Fallen Woman Read online

  Fallen Woman

  Stephie Walls

  Edited by

  Switzer Editing

  Contents

  Untitled

  1. Prologue

  2. Chapter One

  3. Chapter Two

  4. Chapter Three

  5. Chapter Four

  6. Chapter Five

  7. Chapter Six

  8. Chapter Seven

  9. Chapter Eight

  10. Chapter Nine

  11. Chapter Ten

  12. Chapter Eleven

  13. Chapter Twelve

  14. Chapter Thirteen

  15. Chapter Fourteen

  16. Chapter Fifteen

  17. Chapter Sixteen

  18. Chapter Seventeen

  19. Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Stephie Walls

  Copyright © 2016 by Stephie Walls All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and revival systems without prior written permission from the author except where permitted by law.

  The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  [email protected]

  www.stephiewalls.com

  www.facebook.com/stephiewalls2014

  Magoo…I love you more.

  Prologue

  Pulling the pantyhose up each leg made this feel more glamorous than it was. There was a time in my life when I loved to dress up. I couldn’t get enough of the fancy clothes, the shoes, the beautiful jewelry. I didn’t have that life for long, but the years I did were unforgettable. Sitting on the edge of my mattress, getting ready to interview for a menial job, I realized how different my life is now compared to the prosperous one I’d worked so hard to obtain. It was like playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes—it was all a façade. I shimmied my skirt down my thighs, slipped into my shoes from a previous era, and stared at my reflection in the mirror for final adjustments to my overall look. I no longer recognized the woman in front of me and didn’t much care for the person I saw.

  When I was in my teens or even my early twenties, I never imagined the curveball life would throw at me. I never had much, but I worked hard and kept my nose to the grindstone, determined to escape the hell the kids in my neighborhood endured. They all lived under the same assumption—they’d never be free. The belief we would live the same tarnished lives as our parents wasn’t one I was willing to accept. I came from trash, but I’d be damned if I would stay in that dumpster. I was bound and determined to escape. By the time my senior year came around, my dad had disappeared and my mom was strung out. I knew what it was like to be hungry and cold because the bills weren’t paid, and if I hadn’t kept the forms filled out for our section eight housing, I would have known what it was like to be homeless, too.

  My entire life depended upon my getting a full ride to college, so I invested every waking moment in sports, school activities, and academics—one way or another, I would make it. In the middle of my senior year, Dartmouth awarded me the full ride I was so desperate to obtain. I counted down the days until my departure to Hanover and never looked back at the filthy streets I came from.

  Ryan and I met my freshman year—he was escaping the confines of his own hell. He’d come from a family with tons of money, but with that came an abusive father and an alcoholic mother. We were thick as thieves throughout college. He was the only man I had ever loved, and to this day, I doubted I’d ever love another the way I did him—regardless of how things ended and the legacy he’d left me to deal with.

  After graduation, Ryan got a job on Wall Street, and I followed him to New York and Madison Avenue. We did the obligatory family thing with his relatives a couple of times a year, but after we had married, that ended abruptly. At our first New Year’s Eve party as a married couple, Ryan’s dad was rip-roaring drunk, and I said something he took the wrong way. When he slapped me in front of a hundred of their closest friends and relatives, Ryan bowed out of the family—and their money and prestige. He had a fantastic job, and I was doing well. I’d never had anything that resembled family anyhow, so I wasn’t all that disappointed, but I knew my husband was.

  He kept his head held high, but shortly after, the greatest recession of my lifetime hit, the stock market crashed, and Ryan and I lost everything we’d earned.

  I was pretty young at the time, a newlywed, with twins on the way. Ryan and I had only been married a year, and I was six months pregnant. Suddenly, thrown back into my past, money was an all-consuming obsession. I had done life by the book. In every way possible, I followed the rules and played it safe. I figured the stock market would bounce back; I assumed Ryan would have no trouble finding another job. But I quickly realized, we were in deep, and everyone around us struggled to stay afloat. Barely able to tread water, the weights holding us down kept getting heavier—the ability to swim without drowning became almost impossible. And there was no one on the horizon with a life raft to save us.

  When nothing else could go wrong—it did.

  The details of then led to now, but the intricacies were no longer important. The only thing that mattered was I was a widow with three kids under the age of five and didn’t have two nickels to rub together, much less food in the pantry. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate a decent meal or held down a respectable job. At that point, the only things I cared about were my children eating and staying warm—I could survive a lot longer than any of them…but I was beyond desperate.

  Chapter One

  Never in my life could I have imagined interviewing for a minimum-wage job as a mail clerk in one of the high-rises downtown. With a college degree, I’d believed a good paying job was a guarantee. But here I was nonetheless, getting ready for an appointment and praying I’d get the job that would do nothing more than feed my children, hopefully keep them clothed, and possibly afford Emmy the medical care she needed. Every time I dressed for one of these interviews, I remembered a time when I could afford the finer things, and I wondered if my wardrobe was what kept me from getting job after job. But surely, if someone recognized the designer, they would have the knowledge that not only was I not wearing this year’s fashion, but rather five seasons ago. Pre-baby clothes, pre-recession clothes, pre-catastrophe clothes. They were merely a shell of a former life, but they were all I had.

