No Ordinary Love (10 page)

Is this really happening?

“Trina, are you there?”

No. I’m floating on air!
“Yes, I’m here.”

“How soon can you make it to LA?” Mr. Davis asked.

“How soon do you need me?” Trina asked.

“As soon as possible,” Mr. Davis said.

“I can be there tomorrow.”
I have plenty of vacation days saved up.

“Morning or afternoon?” Mr. Davis asked.

“Um, let’s say, noon,” Trina said.
I can’t afford a plane ticket to LA. I’ll have to take the bus, I’ll have to leave tonight, and I’m sure the bus makes plenty of stops between here and LA. I’ll be lucky to get there by noon.

“Great,” Mr. Davis said. “We’ve e-mailed you all the information you’ll need to find us. So we’ll see you tomorrow at noon?”

“Tomorrow at noon, yes,” Trina said breathlessly. “Thank you.”

“Bye.”

They chose me!

“Yes!”

They chose me—

To audition for a role. The role of the jilted lover. The role of the woman scorned. The role of the angry ex. But I’m not furious or even that angry anymore. I am sad, that’s all, and mostly because I can’t afford a plane ticket to LA.

And I’m also sad that I have to inform ES that I will not be working the rest of today and all day tomorrow.

Who am I kidding? I’m not sad at all!

I am so out of here.

She marched purposefully to the break room on the second floor, to Nurse Sprouse, who was greedily smacking her bloodred lips on a cheesesteak sub and cackling to Inez and Danica.

They’re obviously on an extended lunch break. It must be nice to be light-skinned and well rested at work.

“Nurse Sprouse,” Trina said, “may I have a word with you?”

“What do you want, Woods?” Ellen asked.

“I’m taking the rest of the day off today and all day tomorrow, Nurse Sprouse,” Trina said.

Nurse Sprouse swiveled in her chair to face her. “I can’t have that.”

Inez and Danica shared a smile.
Light-skinned wenches. Nurse Sprouse has always favored you for your light skin and Caucasian features. ES isn’t a racist—she’s a colorist. We can’t have any white-looking African American nurses getting their hands dirty here at Saint Francis.

“I am entitled to some time off, Nurse Sprouse,” Trina said. “I haven’t used a vacation day since I started working here.”

“Are you sick?” Nurse Sprouse asked.

Of you and my “stepsisters,” yes.
“No. I need some time off, that’s all.”

“Times like these make me wonder if I can count on you, Woods,” Nurse Sprouse said.

What times?
“I have not missed a day of work for the last ten years,” Trina said. “Even when I was going through my divorce, I was always here for my shift. That’s over twenty-five
hundred
straight days without an absence. Name anyone else on the nursing staff who can say that.”

Inez and Danica exchanged puzzled looks.
They share the same brain.

“It’s the impulsive nature of your request, Woods,” Nurse Sprouse said. “Had you given me a week’s notice, I could have adjusted the master schedule to avoid the problems your absence will create.”

“It just came up,” Trina said. “Couldn’t be helped.”

Nurse Sprouse frowned. “Inez, do you have a time-off form handy?”

Of course she does. Inez has every form known to the medical profession on her clipboard. It’s why Inez’s left arm is bigger than her right.

“Right here, Nurse Sprouse,” Inez said. She handed the form to Nurse Sprouse.

Nurse Sprouse whipped out a pen. “What is the purpose of your time off?”

“I am not required to tell you that,” Trina said.

Nurse Sprouse checked a box. “Would not disclose reason for absence. When will you be back?”

I already told you.
“The day after tomorrow.”

Nurse Sprouse wrote a short narrative on the form. “Before you leave today, I need you to arrange adequate coverage for your absences.”

Say what?
“Isn’t that your job, Nurse Sprouse?”

“I make the master schedule,” Nurse Sprouse said. “This little adventure you’re taking is not on the master schedule. You will have to find someone willing to work in your place during your absence.”

“That’s not in any of the regulations, Nurse Sprouse,” Trina said.

