What? Oh my goodness. How could she not have got it? So stupid…. A lecture series in a women’s shelter

IT

was one of those jobs from a friend of a friend of a friend, who then begged you so you felt flattered and forced all in one. A job that found you, even if you weren’t looking for it. Though maybe she was.

An ad campaign for a summer lecture series entitled, “Stand Tall!”

“It’s about empowerment, not good posture,” the friend of a friend of a friend explained, when Maya called her to brainstorm.

“Hmmm. Okay, so maybe if the woman is standing, not running, a slightly pensive look….”

“Go abstract. I mean, what exactly are you going to depict, a woman with a bruise on her arm, with her jaw at a determined angle?”

What? Oh my goodness. How could she not have got it? So stupid…. A lecture series in a women’s shelter.

A women’s shelter, for battered or abused wives and kids.

Which was why the compensation was so laughable.

Which was why she had to make a stunning ad.

Which is also how she got to know Chana, who had been sitting at the scrubbed kitchen table when she came in to discuss the final concept, a silvery purple headscarf framing her face, bringing out a glint of blue in her gray eyes. Chana was drinking Turkish coffee, and when Maya walked in, she glanced up at her and sipped her coffee, and asked, “Batterer or narcissist?”

Maya shook her head, too quickly, and felt her palms grow clammy. What was she doing here?

Chana sniffed. “Physical, emotional, financial, or other?” She whipped her head around and the purple scarf on her head swished through the air.

Maya just stood there, feet slightly apart. “No….” She shook her head. “No, no, not at all.”

“So what are you doing here?” Chana had gulped down the coffee, though steam was still curling from it.

She was wiry, a small woman but with an electrical field around her, a zum hum of what? Energy, undefined. Not bad, necessarily. An alertness, maybe?

“I’m just a graphic designer. For the lecture series.”  She showed her the sign.

Chana turned her dark eyes toward her. “Ah. That’s what you think. I’ve been living here for a few months now. Only people who need to be here find their way to this place.”

Maya had walked out of there, promising herself to never, ever take another job from them and never, ever, ever to step foot into that place. Not that there was anything wrong with it, not really. Beige couches, with colorful throws. Large, speckled tiles, a modern white kitchen with black granite counters. The walls had paintings of ocean waves and sunsets, as well as some messy string creation that could have been boho if it worked, which it didn’t quite.

But still. Not a place she wanted to be.