Free Helen of Pasadena by Lian Dolan

enchiladas?”

CHAPTER 5
    “I have to be honest. I have nothing for you, because you’re not really qualified for anything at the executive level, even junior executive,” said Elizabeth Maxwell, a tall, striking African-American woman in her early 30s. I was mesmerized by the most beautiful family photo I have ever seen, displayed prominently on her sparkling desk in her sparkling office at Maxwell and Mathers Executive Search, Inc. Elizabeth’s cool voice forced me to focus. “I have out-of-work MBAs who can’t even get interviews for entry-level jobs. There’s nothing on your resume that screams, ‘Hire me.’”
    The only reason she didn’t hoot and howl at my situation was because I was a friend of Tina’s and a fellow Millington mom. The new widow bit was a plus, too. Her use of the word “resume” was the tip-off. My “resume” consisted of a list of charity activities compiled by me and jacked up by Tina to make my years as a mother, wife and community volunteer sound like actual work experience. My time on the decorating committee became “design and branding expertise.” Tina transformed my years as room mother into a position requiring “team-building skills” and “negotiating contracts.” ( With whom? The charter bus company for field trips?) And the many charity dollars I brought in for various organizations were re-purposed as “raising capital” and “budgeting P&L.” My abandoned graduate studies at Berkeley had been redefined as “master’s track coursework.” The woman on the paper was someone with a career.
    I had never had a career.
    I had nothing to “go back to” but a half-finished thesis. I had no law firm like Tina or marketing department like Neutron Melanie to return to on a part-time basis. Instead of building a career in my twenties, I was building a family: getting married at 25, having Aiden at 27, happily staying home and being a mother. Now I was trying to pretend that all those experiences amounted to a job.
    All those experiences amounted to a life, but not a job.
    Even my new Banana Republic suit ( on sale in size 8 !) felt a little ginned-up for the occasion; I never wore tailored shirts or stockings during the day. And the bright pink silk scarf around my neck? Tina said it would make me look younger.
    “If you refuse to use fillers like the rest of the women in town, then you’ll have to do something to cover up that neck!”
    I’d rejected the traditional 40th birthday gifts of Botox, Restalyne or tummy-tuck surgery in favor of a nice dinner with friends. Tina had thought I was crazy. Apparently, my punishment was this scarf. I thought it screamed “Clinique Salesgirl at Bonus Time,” but what did I know?
    Elizabeth Maxwell was not fooled by the resume or the outfit, but she was kind. “I‘ve seen a lot of women like you in the past few years, going back to work after the kids get older. Maybe they need money for college or the husband has lost a job or taken a pay cut. Honestly, your prospects are really grim. You’re capable of doing a job in marketing or communications. And I think your real-life experience is worth as much as any MBA. But corporate America doesn’t see it that way. You’ll end up making less than your housekeeper.”
    Not for long, because I have to let Emilia go, but I knew she was right.
    As I studied the young, successful Elizabeth Maxwell, I wished for the hundredth time since Merritt’s death that I could have a do-over of the last fifteen years. Obviously, I would never trade Aiden, but why wasn’t I more ambitious for myself? Don’t cry . Do not cry.
    “Do you have any advice?” I squeaked out, hoping I didn’t sound too pathetic.
    “You’ve done a lot of volunteer work at the Huntington. Maybe there’s something there in the development office or public relations. They know you, so your dedication to the institution will make up for your lack of job experience. You’re bright, articulate, connected in the