Chapter 2 : Noticed Notice - Last Call

Haven’s POV

It seems like I blink my eyes and, suddenly, my stop is being called over the main speaker of the subway. My muscles feel a little stiff when I move to stand. These heels are killing me!

Fingers still laced around my house keys, I step out onto the station platform. The smell of the city - deep city - hits my nose immediately. The nearby trash is overflowing with to-go boxes from nearby Chinese food restaurants, and I am certain that I see three rats scurry into the base which has been chewed open by their gruesome little teeth.

There is a lingering scent of drainage and sewage along with the dampness of mold that hasn’t been scraped off the tile walls of the subway in ages.

For anyone else, it would be bracing and perhaps offensive, but I have grown up with scents like these, and it is nothing new for me.

I step over some newspapers on the ground which I can only hope are soaked in water, but I silently know better and begin the walk back to my home.

My heels click against the tile as I ascend the steps one at a time. The yellow lights flicker as I pass by them, dating the structure. It gives the place a weird, Matrix-like feel as I pass by, the tiles seemingly glowing with a weird yellowish-green from the light and mildew on the walls.

The sound of screeching tires makes me jump ever so slightly, sending a chill down my spine. I shake it off and look around the street.

Nothing to my left.

Two people on my right, but they’re the friendly neighborhood homeless people who I happen to have a good rapport with ever since I gave them some winter scarves.

Still, the incident from earlier with those frat boys surrounding me like that has me on edge. Instinctively, I keep my fist clenched around my keys and fish my phone out of my purse. I know it is late, but my friend Daisy should still be awake. She’s one of those night owls who like writing late at night.

I flip to my text messaging app and click on Daisy’s name. The little phone call icon dials and the phone begins to ring. I wave to the two homeless people, and they kindly wave back as Daisy picks up the phone.

“Yo! Talk to me.” Daisy’s cheerful tone comes in its signature sing-song-like tone over the line, making me smile.

“Talking. Check, test, one, two, three,” I respond. It is one of those quirky things we do for one another. Daisy wanted to start a podcast with me, arguably still does, and this was one of our brainstormed intros. What we would talk about I had no idea, but it was still a fun possibility.

“Way to go nerd,” says Daisy sarcastically. “What’s popping? You get off work early?”

“Yeah, a bit earlier than normal,” I reply.

“Ahh! So, I am your vocal confirmation to make sure you do not get abducted or murdered?” asks Daisy. “Good! It’s nice to know I am the one you turn to when you feel paranoid and need some company. Fat lot of good I can do from a distance though.”

“You are so reassuring,” I mutter. “If only you would do the same.” I skip over a nearby puddle as I cross the road, ignoring the traffic sign saying I should not cross. There are no cars passing by and, frankly, I did not want to be out lingering on the street if I could avoid it.

“Oh ha ha,” says Daisy. “Thanks, Mom. I will definitely butt dial you when I feel like I can’t handle myself when I am on an interview case at, what, one twenty-four in the morning.”

“I look forward to it,” I reply.

“Anyway, how was your night? Get all the cash? You’d better have at least one weird crumpled one with a stain on it. It is not a good night unless that happens,” says Daisy. I hear her typing away on the keyboard. She must be in the middle of some story or another.

“Yeah, it was a good night. I got cut early, but Cam says he wants me to work a double shift Monday, so that will be a really good payday.”

“Yeah, better bring that foot cream and those crazy foot pressure balls I got you for Christmas. Otherwise, you are going to be hobbling around for the rest of the week. Make sure you do your stretches too,” says Daisy. I laugh and round the corner, seeing my home on the next block.

“Will do,” I reply. “We need to get together during normal human hours and chat. I’m almost home and I want to hear about your story that you’re clicking away at over there.”

“You can hear that?” asks Daisy. “Anyway, sounds good. I’m free tomorrow afternoon. You down?”

“Definitely. Same haunt as normal?” I ask.

“Same haunt,” she says.

“Great! I’ll talk to you then,” I say. With that, I hang up and slip my key into the lock, sliding into the building.

The main building matches the rest of the city—tired and slowly decaying, returning to the earth brick by brick. The front door sticks, just like my shoes do on the floor, but it is the safest place in the neighborhood that is affordable.

I climb up the stairs, pass the broken-down elevator, and finally make it to my floor, turning the lock free and stepping inside. The apartment is a relatively small one with two bedrooms, a living area mixed with the kitchen, and a bathroom.

Thankfully, we don’t have a communal bathroom, though the fight with the spiders is a constant battle. There is a lingering staleness to the air, though I smell disinfectant so Mom must have tidied up earlier.

