Being mortified after finding out that a lifetime dream is about to become reality seems counter-intuitive, but this is what me and my husband felt in March, as we walked out of the USA Embassy in Romania, our home country.
“OK, so
we have a visa. What now?” I asked C., squeezing the voluminous paperwork in my
hands. He looked puzzled. We had absolutely no acquaintances in Chicago, the
town we choose to live our American dream and we were supposed to leave in less
than six months.
Our
miracle came through Facebook.
In true social
media fashion, Rachel, a Romanian priest’s wife living in the 'Windy City' was
recommended to us by the friend of a friend. She called almost immediately
after leaving her a private message, sounding interrogative, although friendly.
“A 24 years old journalist and a 30 years old assistant manager, you say? Oh, I
think we may help you”, she decided after a couple of minutes into
conversation. There was a catch though: “When time will come, you’ll have to
pay it forward”.
“Wait,
isn’t that a movie?” I thought to myself, but refrained from making any
comments. After all, this person was offering to help us rent an apartment and
blend into Romanian community. I immediately felt an uncomfortable
sensation, like our deal will not be all unicorns and rainbows. It was anything
but.
We kept
our connection alive through phone calls and Facebook messages, although never
got to the point of having the slightest form of friendship. She would say things
like “God bless you” with the same ease people say “Good morning”. Sometimes,
just seeing her name on my cellphone display would send me into a fit of
anxiety. I began avoided her calls all together.
That
unconformable feeling grew stronger as the day of our departure approached. I
just couldn't shake it off.
To our surprise,
she used her influence and gathered from donations all we needed to start a new
life from scratch. While most of the rented apartments are completely empty, ours
had everything from furniture to kitchen tools and a fridge stocked with
food. It wasn’t until a week later from
our arrival that we met, on a Sunday morning in July, at church.
Medium
framed, with hazelnut eyes, curls of dark hair resting on her shoulders and almost
no wrinkles on her angelic face, she stroked me as a grown-up version of Snow White.
Unlike the beautiful princess, Rachel was wearing an all-black outfit that she
rarely traded for a t-shirt and jeans. Her electrifying presence got people
eating out of her hand; including us.
We soon
discovered she had a divergent behavior.
At church we barely spoke; Rachel had to play
her role as a hostess and greet people, introduced the new ones and then waving
to everyone as they would go home.
Weekdays
though were a different story. When she wasn’t working as part-time veterinary
assistant, she lectured us about the importance of having a well-paid job and
projected a very gloomy future for us when two months had passed without
finding one. “You two are in a big mess”, she used to bark over the phone. From
time to time, an easy-going version of her took over, offering rides to
interviews or cooked meals.
Her
manner of speaking was the least disturbing parts of her character. I was often
asked to leave whatever I was doing and jump into her car at a moment’s notice,
hardly ever knowing the destination. “Those online applications won’t get you a
job. You might as well help me with some errands”, she would say while pressing
the gas pedal with a smirk on her face. Her
malefic side completely unraveled on the day I turned down a job offer as a part-time
receptionist for a dentist, a friend of hers. The job implied a close to
four hours commute three times a week and the tasks of both a secretary and an
accountant. Needless to say, it was an overwhelming, scary prospect for a
journalist.
Once
again, we discussed this issue over the phone. “You're gonna regret this. I give you one more month in
this country!” she yelled in my ear, causing me to burst into tears. She
had went too far with it. We both agreed that instead of
providing support and encouragement, Rachel was a mental poison that brought us
to the verge of depression. Our relationship with her gradually changed. We began coming
up with excuses for not answering her texts and calls and after a while she just stopped.
I felt
like I was breathing again. Not long after our ‘breakup’, our sanity restored,
we got hired by American companies, something she told us it’s impossible. Now, we
actually enjoy going to the Sunday service, making small talk with Rachel, just
like everybody else, knowing that we are no longer her little project. We still
don’t answer her phone calls.
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