“If you don’t find someone to cover for you, I will have to mark this absence as unpaid,” Nurse Sprouse said.

Inez and Danica shared a soft giggle.
Idiots.

“You can’t do that, Nurse Sprouse,” Trina said, “and if you do, I will file a grievance. I have sixteen weeks of vacation saved up. That’s four months. I am legally entitled to use them whenever and however I want to.”

“You’re not a team player, Woods,” Nurse Sprouse said. “I shall note that on your next evaluation.”

Whatever, ES.
Trina smiled at Inez and Danica. “At least I do nurse work. Oh, is that a paper cut on your finger, Danica? You better not let it get infected.”

Before Trina left for the long but happy walk to the Greyhound bus station, she went online and read critical reactions to Vincent St. John’s suspension of the show:

“
Rich Man, Lucky Lady
caters to the least common denominator in our society. We revel in the fall of others, and some of the falls last night are bound to be permanent. How many privacy laws did Mr. St. John break last night? Why is it so wrong for us to have secrets?”

Because secrets don’t remain secrets forever, and people can often get hurt because of them.

“While these women did wrong by lying, Mr. St. John has also done wrong by giving all women a bad name on the basis of two dozen misguided souls. Those women were in no way representative of the American woman.”

Um, well, sad to say, they kind of were—for what networks choose to put on television.

“This is a man who has it going on! If every man investigated the women he dated the way this guy did, the divorce rate would plummet overnight. Forget eHarmony.com or Match.com. Hire yourself some private investigators.”

If you can afford to.

“It is sad, so sad that a man of means has to resort to Jerry Springer–type tactics to find a wife. Isn’t he trying to buy love? What does this say about our society? Where has romance gone?”

Romance no longer exists. I don’t know why people keep looking for it.

She laughed.

And here I am about to go to LA for the second chance to find it.

I’m either the last romantic soul left on earth . . . or I’m the most foolish woman who ever lived.

10

A
fter sleeping most of the night as the bus sped south through San Jose, Santa Cruz, Salinas, San Luis Obispo, Santa Maria, and Santa Barbara, Trina woke up somewhat wrinkled but hopeful when the bus crept through Oxnard and North Hollywood. She took a cab from the Greyhound station in downtown LA to West Pico Boulevard in Century City.

The cab fare cost more than the round-trip bus fare from San Francisco did.

Once inside the studio, she looked at about one hundred women there for the audition and didn’t see a single black woman.

I know I shouldn’t stare or check other women out, but I can’t help it. They’re obviously checking me out. What is
she
doing here? She’s black, and she’s not even that cute. This is a white show. She can’t be Spanish. She’s too dark. With her pores, she won’t look good in HD at all. How bad could
her
life be? My boo left me at the altar in front of two thousand wedding guests while Zamfir played the pan flute and Yanni played the piano . . .

Trina was one of the last women called into Chet Davis’s office. After Trina posed for several photos against a tropical beach background, Mr. Davis motioned her to a comfortable chair in front of his massive desk.

“I’m glad you could make it, Trina,” Mr. Davis said.

“I’m glad to be here, Mr. Davis.”

“Do you have any questions for us?” Mr. Davis asked.

I thought they were supposed to interview me!
“You don’t have any questions for me?”

“Your application was complete and thorough,” Mr. Davis said. “You checked out one hundred percent.”

“I . . . checked out,” Trina said.

“You told us the truth,” Mr. Davis said. “About your job, your divorce, your educational background. After what happened on
Rich Man, Lucky Lady,
the network made us go over the applications again. You are who you say you are.”

And all the others who auditioned before me checked out, too? That horde of plastic surgery, tummy tucks, and boob jobs out there? They
all
checked out?

“So, do you have any questions for me?” Mr. Davis asked.

“Um, when would the show begin?” Trina asked.

“Next week,” Mr. Davis said.

Wow! I made it just in time.
“I have plenty of vacation days saved up,” Trina said. “I’ve, um, never been able to take a vacation since I started working. I worked double-shifts so my ex could get through med school without him worrying about the bills. And I’m the one who’s paying. Still paying.”

