TIED TO YOU

MADELINE

My eyes adjusted to the shifting images of the room as it came into focus. As I leaned back in the chair, a yawn rasped out of my lips.

Only lazy people yawn when they wake up, my mother's voice whispered in my head.

Shaking my head slightly, I tried not to rein in the image of the disaster that was my room, now a clear image, in front of me. Rubbing one eye, I flipped my phone's screen to check the time.

07:47 a.m.

The chair clawed the floor as I jumped out of it, my pajamas falling to the floor as I went. I didn't allow my mind to go through the million things I had to do before the day washed by.

Now isn't the time to panic. Get moving.

Jumping over dirty and neat clothes, scattered papers, and a general cluster that was an evident sign of the search I'd conducted last night, I ran—crashed—into the adjoined bathroom. A short couple of minutes later, I was sprinting out of the bathroom with a towel beneath my arms as I headed for the oval mirror placed in front of an aged table.

Pulling out the drawer with as much gentleness as I could manage without upending the contents, I fish for the small purse that serves as a makeup bag. Spilling its contents on the clustered tabletop, I picked out the lipgloss and used it to brighten the pink of my lips. Smacking my lips, I smiled at the face staring back before adding a tiny shade of foundation on my face.

Looking good, Mad, is good business, Mum whispered again.

I shook off her words as I finished applying my version of makeup. Done, I let the towel fall and gently guided my bra into place, my underwear coming after. The instant I pulled the black pencil trousers into place, a knock sounded on the door.

My head whipped around to the door faster than I intended, and I swallowed a swear. Before I could travel the floor with my gaze, two more knocks sounded.

“Why are you here so early?” I called to the person at the other end of the door. “Don't you have a man to hold you as you sleep?”

The door opened and a white turtle neck, long-sleeved T-shirt clasped around a slender body walked in. She rested on the wall, her dark green eyes sweeping the room.

I try to take in the room from her own eyes: bed near the door without a cover, the table with its chair five feet away at the left corner of the room, family photo on the wall that's somehow gone askew; the dressing table with its drawer out, the contents terrifying disorganized and the oval mirror above it that's dirty at the edges; and the endless mass of clothes and books scattered across the room.

“Before you bring up a very boring summary of how terrible my room is, Olive, I could use some help with a-”

The sight of the plastic cup in her manicured hand shut me off, spreading my lips in a smile.

“Wanna know a secret?” I asked while fitting my legs into the shoe I won't admit is nearing its end.

Olivia walked over as though the clothes and papers aren't part of the room, handed me the cup, squatted with those ridiculous stilettos, and began picking clothes off the floor. “Is this the part where you tell me you love me and can't do anything without me?”

I scoffed, skipping clothes as I headed to the closet opposite the writing table. When I pulled it open, clothes fell to the floor, almost pushing me backward.

“Are you sure you run this orphanage, Mad?” Olivia asked, angling her head in the way she does to get me angry. But she could never make me angry.

“I'm not entirely sure. I know both of us run, it's just unclear who's boss.” With that, I pulled out a white shirt and began fastening the button.

“How long till you meet that sleazeball?” Olivia asked. I couldn't see her but I knew from the sound that she was dealing with the pile inching closer to the restroom. “Also, these papers, am I arranging them?”

I ran through my head for a moment. Most of last night was spent hunting down those papers from depths I didn't remember the room having, in search of papers I'd given up on using.

“Today has to go well,” I said before I can stop myself.

“It will,” Olive assured me, her voice steady.

“I'm not sure but I think the papers should stay. I'll sort through them when I return. I need to save myself the time I spent yesterday in case of another situation.”

“You're finally growing into a woman,” she chirped from behind me, causing laughter to build in my throat as I finished buttoning the top.

“Thank you f-”

“Finish that sentence,” Olivia responded with deadly calm. “And don't be surprised if your teeth don't follow you to the meeting.”

This time the laughter wheezed out of me, spearing through the corners of the small room we were in.

“The kids need this,” I whispered.

“I know,” Olivia answered. I nodded, but have no words. The orphanage was close to its last legs and this meeting, sleazeball or not, has to go well. Desperately had to. “But they won't want you doing anything stupid either.”

“I don't do stupid things,” I snapped, scowling as I went to the table where I woke from. My bag was kept beside the chair last night.

