"I'm not sure," he says.

When we get to the conference room, there's a redheaded fellow with a tan who I know works in Human Resources. He's sitting at the conference table closest to the window. This morning, the mountains, which I normally don't pay much attention to, seem bigger, closer, much more imposing than their normal postcard backdrop.

"Good morning, Ms. Stokes. I'm Daniel Merrick, from Human Resources. Would you mind having a seat?"

"If this won't take long, I'd prefer to stand, if you don't mind."

I'm wondering what's in that manila envelope, although I think I already know. I still want to hear it. Mr. Mann is standing at the far end of the table. He looks pasty. His jawbone is jumping. The sweat on his freshly shaved skin is glistening. "What's this about?" I ask the HR guy before either of them has a chance to speak. I'm not stupid. I've heard about how these things go down. Nevertheless, I want freckle-face here to tell me in his very own hit-the-road language.

"As you know, Ms. Stokes, the company has been undergoing some tough times over the past few years. Profits are down and losses are up. This is one of the reasons for our impending merger."

I feel my hips rock. My weight shifts to one leg. I know this is tacky and ghetto, but sometimes my body has its own brain. I feel like I'm rolling my eyes at him but I will them to stop. I also want to cross my arms. I don't do this either. Instead, I stand there like a slave about to be sold-all for their live entertainment. I'm just waiting for those magic words to roll off his tongue.

He clears his throat. "As a result of this shift, we're being forced to make some adjustments in personnel-namely a reduction." He opens that large manila envelope, pulls out the company's white one and hands it to me. What a fucked-up job he has. "We have truly valued your contribution to the company over the past eighteen years, and you'll see evidence of this outlined in the severance package we're offering you."

I reach down and pick up the envelope. "Am I supposed to open this right now?"

"Yes."

"I'd rather take it to my office and read it."

"We'd appreciate it if you would take a look at the terms and conditions now. Someone will then escort you out of the building."

"Escort me out of the building?"

"Yes, Ms. Stokes. Your office has already been packed up and all of your personal belongings are in those boxes over there."

I look down and see all the stuff I've accumulated over the years. This office was my second home. I can't believe these bastards had the nerve to go through my cabinets and drawers and apparently even the closet. This feels exactly the same as when my apartment got robbed right after college. It is such a violation. Such an invasion of my fucking privacy. In those boxes are everything from my feminine hygiene products and makeup to workout clothes along with soiled socks stuck inside a pair of running shoes. Panty hose. I even see my snacks and perishable food they took out of the little fridge behind my desk. These bastards. Two of my favorite umbrellas and my black patent-leather raincoat. It's balled up. These bastards. Worst of all, on top of one box in a double frame are two pictures of my mom and dad: when they were married in I942, and on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. These bastards. Beside them is a picture of Romeo and Juliet dressed in red and white, sitting on Santa's lap with Sparrow, who looks bored. Then there are my yellow tulips in two glass vases sitting in water. Everybody thinks they're real. I am not, however, like them: dead in the water. Not even close.

I rip open the envelope. There is a check inside I don't bother to look at because no matter what the amount, it couldn't possibly be enough to compensate me for all the fucking years I've given this fucking company. I don't feel like reading the letter. I fold the papers and shove them back inside the envelope. "What about what's on my computer?"

"It's company property."

"But I've got personal as well as private information on that computer!"

"It's company property, Ms. Stokes. We're also going to need your parking pass and your BlackBerry, as well as the security card that lets you into the building."

"Anything else?" I ask while whipping all of this stuff out of my purse and tossing it on the table. Some of it slides right in front of Mr. HR.

"We would like you to know you are eligible for rehire should things change. We've paid you for all sick and vacation days, and you have the option of continuing your health insurance through COBRA. To show our appreciation for your contribution to the company, we've given you two weeks' severance pay for each year of service. We hope you'll find this agreeable."

"I can't thank you enough." I turn to leave.

"Oh, one last thing, Ms. Stokes. The terms of your termination must be kept confidential insofar as other employees are concerned."

"So you're saying I'm not allowed to tell anybody who works here why or how you fired me?"

"We're not firing you."

"Well, thanks for the advance notice. But you want to know something?"

Mr. Mann looks fearful and Mr. HR looks like he's prepared to call security, which I will learn when I walk out of here is standing right outside the door. I guess this is why people go postal postal, but they have no idea what a favor they've done for me, which is why I look at them and say, "I'd like to thank you both for giving me the opportunity to work here for the past eighteen years, but now I think I'd rather work at Walmart."

I'm so pissed off I'm shaking. I pick up one of my boxes and push the other one with my foot. The security guard offers to help and I tell him no thank you. I can manage. When I glance around the corner to see if Lucille is here-and of course she's not-I hope she realizes now how coming in early all these years didn't pay off. As I press the elevator button and get on, I see Norman. He doesn't see me yet. His instincts were right this time. Norman's a quiet yet friendly guy, widowed forever and with no children. He's shown us photos of property he bought in Costa Rica because he was planning to build on it when he retired in four years. Mr. Mann is leading him toward the conference room, too. Poor Norman. I push the boxes over to the side and pretend to be searching for something in my purse. I want to look as frazzled as I usually do when I'm on my way to a meeting. I don't bother to look up until after the doors squish shut. We are all just a fucking number We are all just a fucking number is what I'm thinking when the doors pop open to the parking garage. is what I'm thinking when the doors pop open to the parking garage.

The boxes barely fit in my car. I put one on the backseat and the other on the passenger seat. I get behind the wheel and sit for what feels like hours. Eventually I put the key in the ignition. I'm wondering if what just happened really happened. If I really and truly no longer have a job. I suddenly feel scared as hell and yet relieved at the same time. It is not a good feeling, because I don't know which one I should trust. I turn the key hard. I gun the engine. It sounds loud down here. Not loud enough. I gun it again and again and again, until I see the exhaust coming from the tailpipe.