“Any other questions?” Mr. Davis asked.

Did he hear a word I said?
“When will I find out if I, um, make the final cut?”

“You have already made our final cut, Trina,” Mr. Davis said. “You are officially one of the final twelve ‘Second Chancers.’”

I am?
“On the basis of this interview?”
Which really hasn’t been much of one.

“Yes,” Mr. Davis said. “This interview and your background check.”

I guess having a low credit score doesn’t stop me from getting a second chance in television romance world.
“Do you think I have a real shot?” Trina asked.

“Every one of our twelve finalists has a shot,” Mr. Davis said. “And you’ll find out soon. The online voting begins in a few hours.”

The . . . online voting.
“What online voting?”

“Online voters will determine who gets a second chance,” Mr. Davis said. “And people can vote as often as they want to for the next twenty-four hours. It’s one way we gauge interest in the show. The more votes, the more potential viewers.” He stood and extended a hand. “It was nice to meet you, Trina. Good luck.”

Trina stood and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”

As she sullenly rode the bus out of LA a few hours later, Trina took stock of her situation.
I will have ridden eight hundred miles in a stuffy bus in less than twenty-four hours to be photographed for five minutes and talked to for two minutes, selected as a finalist, probably because I was the only black woman to apply, only to find out that online voters will select the woman who gets a second chance. What a waste of time and money! There’s no way this country is going to vote for me. Maybe the producers had to have one black finalist so they didn’t get into trouble with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.

The woman sitting next to her played some strange candy game on her smartphone.

“Excuse me,” Trina said. “Are you online?”

“I can be,” the woman said.

“My phone is pretty basic.” She showed the woman her phone. “It’s the latest thing in
twentieth
century technology.”

“I had one of those
fifteen
years ago,” the woman said. “Yours still works?”

“Most of the time,” Trina said. “Could you go to the
Second Chances
Web site for me?”

The woman found the Web site and scrolled down. “Hey, isn’t that you?”

There I am, looking wrinkled and tired. Not a bad smile. I didn’t know I still could. I wish they had put some makeup on me.
“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Nice to meet you, Trina Woods,” the woman said. “I’m Clara.”

“Nice to meet you, Clara,” Trina said.

A flashing
VOTE
NOW
! banner crawled across the screen.

Clara clicked on the banner. “I’m going to vote for you.”

At least I’ll have one vote.
“Thank you.”

“It says I can vote as often as I want to,” Clara said. “I’m on my way to Vancouver. I wonder how many times I can vote by then.”

“Don’t go to any trouble,” Trina said.

“It’s no trouble,” Clara said. “And if you win, I can say, ‘I sat with that woman on the bus.’ ”

“Thank you.”

A few hours later a little north of San Luis Obispo, Trina’s phone rang. “Hello?”

“I didn’t know you were using your maiden name now,” a man said.

Robert.
“Hi, Robert. How’s Dr. Too White today? Has her skin blinded you yet? I’d recommend wearing sunglasses. Wouldn’t want you to go blind. Blind surgeons don’t make any money.”

“Putting our business out there like that,” Robert said. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He’s ignoring my every word as usual, but at least I’ve pissed
him
off for a change.
Trina smiled. “What business, Robert?”

“Our marriage,” Robert said. “On the Internet of all places!”

I’d ask how he found out so quickly, but I don’t really want to know.
“I didn’t lie about a single thing, Robert.”

“Dr. Francis called me,” Robert said. “The chief surgeon, Katrina, my
ultimate
boss. He told me there’s this nurse from San Francisco on some reality show Web site named Trina, and she looks an awful lot like your ex-wife. You could have warned me, Katrina. I have a reputation to protect.”

Kuh-trina. I have always hated how he said my name.
“You could have warned me that you didn’t love me, Robert. You could have warned me that you were sleeping with a skinny albino. If she were a star in the sky, she’d be the brightest one. You could have warned—”