrown around, and rightly or wrongly, I would find myself performance managed out the door.
So my career, such as it was, was as a professional temp. Despite the fact that I’d completed a legal secretary certificate program, had a diploma in business administration and a small business management certificate, I could not hold down a job. Not for long, anyway. Because one way or another I’d screw it up. I’d dropped my fair share of expensive laptops and phones and knocked over vases on reception desks—the water splashing all over the receptionist’s computer is just a given.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bitter. Not at all. I love temping, I love the freedom and flexibility. It’s the whole try before you buy scenario, and it pays well. But it means buying my own place is out of reach. No bank is going to lend me money without employment stability. I drive a rust bucket of a car. I live in a tiny apartment in a shady part of town. Until I’ve saved up enough to upgrade my car and the miracle of homeownership should befall me, I’m stuck where I am.
The pressure is on from my siblings too. I’m the youngest of three, and at twenty-nine the clock is ticking to settle down, get married, buy a house, have kids. Although I admit the thought of having kids is terrifying because just taking care of myself is a mountain of work already. But I figure if I could find a lovely man to be my husband, he’d make sure the kid was okay, right? Only where do you find them? The decent men? Besides my dad, there is only one other decent man I know, and he’s my best friend, Ben Delaney. And there is no way Ben and I are getting hitched. Just no. We grew up next door to each other and have been besties since kindergarten. We know each other way too well to ever be romantically involved. Ever.
I suppose I’m doing my brother a disservice when it comes to decent men. He’s okay, I guess. He’s the eldest, is married to Amanda—who is younger than me, adding salt into the wounds of singleness—and they have two of the most beautiful children I’ve ever seen. Madeline, who’s three, and Nathaniel, who’s one. Amanda is a paralegal at Beasley, Tate, and Associates, and I briefly temped there while she was on maternity leave. Needless to say, it didn’t end well and caused Amanda a certain degree of embarrassment that her sister-in-law was such a disaster.
Despite being younger than me by two years, Amanda acts way older. She’s a twinset and pearl-wearing type of girl who talks as if she has a plum in her mouth. Just last week at our regular family dinner at Mom and Dad’s, when the topic of conversation rolled around to my klutzy behavior like it did every week, she announced that “slower processing speed and reaction time may predispose certain individuals to errors in coordination which can lead to unintentional injuries.” I’d laughed, reached for my glass, and promptly spilled red wine all over the table. She’d arched a perfectly manicured brow and said, “Case in point.”
My older sister, Laura, is married to Brad, and they have one kid, baby Isabelle. Needless to say, at every family get-together my ovaries are fit to burst at all the baby cuteness surrounding me. Not to mention the tick-tock of my approaching thirtieth birthday.
But I digress. I was about to tell you how I died. Well…not died…exactly. Nearly died.
I’d started my morning by dropping my phone on my face while lying in bed. The alarm had woken me from a deep sleep and I’d snatched the phone and practically catapulted it into my forehead. I’d spent an extra ten minutes covering the angry red mark with makeup while rummaging through my wardrobe trying to find a blouse without a stain down the front. I finally settled on a white T-shirt, wearing it back to front to hide its stain. I made a mental note to ask my mom about stain removal tips—either that or buy a whole new wardrobe. Slipping my navy blazer over the top, I eyed myself critically in the mirror. No one would ever know. Provided I kept the blazer on all day.
Thankfully the matching navy skirt was dark enough to hide any marks, and sliding my feet into my heels, I rushed out the door. Stockings were pointless—nine times out of ten I’d arrive at work with a run in them. Don’t ask me how, they just seemed to magically appear.
The day had gone remarkably smoothly, as far as days go. Up until three in the afternoon.
“Audrey!” Mr. Brown bellowed. I cringed, figuring my luck had run out. I’d really hoped he hadn’t heard the almighty crash preceding his bellow. I’d pushed through the board room doors with my backside, carrying a heavy tray piled high with crockery ready for the meeting at four. A very important meeting with very important people. VIPs. I’d been told a dozen times to make sure the room was perfect—and to make myself scarce as soon as it was. I would not be required to take notes.
How was I to know the princess and her pony were in there getting ready for their big presentation? I didn’t mean for the door to swing back and hit the princess. FYI, she’s not a real princess; that’s just what I call her. Better than pompous ass. She struts through the office as if she’s better than everyone else and that grates on me. A lot. And her assistant, whom I affectionately call the pony since she’s always riding him—in more ways than one—was always on hand to see that her every whim, every small desire, was met. She was, of course, Mr. Brown’s daughter. Untouchable.
Only I’d touched her all right. The door smacked her in the butt so hard she catapulted into the pony who staggered back, tripped over a cord and pulled the whole podium, complete with laptop, onto the floor. Of course, I lost my balance and the tray carrying all the cups, saucers, glasses and jugs of juice went flying, hitting the floor with a crash. Shards of broken crockery flew through the air, and juice splashed the floor, walls, the princess and her pony. Pretty sure the laptop was screwed too.