The words St. Luke’s Hospital shone like a beacon as I stopped in front of the entrance closest to Dr. Cummings’s practice, and quickly headed through the front doors, down the hall, up the stairs, and through the doors of the office. Apparently, Janet had been so excited about this opportunity that she’d invested in the research, drawing me a schematic of the hospital’s layout and the fastest route to the office last night after dinner.
The instant my heels hit the hardwood floors of the waiting room, everyone, including the receptionist, glanced up in my direction. I had a feeling my entrance was less than graceful. It could’ve been the whole out of breath with my hands on my knees performance I was displaying or the windblown hair and wrinkled dress shirt that I hadn’t worn since high school.
Whichever it was, both things pointed to me being a bit of a mess.
“Can I help you?” the young female receptionist asked around a mouthful of gum.
“Uh, yes,” I muttered and walked over toward the desk. “I’m here for an interview. My name is Melody Marco.”
She stared at me for a good thirty seconds while she made popping sounds with her gum. Eventually, she sighed, blew a giant pink bubble from her lips and sucked it back into her mouth, and then moved her fingers to the computer and tapped her long, acrylic nails against the keys.
“Your interview was at 8:30,” she announced.
“I know. I was a running a little late,” I excused. “I just moved back to the city from Portland, and I guess I forgot how busy New York is on a Monday morning.”
“It’s 8:50.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”
Good Lord, this receptionist was sassy. And repetitive.
“I know. And like I said, I’m really sorry.”
Melissa, as her name tag indicated, sighed and picked up the phone. “Melody Marco is here for her interview. She’s twenty minutes late.”
Wow. Thanks, Melissa.
“Okay. I’ll send her back,” she responded into the receiver before hanging up the phone. She tapped the button for the doors that headed toward the offices, and they swung open on command. “Even though you’re late, Betty will still see you. You can go on back.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said and glanced toward the doors. “Which office is hers?”
“You’ll find it.”
“Gotcha.” Perfect. I’ll just stroll through the hallway and, hopefully, find Betty’s office. No worries about me accidentally stumbling into one of the exam rooms while a woman is getting a pap smear or something.
Luckily, Betty’s office actually said Betty—well, it said her full name, Betty Matthews, with the title Office Manager below it. And it was easily spotted a few doors down from the reception desk.
The door was shut, so I rapped my knuckles against it three times.
“Come in,” she responded. I opened the door, walking in and shutting it softly behind me.
Betty sat behind her desk, tapping her fingers across the keys of her laptop at a rapid-fire pace. What is that? A hundred and twenty words per minute? She didn’t even bother to look up at my entrance, her eyes staying completely fixed on the computer screen.
“Uh, hi, I’m Melody Marco,” I announced. “I’m here to interview for a nursing job.”
“You’re late,” she stated, but she did at least look up in my direction.
“I’m so sorry. I just moved back to the city from Portland, and I guess I misjudged how busy New York is on a Monday morning,” I repeated my earlier excuse in hopes it would help for something and ran two sweaty palms down the wrinkles of my skirt. This whole interview thing was off to a phenomenal start. Everyone I’d met in the office appeared to completely despise me. I wasn’t a psychic, but I felt like a prediction of me not getting this job wasn’t too far off base.
“Please, take a seat,” Betty said as she finally looked up from her laptop and gestured toward the leather chair in front of her desk.
I handed her my resume and sat down.
“Is tardiness an issue for you…” she started and glanced down at my resume, “Melody?”
“No,” I answered confidently. “I’ve never had any issues with tardiness or absences with any of my past jobs.”
“You did travel nursing for a few years, I see,” she stated and continued to browse through my credentials. “And it looks like for the past few years your sole focus has been labor and delivery.”
“Yes. I have over five years of experience as a labor and postpartum nurse.”
“And what made you move back to the city?”
Because I broke up with my asshole boyfriend, and now I’m stuck sleeping on an air mattress beside a treadmill at my parents’ home. “My family is here. I just felt like it was time to move back home.”
“And what made you apply for this job?”
Because my mother loves to meddle in my life and actually scheduled this interview for me without my knowledge. I don’t even think I want this fucking job. “I have a passion for obstetrics and loved the idea of having a more set schedule. My last job in Portland, I was working twelve-hour night shifts,” I informed her. “Working night shifts occasionally isn’t bad, but after a few years of doing them full time, it really starts to wear on you.”
“All right, Melody,” Betty said. “I’m the type of woman who likes to cut through all of the crap, and seeing as I’ve already interviewed over fifty women for this position in the past week, my patience is starting to wane, and I’d rather just get down to the important shit.”
“Uh…okay.”
“Have you seen the show?”
“What show?”
“The show.”
I looked back and forth, half expecting to see a camera hiding behind her potted plant, and then back to Betty. What in the hell was she talking about? “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The documentary that Dr. Cummings is on.”
“He’s on a documentary?” Now? Cripes. I didn’t want to be on camera.
She tilted her head to the side and scrutinized my expression. “You honestly haven’t seen it?”
“No. I’ve honestly never seen it.” I could feel my eyebrows drawing together to form my what the fuck face, so I tried to fight it. I’d been told it made me look really bitchy.
“Okay. Well, I have a few more interviews scheduled this week, and then we’ll give you a call sometime next week to let you know either way.”
“Oh. Okay. That sounds good to me.”
“Would you like me to give you Dr. Cummings’s phone number in case you have any specific questions about the job?”
“Um…” What? “I’m not sure that would be appropriate… Couldn’t I just contact you?”
Betty smiled and clapped her hands together in excitement. “Oh, thank God!” she exclaimed and hopped up from her chair. She walked toward the front of her desk and pulled me—literally pulled me—out of my chair and into a tight hug.
“Uh?” I mumbled, but she completely ignored my confusion.
Once she was finished embracing me, she let go and held out her hand in my direction.
“Melody, I would like to offer you the job.”
“You’re offering me the job?”
“Yes,” she said with an enthusiastic nod.
“But I was like twenty minutes late for the interview,” I blurted out.