Temp

Moving back in with my mother wouldn’t have been my first choice at twenty-eight years old.

It’s not even my hometown. I grew up in Danville, Virginia, the only daughter of a plumber and a waitress, but my father died when I was in college and my mother remarried and moved to Milford, a much smaller town in south-central Virginia. When my stepfather died of a heart attack a few years ago, she stayed.

I’ve been to Milford plenty of times—anytime I went to see my mom over the past eight years. It’s cute enough for a visit. Small, but there’s a local college, so it has more stores and restaurants than most towns this size. But I don’t know a soul except my mother, and I’m in the middle of a PhD program at UVA. I’m done with my coursework, so I was supposed to start writing my dissertation this semester. I was looking forward to quiet months of research, writing, and a couple of intro French classes to teach.

Instead, my mother fell down the stairs at church and broke her leg, so I’m in Milford until she’s back on her feet. She’s completely immobilized by the fracture and full-leg cast, and she can’t get by on her own. She’s got plenty of friends who are willing to help her during the day, but neither she nor I can afford to pay for someone to stay with her during the night.

So it’s me. Of course I’m going to do it. But it means I’ll have to move in with my mom and live in Milford for much longer than a visit.

On a Monday morning in February, I get up early so I’ll have time to help my mom go through her morning routine and still have time to shower and dress for the first day of my new temp position at Milford College.

My mom is situated in her recliner, and she smiles when I come into the room. “You look so pretty, Polly.”

I’ve got long brown hair, big brown eyes, and a soft, curvy appearance. There’s nothing about me that particularly stands out, but I guess I’m attractive enough. Today I’m wearing a long, soft skirt in a pretty floral fabric, a tailored brown jacket, and tall boots. I spent longer than normal deciding what to wear. In my experience, college campuses are not particularly formal, but I do want to look professional. This outfit would look appropriate in any office at UVA, so I assume it will be fine for Milford too. “Thanks. I don’t know how this VP is going to expect his assistant to dress, but hopefully this will be okay.”

“I think you look perfect. How do you feel?”

“Honestly, kind of nervous. I’m not sure I’m going to be any good at this. I don’t have any experience as an administrative assistant. I’m not sure why they even hired me.”

“You’ll be just fine. It’s just a temp job. They’re not going to expect that much of you. You’re so smart you can handle anything. If you can get a PhD, you can do this.”

I almost laugh. “I think doing a PhD is an entirely different skill set than this. I hate making phone calls. I don’t like talking to strangers. I’m not sure why I thought I could do this.”

The truth is I know exactly why I’m doing this. I don’t have much choice. I’ve had to give up my teaching assistantship in the French program at UVA, so I’ve got to find some sort of temp work to make enough money to pay my bills for the next few months.

Anyone who’s ever tried to find temp work in a small town will know how challenging that can be. I was afraid I’d have to drive forty-five minutes to Danville every day to find a job, but then a position opened up at Milford College. The assistant of one of the vice presidents is on maternity leave, and they need someone to fill in at her desk.

So here I am—about to spend several weeks pretending I’m a good administrative assistant and hoping no one finds out I’m just a shy, bookish girl who would far prefer to be hiding in the corner of a library than staffing a VP’s desk.

“Are you going to be okay here by yourself until nine when Greta comes?” I ask my mom after bringing her a fresh mug of tea.

“Yes, I’ll be fine. You go ahead and go. You don’t want to be late for your first day.”

I don’t want to be late. I really need this job. If I can hold on to it for the seven weeks they’ve scheduled it for, then I’ll have made enough money to scrape by until I go back to Charlottesville.

The next several weeks don’t have to be great. I just need to get by. This is only temporary. I’ll get back to my real life eventually.