Happy? Her sister had been arrested three times as a juvenile, once as an adult—shoplifting, vandalism, DUI, trespassing. The last arrest had been when she broke into someone’s house, shot up and passed out. The family had found Kaitlyn unconscious on the eight-year-old daughter’s bed, the syringe still in her arm. She was only eighteen.
When the baby was born, Melissa drove the fourteen hours to the hospital to see her sister and niece. Blond hair, same as Kaitlyn and Melissa; rosebud mouth. “Inn’t she beautiful?” Kaitlyn asked. “Name’s Harminee. Spellin’ it different to be special. Harminee Fawn.”
Well, that would just about guarantee the baby would become a stripper, Melissa thought. Harmony was a beautiful name. Harminee, though? Gosh.
Kaitlyn managed to stay sober for ten months after Harminee was born. After she was found high on meth with the baby crying in her crib, Harminee’s paternal grandparents got custody, as the father was in jail. It was probably better that way, Melissa thought. Her sister was on a road that was hard to get off, and hopefully the baby would be safe with the grandparents. She tried not to think about it.
Her junior year, Melissa fell sort of in love with a fellow student at Kansas Wesleyan, and they stayed together for the rest of college. Unfortunately, Tom was studying to be a middle school teacher, and she was so not going to become a teacher’s wife. “We just want different things,” she told him as he cried the week before graduation. “I want a bigger life.”
“What does that even mean?” he’d sobbed.
Money, she thought but didn’t say. Money, elegance, prestige, art openings and charity event sponsorships, vacations. She’d never even seen the ocean. Never been on an airplane or a boat. She wasn’t going to stay in the heartland. Tom had been a nice boyfriend, and she’d lost her virginity to him (using the pill and two condoms). She knew she’d need some sexual experience to get where she wanted to go. He’d served a purpose, was a good kisser, let her feel what the fuss over sex was about. It was nice to be adored, and she did feel a little bad when she dumped him.
Melissa graduated with a degree in health sciences, focus on exercise and training. Her plan was to leverage that for a job with some famous athletes. Marry a football star, maybe, or a basketball player (they made more and played longer, but did she want to be married to someone who was six foot eleven?). She researched teams and sent out emails. Soon, she thought. Soon her real life would begin. Her job would be a stepping-stone. It wasn’t what she wanted to do, though what that was, she couldn’t exactly pinpoint. She was good at exercise. She liked feeling healthy and fit and beautiful. Otherwise, her goal was to . . . well, to have everything she wanted.
Her parents came to graduation and complained about everything. “We din’t even know it was you,” her father said. “Melissa Something Spencer? Last I knew, my daughter was Missy-Jo Cumbo. I ain’t got no daughter named Melissa.”
Melissa sighed. “I’m still your daughter, Daddy,” she said.
They talked about Kaitlyn and Harminee; Kaitlyn was in rehab again, hoping to get custody back. Harminee’s father had left jail, joined the military, and was stationed in Korea. His parents were happy to take care of the baby. Melissa’s own parents babysat once in a while so they could have a break.
There wasn’t much discussion about Melissa herself, though. Her parents were dubious about her ability to get a job, told her she’d wasted her money “becoming a liberal” and wanted her to move back and “help out.”
She declined. Hugged them goodbye, telling herself she’d probably never have to see them again, then went for an eight-mile run to cleanse her energy of their negativity, followed by meditation and yin yoga. Salina had a yoga studio, and she worked there, cleaning up and scheduling the classes, getting free studio time as a perk. Her faith in God morphed into faith in the universe. Same thing, more or less, she thought. Plus, it made her seem more worldly.
She stayed in Salina while waiting to get responses from the sports teams she’d contacted. Once they saw her, she was sure she’d get a job. The universe would provide. Her looks had only improved since her early teens, and she knew she was very beautiful now. She was well-spoken and good at making conversation. (Thanks, Emily Post!) For the time being, she got a job at a bar, which helped her learn about wine and spirits, another tool in her toolbox. She was a natural flirt and made excellent tips. She and three fellow graduates from Kansas Wesleyan rented an apartment, and it was all quite nice, really.
Except Melissa was bound for greater things. She felt that in her bones.
But eight months after graduation, she hadn’t heard back from a single team, even with polite follow-up emails. Maybe her plan was flawed. And yet, it couldn’t be! She would get where she wanted to go. She always did. She was special; she just knew it. She hadn’t put in all this work, these eight and a half years of focus, for nothing.
She’d been researching elite gyms in LA to see if anyone might hire her, giving her proximity to the stars, when she got an email for a medical conference. It was because of a website she’d visited during her Anatomy and Physiology class. She’d gotten on their mailing list and had never bothered to unsubscribe.
Two months from now, the email said, there was a conference for orthopedic surgeons, and there was still space available.
Her hand moved to delete it, but stopped midair.
Doctors, especially surgeons, were also wealthy and, unlike professional athletes, had many more years of earning.
Huh.
To Google she went. Orthopedic surgeons were among the top earners of all surgeons, she learned, especially if they owned a surgical center or had invented some new tool or perfected an artificial joint.
Melissa had studied medicine, in a way. The human body was the human body, right? She had a lot in common with these surgeons, probably.
Melissa looked up the conference, which was in New Orleans, a city renowned for its beauty and food. She called the registration number. “Hello,” she said, lowering her voice a bit. “I’m considering attending the conference in March.”
“Wonderful!” said the man on the other end. “Are you a doctor or a vendor?”
“A doctor.”
“An orthopedic surgeon, obviously?”
She thought fast. She was twenty-two years old, almost twenty-three, and she looked younger, thanks to her skin care regimen. “Yes, but I’m still in my residency.” Thank you, Grey’s Anatomy!
“Fantastic. This conference will be so helpful.”
“Is there a hotel you’d recommend?” she asked. “Where some other doctors might be staying? You know, so I can pick their brains.”
“There are several. What are you looking for?”
“Five stars, please. Something with a nice bar.”
“The Roosevelt, in that case,” he said. “It’s gorgeous. Can I register you for the conference, Dr., uh . . . sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
Melissa hung up. Looked at her savings account. She’d always hoarded her money; she’d had to hide it back home so her sister wouldn’t steal it for drugs, and she had the same attitude now—if you don’t see it, you won’t spend it. How many times had she declined going to the movies or out for drinks, or flying to Florida for spring break? Every time, that was how many, unless Tom had been paying. With two jobs all through college, and the two she had now, she had $8,000 put away. Even so, the convention was expensive. Good gracious.
This email hadn’t come for no reason, Melissa firmly believed. It was the universe answering her! This conference, this investment, was just as important as leaving Wakeford.
She googled “the Roosevelt New Orleans,” and her mouth opened at the grandeur, the elegance of it all. Gosh golly, she’d be staying there! Walking down that grand hallway, looking up at those chandeliers, sitting in that incredibly sophisticated bar! Yes. Destiny itself thrilled through her veins. This was it. This was her path.
She booked a room for the dates of the conference with two extra days beforehand so she could get the lay of the land. Then she surveyed her wardrobe. The conference was in two months, so she had time to prepare.