Steamed

from nine to five, she was nuts. After two hours of trying to digest harassment facts, I decided to start on a social work school assignment I’d been putting off. Our General Practice professor had assigned us the task of detailing our field placement experiences in a journal in which we were free to write about whatever we wanted.
    “Day 1,” I wrote. “Am forced to read lurid stories of workplace harassment while confined to poorly decorated minioffice. Management has opted not to include windows in decor so as to keep staff (me and Naomi) diligently focused on work at hand. Have avoided answering calls all morning since cannot recall exact name of organization. Every time the phone rings I must pretend to be so engrossed in literature that have not even heard incessant ringing. Naomi has encouraged me to take on projects on my own and am considering painting office and creating new filing and storage space. (May not be traditional social work per se, but would contribute to staff morale and psychological well-being). Will order tons of stuff from Hold Everything catalogue and write off for tax deduction. Will discuss with Naomi next week. Am pleased that am not forced to work in community mental health center or hospital psych ward, like some peers, and do not have to deal with those with schizophrenia or other pathological disorders. Although, may go cuckoo in this office come May. Naomi seems to be a hands-off supervisor since is not here today or tomorrow—very nice. Looking forward to stimulating field placement this year.”
    I left at two on Monday. On Tuesday I left at one, having written Naomi a note to say that on the previous day, I’d looked everywhere for her in front of the State House and that although I hadn’t found her, I’d still stood with other women chanting and holding a sign that read No More! I had, in fact, only passed through the crowd on my way to the T and, unable to determine exactly what the group was protesting, had chosen to participate in a protest of my own by objecting to being stuck in a dimly lit office on a sunny September day.
    That afternoon I finally reached Adrianna on the phone. “You found a date at Eric’s funeral!” she screamed with delight. “That’s the Chloe I know and love!” After a short rendition of “Back in the Saddle,” she wanted every detail about Josh. “He sounds amazing. And a chef! Oh my God! I can’t believe we’re going to Magellan. This is going to be unbelievable!”
    Now that’s a best friend. No irritating questions about guilt or innocence—she knew that the only concern here was what the hell I was going to wear.
    “So,” I begged, “will you come over on Friday and help me get ready? And can I borrow something to wear? The nicest thing I have is the blue dress you made me, but it seems sort of disrespectful to wear it again since that’s what I had on when I, uh, went out with Eric.”
    “I’ll be there at four, okay? Um, make it three o’clock. Miraculously, I’m off for the weekend after eleven, so I’ll come over early. Will you be done with classes by then?” she asked.
    I said I would, and she promised to bring over an assortment of outfits for me to choose from. Owen would pick us up and drive us to Magellan so we could both drink. At the very least, I’d need some wine to calm my jitters.
    Josh had left me a message on Monday to make sure we were still coming. So far, I’d replayed it about forty times, just loving the sound of his voice. When I told Adrianna about the message, she squealed, “Oh, I want to hear it!” I gave her my voice mail password and hung up. A minute later she called back. “He sounds totally dreamy. I can’t wait for Friday.”
    “Tell me about it,” I agreed. We said good-bye, and I went back to reading the Social Work Code of Ethics for class on Wednesday. I had Group Therapy first and General Practice after that.
    Group Therapy met at eight in the morning, which I thought totally went against the social work code of respecting all individuals (and allowing them to sleep late). But on Wednesday, I managed to show up on time and found an empty seat between two women, one about my age and one who was probably in her forties. I’d noticed that approximately half my classmates were middle-aged, and last week when we were all forced to introduce ourselves in each class, learned that a lot of people were making drastic midlife career changes by coming to social work school.