When I come to my senses, I look around to see if anyone has noticed, and there, standing a few feet away, is Norman. He has no boxes, just an outdated attache case and a plaque he got ten years ago for doing something none of us who went into his office ever paid any attention to. Right now, those spider veins on his face look like a map. That brown plaid jacket he has worn on a weekly basis no matter what the temperature is drooping off his shoulders. Norman looks like he's lost weight. Our eyes meet. Mine say, "What are you going to do now, Norman?" His say, "I don't know."

He waves. I try to smile as I wave back, and then I back out of my parking space. I have no idea what a person is supposed to do when they don't have a job anymore. What on earth do you do when you have nothing but free time?

I decide to go to one of my favorite outlets. I float in and out of one store after another, trying on expensive clothes I wouldn't ordinarily look at twice. Almost all of them are orange. I'm waiting for that thrill I usually get. I don't feel it. It doesn't stop me from trying. After three hours, the only thing I remember buying is a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots (I don't even like cowboy boots); sexy lingerie from Victoria's Secret that I'll probably never wear; a neon blue Nano for Sparrow and a silver one for me. I get new outfits for Romeo and Juliet, one of which they already have.

I buy so much stuff I have to make four trips to the parking lot because I can't carry it all. I shove so many bags into my Porsche I have no idea how they all fit. The sound of each bag rubbing against another is so pronounced I feel like throwing them all out the window.

I'm hoping Sparrow is still at practice. However, the first thing I see when I hit the garage door opener is her hybrid. I can't tell where that hole was she made in the wall. The damage to my Porsche wasn't as bad as she thought. I leave everything I bought in the car. I'll get it when I get it. The kids jump and bounce and bark when they seem me. It doesn't seem cute today.

Sparrow appears at the top of the stairwell. "Are you all right, Mom?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because I know what happened."

"And just how would you know what happened to me today?"

"Because I called you at work and they said you didn't work there anymore. And I know you didn't quit. You got riffed. We study this in civics class, and a hecka lot of my friends' parents have had the exact same thing happen to them. I'm really sorry, Mom." She comes down and puts her arms around me like I'm her little girl. "We'll be fine. I'll start looking for a part-time job tomorrow. You can have as much of my check as you need. All of it."

"Thank you, baby. We don't have to worry about any of that right now. This is probably for the best. It just knocks the wind out of you. I'll be fine. We'll be fine. How are you?"

She turns to run back upstairs and then stops. "I think my heart was broken today, too. Gustav broke up with me."

"Why?"

"He says he thinks he's gay. I asked him how do you think think it? Anyway, I told him never mind trying to explain it. We're still going to hang out and do stuff because we like each other's heads. So, I guess I've got a new friend. Anyway, I've got studying to do. I'm going to say goodnight. Goodnight, Mom. I love you." She trounces up the stairs and closes her door, and within minutes I hear her playing the violin. it? Anyway, I told him never mind trying to explain it. We're still going to hang out and do stuff because we like each other's heads. So, I guess I've got a new friend. Anyway, I've got studying to do. I'm going to say goodnight. Goodnight, Mom. I love you." She trounces up the stairs and closes her door, and within minutes I hear her playing the violin.

I want to tell somebody what happened today but don't think I have any energy left to repeat it. When the phone rings I answer it without bothering to check caller ID.

"What're you up to?" Savannah asks.

"Oh, not much. I went on a shopping spree today."

"So, what else is new?"

"Oh, nothing, really. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I did get canned today."

"You got what what?"

"You heard right."

"You're not saying you were fired?"

"They call it downsizing since we . . . I mean they're going through a merger. Same thing. They do it like they're the Gestapo and you're a spy or something. They actually put all of my shit in boxes and wouldn't even let me go into my office."

"Damn. I'm really, really sorry to hear this, Robin."

"I know. I'm still trying to digest it. But at least they gave me a decent-enough severance package. Enough to keep me going for a while."

"I know this is a stupid question, and you may not have had time to think about it yet: but what are you going to do?"

"I have no idea, Savannah. None whatsoever."

"Wanna go to Paris?"

Before I can register that Savannah is really inviting me to go with her, and before I can even think long enough about whether I could afford it, and before I can take another three seconds to weigh the pros and cons, but mostly before she has a chance to come to her senses and change her mind, I say, "Hell yeah!"

Stick a Fork in Me: I'm Done

"I'm a little nervous," Bernadine says.

"It's okay. I understand," the woman on the other end of the phone says. "So you think you have a problem with tranquilizers and sleeping pills. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"What kinds of tranquilizers are you taking?"

"Xanax."

"Five milligram?"

"No. Two point five."

"How many a day?"

"One. Sometimes two."

"And this is the maximum you've ever taken?"

"Yes."

"Any opiates?"

"What's that?"

"Vicodin, Percocet, things of that nature."

"No."

"That's good. Anything else?"

"Ambien."

"Five milligrams?"

"Yes."

"Every night?"

"No. But often."

"About how often?"

"It depends. Last week I took two. Some weeks none. Rarely more than two nights in a row."

"Are you taking any other types of medication?"

"Zoloft."

"Have they helped?"

"I don't know."

"And how long have you been taking these?"

"Which ones?"

"All three."

"Off and on about six years."

"What did you do during the off years?"

"Nothing."

"Any alcohol?"

"A glass of wine or a beer every now and then. But never after I've taken a Xanax."

"Do you consume any caffeine?"

"Coffee. No soda."