I go to put my keys into the bowl by my bedroom door when I hear something further inside the apartment. There is a shuffle from the kitchen and there is the lingering smell of soup on the stove.

Are Mom and Dad still awake?

“Hello?” I call softly.

There is more shuffling from the living room area and I see my mother in her faded blue checkered robe step out. We share a lot of the same features, blonde hair, and freckles, but my eyes belong to my dad for sure. She smiles a tired smile at me. I can see her hair is frayed a bit. She looks exhausted.

It must have been a bad day.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she says, her voice soft and sweet, but also saturated with a worn-out tone. “We were about to turn in for the night. There’s some soup on the stove if you want. Here, I’ll get it for you.”

Before I can stop her, she shuffles into the kitchen and begins preparing a bowl for me. In the meantime, I pry off my heels and move to take a seat at the table when I see my father, still awake, in bed in the other room. Thinking better of where I was about to sit, I walk into the bedroom instead and walk up to him.

“Hey, Dad,” I say.

He smiles, despite the tubes fishing out of his nose, and suppresses a cough as he looks at me. He looks sicker than ever. It feels like I am looking at a shadow of a man who used to play tea parties and dolls with me on the floor. Everything feels like a lifetime ago.

“How’s my Haven?” he asks. He sounds more tired than my mom, but he musters a smile.

I lean over, kissing his temple, and sit down on the bed just as Mom comes in with a cup of soup. Vegetable. Nice!

“Good,” I say. “Work was good.” I go into some detail about some of the guys and some of the random drama that the other dancers go through, but for one reason or another, I keep my interaction with the mysterious Cruz and the run-in with the drunken frat boys to myself.

For one, I do not want them to worry because work can sometimes get rough and, secondly, I am still reeling from the entire experience with the men of the evening.

“Well, I am glad to hear you had a good night,” says Dad. His eyes droop dangerously low and I know he is about done for the night.

“Yep, and I am absolutely exhausted,” I say, giving him another kiss on his head before getting up and slipping out of the room.

I practically inhale the rest of my soup before putting the cup in the sink. As I pass by the kitchen table, I see where there are several open bills on the table.

I know exactly what those bills are and keep my eyes fixed on the clear red ink. The number is astronomical and makes me weak in the knees. This is double what I thought it was going to be.

My mom coming into the room interrupts my partial mental spiral. I see she closed the door to the bedroom where my dad is falling asleep. I pretend to have not seen the paper, but she closes the door and hovers over the table, eyes fixed on the papers. I know she wants to talk about it, but the real question is whether or not I am ready to talk about it.

“Haven,” she says. Her voice is barely above a whisper. My heart breaks at how defeated she sounds.

“I know,” I mutter. Our eyes fix on the red numbers. “Is this the first notice? Or second?”

“First,” she mutters. Her jaw clenches as she leans heavily into the table. “I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Mom, we are going to be all right,” I say as reassuringly as I can, even though there is a wicked part of me that does not even believe the words I am saying. I try and catch her eye, but it is almost like she does not want to look me in the eye.

“How are we going to pay for this?” she asks softly. It sounds like she was asking rhetorically, not looking for a real answer.

I bite the inside of my cheek until it feels like I am about to taste the iron of my own blood. Tears start sliding down my mother’s face.

“Mom, we are going to be all right,” I repeat, stepping around the table and pulling her into a hug. I let her cry for a few minutes before she composes herself. She nods and quietly shuffles off to bed, muttering that she loves me as she leaves.

Exhausted physically and, now, emotionally, I stagger into my room and flop down on my bed. I close my eyes and see the numbers on the hospital bill. I open my eyes to the darkened ceiling and see the numbers on the hospital bill.

They will not go away.

How are we going to pay for this? I wonder to myself as I pry myself out of my corset and slip into an oversized shirt and baggy pants.

As I throw my purse off my bed, the little card with the name “Cruz” slips out.

Was it fate?

Was it an answer?

Or was it a mocking joke?

I think back to his words about how he was going to pay me and that, if I was interested, I should contact him. With the zeros dancing in front of my eyes on that cursed bill, I snatch up the card and stare at the numbers of his phone number.

With a certain reluctance, I punch in the numbers on my phone and twiddle my thumbs over the keys as I think about what to say. Finally, the words come to me.

‘It’s Haven. Still need a date for tomorrow night?’

One minute.

Only one minute goes by before I receive a message in return.

‘Absolutely, and having you on my arm will be the privilege of a lifetime.’

I know it is a line, but I take it as a good sign. Before I drift off to sleep, I text back.

‘Forward the details and do not be late.’

What on earth did I just get myself into?