“Which floor?” A voice says, breaking me from my trance. Shifting my eyes, I look back at the woman and realize she’s talking to me.
“Fuck, sorry,” I say, slapping my forehead. “Twelfth floor.” Immediately, I look away embarrassed. She totally caught me checking out her husband.
“Oh good, same as us,” she says, pushing the button. “Are you here to receive fertility treatments?” She asks politely. Turning back to her, I give her a ‘are you crazy’ look. Do I look like the type to be able to afford treatment here? I doubt they take Medicaid.
“No, I’m here for an interview,” I answer.
“Oh, you’re a nurse?” She inquires, taking a closer look at me. What the hell? Is this twenty questions? With the luck I’m having today, she could be my interviewer, she’s certainly qualified for the job.
“No,” I reply simply, not giving her any more information. I’m only playing nice because she caught me ogling her husband. Any other time I would have simply told her to fuck off.
“Oh, okay. How old are you if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Nichole, leave the poor girl alone,” McHottie says, giving her an odd look.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, giving me a wide Colgate smile. “Pardon my rudeness. My mouth tends to run away with me sometimes. I blame it on my occupation.”
“Sure,” I reply, happy when the elevator dings as it reaches my floor. I step off, noticing the hot couple also getting off on the same floor then remembering blondie saying they were also going to the twelfth floor. Fuck. Please don’t be my interviewer, I chant in my head. With hurried steps, I go straight to the U-shaped sterile white counter, giving the receptionist a beaming smile.
“Hi, I’m Jade Cooper. I’m here for an interview with Ms. Donaldson.”
I watch her as she types something on her computer while giving me looks of disdain when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I get it. You don’t see people who look like me coming in and out of this building often. My raven black, almost blue, hair was shaved in the back and cut into an edgy style, my body was covered in tattoos, including the huge one of a bird spreading its wings on my neck, not to mention the septum piercing I got done last year. I’m no Malibu Barbie, but my reproductive system has nothing to do with my looks and that’s all they care about here. When she looks up again, she frowns. Uh oh, not a good sign. “You’re late. Take a seat in the waiting room, and I’ll let you know if she still wants to see you.”
Dejected, I follow her orders and sit down like a kid who’s waiting out in the hall to see the principal. I knew I should have just forked over the money and not argued with the prick jumping my car. I could have gotten to my appointment on time and not been sitting out here with a sense of uncertainty. The thing is that I only had twenty-now fifteen-bucks to my name. I need it to last me until payday from this gig. From what I’ve been told, they pay you a nice lump sum as soon as you get knocked up and then the rest after you safely deliver.
The couple from the elevator sits down in the same waiting area and I make sure to avert my eyes. I don’t know what their deal is, but I don’t need Katy Lee over there asking me any more questions. A pleasant looking lady with graying hair comes out and immediately walks over to them.
“You must be the Hastings,” she greets them with a warm smile.
I watch them all leave to the back like a lost puppy. My nerves rush forward and I start to freak out. What if they won’t see me? Sure, I was a little late but twenty minutes is not such a big deal. This is New York for Christ’s sake. Traffic is a certainty. If I come back without a job, that dick Billy will surely throw me out flat on my ass. I’ve almost worked my way into a panic attack when a stern looking woman calls my name. Why couldn’t I get the pleasant lady with the ‘put you at ease’ smile? This woman kinda resembles a vulture. She could totally pass for Mr. Burns’ sister, you know off the TV show ‘The Simpsons’. Her hair is dark, pulled back so tightly in a bun, it looked like she was trying to pull her face off. Speaking of her face, it was all sharp angles, and her nose was long and hooked. The dark suit she had on was immaculate. She probably scared away any poor wrinkle that dared defy her scotch-guard and the skirt she had on was long, like a nun would wear. I take a look at my much higher hem line and swallow hard.
Getting up, I reply, “I’m Jade Cooper.” Well, of course I am. I’m the only one left out here.
She doesn’t reply. She just leads me to the back and I follow her down a narrow sterile looking hallway with bright white walls, our feet echoing with each step. When we get to the last door on the right, she opens it wide and waves for me to take a seat.
“I’m going to be frank with you, Ms. Cooper,” she says, taking her seat behind a huge shiny brown desk.
“Jade, call me Jade, please,” I say, interrupting her.
“Okay then, Jade. We got your test results back from the lab as well as your background check. Ideally, you would make a perfect candidate. You’re in great shape, all your test results came back negative for any diseases, you received high marks on your ability to reproduce and deliver a healthy baby to term. Look wise, your features as well as your body type are in high demand. If you remove the nose piercing and use cover up to hide your tattoos, you could be successful.”
“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?” I ask, interrupting her again.
“But,” she says, narrowing her eyes, clearly not liking the interruption. “Your background check came back with a couple of red flags.”
“Like?” I ask, raising my brow. I’m confused, I’ve never even gotten a parking ticket. I’m not saying I’m a saint, I just never got caught.
“We’re concerned you might carry a trait for mental illness,” she answers.
“How the hell did you come to that conclusion?” I say a little more loudly and shrilly than I intended.
Not fazed by my outburst, Ms. Vulture Face says, “Isn’t your mother currently committed in Sandy Hills, a mental institution in South Carolina?” Oh shit. Fuck, I should have known that would come up. The background check they made me do was not the run of the mill form. I felt like I was applying for a job to guard the president.
“Yeah, but she’s only there for her depression. Nothing insane like schizophrenia. She’s not crazy nor does she hear voices or whatever crazy people do.”
“We’ve talked to her doctors. She goes in and out of catatonic states and barely functions on her own.”
“What?” I shout, pissed. “How the hell did you do that without my permission? Isn’t that illegal or some shit?”
“No, it’s not, Ms. Cooper. You gave us permission when you signed the form allowing us to have full access to any records we may need to assess you.”
“Oh,” I reply, dumbly. I seriously didn’t know what else to say. I was screwed and not in the fun way.
“We are one of the highest rated fertility clinics in the country. We deeply vet all our clients and applicants and in doing so, we have one of the highest success rates. Every detail of information about you goes on file and is given over to our clients when they go through the process of selecting a surrogate, and I’m confident, my dear, you won’t be selected when they read about your mother, so I’m sorry, we won’t be able to offer you employment.