  As I put the final touches on my makeup—which I now solely reserved for interviews to conserve what little I had—I called to my two oldest. “Megan, Trace…come here please.”

  The patter of feet down the hall made me smile. While my kids were my greatest stress these days, they were also the only things that brought me any joy. The twins were incredible, mature beyond their age, which was a godsend but unfair to them. At four, they shouldn’t have this kind of responsibility, but I was out of options. I squatted down to make eye contact with my oldest daughter and only son. “Mommy has to go to an interview. I won’t be long, I promise. Can you guys take good care of Emmy until I get home?”

  They both eagerly nodded their heads—not because they cared about watching their sister, but because they were hopeful a job would change our circumstances.

  “Remember the rules?” I asked, knowing they’d recite them.

  Trace piped up first. “Don’t answer the door. And don’t leave the house.”

  Megan followed, “No jumping, climbing, or running. And no playing rough with the girls, Trace.” Her large brown eyes stared accusingly at her brother. “And be nice to Sissy, she hurts today.”

  “Where’s Emmy?” I asked my bru
nette babies. Megan pointed out the door, and I assumed that meant she was in the living room. “Okay. You guys stay with her. Remember…she’s only three, and she needs you when Mommy isn’t home.” I hated this. I couldn’t stand it. Five years ago, if anyone had told me I’d be leaving my four-year-old twins to watch their sick three-year-old sister, I would have laughed in their face and told them to call child services if it happened. Now, I prayed no one would ever find out.

  Desperation was a crazy motivator.

  Settling the kids on the couch with a DVD in the player, I promised I’d be back before their movie was over. I closed the apartment door behind me, locked it, checked the lock—multiple times—and dashed off to my interview. Luckily, the bus was on time. I had cut it close, but with no other mode of transportation, it was either risk it or spend an extra hour walking, which meant another hour my children were home alone, and I couldn’t risk leaving them that long.

  When I arrived at my stop, I stood on the sidewalk, mentally preparing myself. With my game face on, I stepped into the reception area of the Faston Building. My heels clicked on the marble floors, the noise echoing around the deserted lobby. I followed the sign to the Human Resources Department located on the second floor, hopeful this would be the one. The moment I pulled open the door, my heart sank. At least ten other people seemed to be waiting on interviews as well, for what I assumed was one available opening.

  No sooner had I taken a seat among the other desperate souls, an older lady popped her head out from behind a closed door and called my name. She looked me up and down before opening the door wide enough for me to pass. Without so much as a hello, she pointed to the empty chair in front of her cluttered desk and then sat down opposite me. I smiled graciously, hoping she’d soften up a bit, but no such luck.

  “You do know this job is for a mail clerk, right?” she sneered at me as though she couldn’t fathom why I was sitting across from her.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Taking her glasses off, she laid them down on the desk to clasp her hands in front of her, leaning on her forearms to get closer to me. She really shouldn’t have had onions with her lunch—her breath was unbearable. “Why on Earth do you want this job? You have a college degree from Dartmouth for the love of God. I mean I realize you haven’t worked in a while, but still—this is scraping the bottom of the barrel for a girl like you.” Her brow rose in question, waiting for my response.

  I took a deep breath, and on my exhale, released all the pretentious crap I would normally spew, and instead, opted for brutal honesty—almost. “I’m a widow with three children—four-year-old twins and a three-year-old. My family lost everything in the recession, and when I lost my husband, things went further than just south. They became dismal. I’m living in low-income housing and don’t get enough food stamps for us all to eat. I have no car and depend on public transportation.” I stared her straight in the eye, pausing for just a moment. “I’m desperate and jobs are scarce. Every single person sitting out there”—I motioned to the lobby I just came from—“is desperate, too. I’m just hoping someone will recognize I might be a valuable asset down the road and take the chance today.” I didn’t move…didn’t even blink. I’d managed to hold on to my most valuable secret, but the most critical to my finding employment—Emmy. I held her stare until she broke it.

  “You’re going to hate this place,” she blurted at me before casting her gaze down to her drawer. “And I bet you don’t make it two weeks.” She mumbled the words to herself more so than to me. Then she pulled out a folder. The Faston logo was embossed in gold on the shiny black cover. I stared intently at those shimmering foil letters, praying it contained the keys to a paycheck. “Complete all this before your orientation on Monday. Bring it back with you and be here at ten am. After that, the hours are nine am to five pm. I don’t put up with being absent or tardy, so make sure you have your bases covered.” Instead of releasing the folder when I reached for it, she held my stare. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “I promise you won’t. Thank you.”

  She handed over the paperwork, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding before she shooed me away and out her door. I left the building as quickly as possible to keep the nameless woman from changing her mind. Finally secured in the elevator, I watched the smile spread across my face in the mirrored doors. I knew this wasn’t a six-figure salary—hell, it wouldn’t even pay the bills—but I’d be able to pay my rent, buy groceries, and get Emmy what she needed…and that felt pretty dang good.

