Today, though, I walked in to find the place in barely controlled chaos.
Daisy, my boss, was pacing up and down the tiled floors of the MMHA front office, brandishing a stack of documents. “What the hell are we going to do about this?” she snapped.
Papers from another stack on the front desk flew around the room when the wind from the front door I’d just opened caught them, sweeping them around the foyer.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, watching Daisy cursing and rifling almost frantically through what papers were left on the front desk. Vonnie shot me a wide-eyed look as she scrambled around, trying to help me pick up the papers that were now scattered across the floor.
“I got an email this morning.” Daisy put the papers aside and stood straight, hands on her hips as she glowered at me.
Daisy was one of the few paid employees at MMHA. She was in her mid-thirties. Tall. Thin. Skin darker than mine, with large brown eyes. She always looked lovely, with lips painted deep red and the cutest wigs.
Today, she was rocking a cropped wig. Classy, yet hip. Her lips were pursed, and she was clearly pissed off. Just as clearly, I was the subject of her ire.
I laid the papers I’d rescued on the desk I usually sat at and squared up to her, figuring it was best to take the bull by the horns. “Take a breath, Daisy. Tell me what’s wrong, and what can I do to help.”
She shook her head, visibly trying to rein herself in. “The damn state auditor’s office just emailed me. They want to schedule a meeting to discuss some 501C(3) filing irregularities they found.” Her deep brown eyes bored into me. “Papers you filed, Zorah.”
I wondered if people ever grew out of that sinking, sick, childhood feeling of being called out by the teacher—singled out in class and told you’d done something wrong. Or maybe that was just me?
Taking a moment to breathe and tamp down any defensive or emotional reaction, I made myself consider her words objectively. Could I have made a mistake? I wasn’t a CPA, just a woman with most of a two-year college degree. That said, I was pretty sharp at the whole thing. I didn’t slip, not when it came to money—another reason I managed to survive in south city on a server’s income.
Being good with finances was one of my precious few super powers.
“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” I said, neatening the pile of papers. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m holding you to that, Zorah.” Daisy said seriously. “The auditor asshole will be here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. This is a big deal.”
I nodded, feeling fresh stress settle like a weight on my chest. “I don’t work at AJ’s tomorrow. I can be here. Daisy, I’ll get this sorted out. Trust me.”
Some of the tension in Daisy’s shoulders melted, and she nodded.
“Good,” she said, picking up another stack of papers. “Here. These invoices came in yesterday. They’re due ASAP.”
Her expression settled into something slightly less terrifying, and she patted me on the arm before she disappeared back into her office. I let my breath out. For the most part, Daisy was more bark than bite. She may have been one of the few paid employees here, but with a teenage daughter who’d attempted suicide twice in the past couple of years, this job wasn’t just a job to her. It wasn’t just a job for any of us.
We all had something invested in this venture. We all had something to gain by its success, and we all had something to lose by its failure. To be honest, this volunteer work was one of the few things that actually meant something to me.
Healthcare—including mental healthcare—had been one of my mother’s most important political platforms when she ran for office.
From all accounts, Sasha Bright had been an exceptionally charismatic woman. I didn’t remember very much from back then, but I remember her being beautiful. Loving. Dad said she was popular and successful growing up, and that’s how she ended up in local and state politics before running for a vacant US Senate seat.
I’d really looked up to her. All she was. All she stood for. Maybe I’d been too young to grasp everything about what she was doing, but I knew she was making the world a better place, not just for me and Dad, but for others. That’s really what pushed me to work for the non-profit. I wanted to work at something bigger than myself.
Even twenty years on, I thought of my mother a lot at this time of year, so close to when she was killed.
The older I got, the more passionately I promised myself two things. One, I’d find out what really happened to her, and two, I’d do something significant. Stand up for others who maybe couldn’t stand up for themselves. It felt like the least I could do.
“Need any help?” Vonnie Morgan—my safety call from last night and one of the few people I’d actually call a friend—approached, holding out the papers she’d picked up from the floor.
“God, yes,” I told her. “Can you help me get these invoices processed?” I gestured to the pile Daisy had handed me.
“Sure thing. I hate to say this, but you look like shit, honey,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “Rough night?”
“You have no idea,” I said with feeling.
Vonnie was the single mother of a teenage boy. He was about thirteen, I was pretty sure. She was also an amazingly strong woman, and I was a bit in awe of her. Hell, she had her kid when she was just a baby, herself. Sixteen. After dealing with a dead-beat dad who disappeared and never lifted a finger to support