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes,” I affirmed hastily because I knew Olivia. She was a mother hen and would make sure I was alright before ever listening to me.

“Any deadlines today?” I asked as we marched out of the room, the clothes less rowdy, the closet still ajar with clothes decorating the floor, while refusing to accept the sight of the door starting to pull off its hinges.

“Just one. I'm almost done.”

“Good. All that's left is for me to beat this thing and we're solid. Why are you here?” Her eyes surveyed me as though I was a new thing, and she'd deemed me interesting.

Olivia was a writer and a pretty original one too. She made enough to get buy and own a locked savings account. But not enough that I didn't suggest she get a part-time job. In response, she'd dropped an application letter and, she'd never agreed but, forced me to accept her.

“I work here.”

We stepped into the hallway, kids strewing about in clothes that were likely five years out of fashion, two decades worn from use. Most of them shriek their hellos and good mornings as we walk by, a smile slithering my lips as we go.

“Oh! I totally forgot. I actually thought you were my fairy godmother.”

Olivia close behind me, we step into the staircase, years of walking the house making me know which parts to ignore. But with two adults on it, the kids passing by had no choice but to step on the same corner of the steps we—Olivia and I—were avoiding, the creak like a knife chipping at my heart.

“I'm too classy for that,” she responded at the same time she high-fived a kid. “And I brought you something.”

When she didn't offer a response, I knew she wasn't going to say more. Downstairs, I found Ms. Hawthorne at the front desk, her head buried in books she was sorting for the kids. It was more of an oval board placed on four legs. I had it placed near the front door, where the window was large enough to provide all the wind the person sitting there might need.

“Good morning, Ms. Hawthorne,” I called to the septuagenarian who somehow had more energy to burn than me. On paper, she was our receptionist. But Ms. Hawthorne was kind enough to involve herself in everything the house needs to stay afloat, so long ur didn't have to do with her “going to some meeting with rich folks that have attitudes worse than my grandchild.”

“Morning, Maddy. You're up early. Is it today?”

“Yes, it is,” I called, ignoring the jab, and padding over to the desk to see the things I had to handle before going out.

I was still bent over the table when a white envelope peeked through the space, halting in front of me, pink fingernails holding them. There was the logo of golden wings and a rod where the rest of its body should be. Even when I looked up, Olivia said nothing but kept that envelope in my face.

Understanding the message, I opened the paper and read what's in it.

“What's this?” I asked, my anger starting to build.

“That,” Ms. Hawthorne cut in, clawing my attention away from Olivia. “Is the only way you can make sure these kids don't die out of hunger in the orphanage that should keep them safe.”

My eyes were trained on Olivia's as I waited for her to explain. She shrugged before speaking. “It's not like we can force you to do it. It's an opportunity and from what I read, it's not permanent. You can decide to leave the place in two days if you don't like it there.” I made to speak but she cut me off when she continued. “This place is slowly turning into a dump. You need money. We need money. The kids need money. In your hands is an opportunity to get one.”

My head shook with as much anger threatening to swallow me. “That’s why I'm going to meet Mr. Hill! Or have you forgotten about that?” I spat.

Again, that nonchalant shrug, as though my anger wasn't a reasonable emotion. “Mr. Hill might not work out. You'll need a second option in case of that.”

“And if it works out?” I asked, trying to place a firm lid on that anger.

“If it works, you get to choose. To work at a place that'll provide a steady income, or to use the money for the orphanage and wait for the next.”

I rummaged through my bag, searching for things that weren't there. “You know I don't like the idea of leaving the children alone.”

Ms Hawthorne scoffed but Olivia darted her a look before responding. “I stopped bringing these envelopes to you because I know you don't like leaving the kids. But the kids need to eat. They need to wear clothes. To have books that are up to date. For that, Madeline Adelaide Miller, we need money.”

She handed me a mug, smoke billowing from the top. “Now, down that cup, since you've really forgotten the one I brought you upstairs, and make Mr. Hill excited you're allowing him to fund this place.”

My anger found a very far, isolated island to dump itself in at that. She was extremely good at pissing me off, and better at calming me down. But I wouldn't let her off the hook easily.

“You're a piece of work, you know.”

She purred, placing her palms on her face.

“You just love me that way, Mad.”

There were no truer words.