  The elevator opened into the lobby, and I stepped out. For just a moment, I allowed myself to dance a little jig once the doors closed behind me. My heels clicked on the marble like a maraca. I had foolishly believed I was alone until I saw the man snickering by the door. His face filled with humor as though my happy dance had made his day. Embarrassed, my cheeks flushed, and he opened the large glass door, motioning for me to go through. There was nothing special about his attire, he didn’t even say hello, but he had the most haunting gray eyes I ever had the privilege of staring into, even if it was only for a split second. And his quirky smile warmed me from the inside out. Once out of the building, I chanced a glance over my shoulder only to find him still rooted in the same spot, holding the door for no one. He gave me a quick wave, and I tossed my long, dark hair back and kept walking. Maybe I wasn’t dead after all.

  Reaching my front door, I unlocked the deadbolts and scurried inside to find my kids still sitting exactly where I’d left them. Their little heads turned to the door, startled when I came in, and when they saw the joy on my face, they rushed to me, knowing I had good news. Swarmed in baby hugs, I told them, “Mommy got a job!”

  For the first time since Ryan died, a little bit of the weight lifted off my shoulders. Now I had five days to find someone to help me with Trace, Megan, and Emmy while I went to work. There was no way I could leave them for ten hours a day unattended. That night after I put the kids in bed, I racked my brain for options. I needed a viable solution, but there was no way I could afford daycare for three, and the twins wouldn’t start school for months. With no family, no money, and even fewer resources, I was pretty well screwed.

  The next morning, I got up and got the kids dressed. Without having to worry about finding employment, it seemed like a great day to get out and enjoy the sunshine in the park. The kids loved it. It was one of the few times they got to interact with other children and run. Our apartment had one tiny bedroom with no space to move, and we all shared a bed. Being in a park was like setting wild horses free.

  We all held hands coming back—Megan and Emmy on my left, and Trace on my right. As we skipped into the breezeway, the neighbor, an elderly African American woman I’d seen many times before, stopped us.

  “Don’t y’all just look happy as little larks?” Her wrinkled cheeks pulled up into a cozy grin, and her eyes twinkled with the delight of youth in front of her.

  “Yes, ma’am! We got to go to the park because Mommy got a job!” Trace announced proudly. “And ‘cause Emmy’s better today,” he added, smiling at his little sister.

  “That is pretty special, young man. Where did your mommy get a job?” She looked at me through her dark brown eyes, so deep the pupils seemed to fade into the irises.

  “Oh, um, at Faston Corporation,” I answered her, still swinging the twins’ arms.

  “Well, what are you three going to do while Mommy’s at work?”

  With trepidation in their eyes, all three of my children stared at me, waiting for the answer to the million-dollar question.

  “I haven’t quite worked that out just yet, but we’ll figure it out, right guys?” Even I heard the lie as it left my mouth. Nothing but doubt lined my words.

  The lady eyed me for a minute, contemplating, her face pinched before releasing. “I know we just met, but I’ve seen you here and there. You ain’t got family around, do you?”

  I shook my head. She was direct, but I appreciated
that about people.

  Her eyes and cheeks had softened before she spoke again. “I’m Pearl Johnson.” She looked down at the kids, “But you can call me Miss Pearl.” Her gaze returned to me, and she extended her hand.

  “Gianna LeBron.” I shook her outstretched hand and continued with introductions, thankful she didn’t place the last name. “And this is Trace, his twin sister, Megan, and their little sister, Emmy.”

  Miss Pearl reached out to each of them and curtsied as she took their hands. “How do ya do?” she said three times over, causing each kid to giggle. When she finished with Emmy, she added, “Glad to hear you’re doin’ better.”

  She stood back up but just as I was about to excuse my brood, her fingers touched my forearm and lingered.

  “My grandbaby comes over every day while his mama’s out. I’m sure he’d be happy for some company his own age.” Wisdom filled her chocolate orbs. She knew without me telling her what kind of shape I was in—heck, she couldn’t be much better or she wouldn’t live next door.

  “I couldn’t impose. One is quite different than four.” I offered her a meek smile and sad eyes. I desperately wanted to accept her offer, but I didn’t know her and neither did my children.

  “Baby, you got any other options?” Her southern drawl was more pronounced when she lowered her voice.

  Again, I shook my head.

  “Look at me, child.”

  I did as she told me to.

  “The Lord orchestrates every encounter. There’s no movement in the world He didn’t choreograph for His purpose. Our meeting here is no different. Allow Him to provide for you.”

  At one point in my life, I had certainly been more religious than I am now, but losing everything—our house and my husband—crushed that faith. I wasn’t Job, and I didn’t believe I was being tested. I had simply been dealt a bad hand, and now I had to figure out how to play it. Thus far, I was losing my tail. But this woman, Miss Pearl…she believed. Her faith was strong; it had roots.