The Pascha

There was a light drizzle, as if the clouds had not yet decided on whether they would rain. It was early Tuesday morning, and you wished you were back in your bed instead of cycling through the city towards the 12-story brothel that you work in. Every day you spent 180 Euros to rent out a room on the eighth floor. For the next ten hours, you would sit outside your room and wait for hotel guests to pass through the hall. Whenever they did, you worked your magic and earned your living.

Some days were slower, where you would have little to no guests. You would sit outside that room, staring at the yellow wall across from you, wondering why the hell you ended up in such a dump. But sometimes, especially over the holidays, you would hardly have time to sit on your stool before another customer came up to you to negotiate their pay and your service.

You had never meant for it to happen like this. You never thought that you would be working in the biggest brothel in Germany, the famed Pascha. The purse slides from your shoulder onto the bed in the room you just rented. Fishing through it, you find your phone and notice that your parents had called five minutes before. A moment of hesitation overcame you. Should you call them back?

You toss the phone back into the purse before applying more lipstick. You'd had your entire life planned out. A high school diploma and a strong college education; A well-respected husband and children who had few imperfections. You wanted a good job where you would make good money. You wanted everything and you had gotten dangerously close to nothing.

You grew up in America. Your childhood was okay. It wasn't the best but it could have been worse. Neither of your ever parents died or abused you. Your mind wanders to them, back in Nevada waiting for you to come home and show them the grandson they didn't know they had. You shake your head in protest to your thoughts. They were the reason you had to run away. You knew they couldn't handle having a pregnant daughter, they could hardly handle raising a daughter. They weren't bad parents, they just never understood you, and they had never taken the time to try.

Your thoughts wandered. The lights in the hallway were too florescent. The doors lining the hall were made of dark mahogany wood, but half of them had either scratch marks or dirty words written onto them. Being an average looking girl, you worked on the low-income floor. You weren't ugly, you just weren’t beautiful enough. The floor was dirty, the beige carpet littered with stains and used condoms. You turn your head away in disgust.

The beige color lingers in your imagination and you find that it reminds you of your sons hair. His fourth birthday had recently passed, as had your twentieth. His smile was the most beautiful things you had ever seen, and you wish you could see it more. Ten hours of work a day and when you returned home, you got to see him for less than one. You needed it though. You cherished his laugh and his hugs and the way he liked to twist your hair into crude braids. He was always the perfect ending to your endlessly stressful and undesirable day.

The elevator bell rang and your head whipped towards the doors, and a smile pulled at your lips when you saw no other workers sitting on their stools. Either they were already busy, or she was the only one working. A tall man stepped off of the elevator. You notice that he is wearing a nice leather jacket and that he has several pieces of expensive jewelry on. You shake your head and smile at him, knowing that you deserted stealing from customers back when a client sued you and you just barely got out alive. And that was only because you lied. You wish you could cry. You wish you could provide for your son in some other way than this.

The man walks up to you and looks you over. His eyes start at your feet and travel up the length of your body, which was skinny enough but could be in better shape. His green eyes paused for a moment when he came across your breasts, which were peeking out from under your unbuttoned, see-through blouse. A look came over his facial features; one of hunger and desire and of sick obsession. You used to find the expression terrifying, but you had become accustomed to it through the years. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know that he will be an easy one. You won't have to work much magic to get him into your room.

“Hey,” you say, with an edge to your voice.

“Hi, beautiful,” he answers, his eyes lost somewhere between her stomach and her neck.

“I need money, a lot of money,” you keep going with the edge to your words. You slowly move your hands down your thighs and notice his eyes following your every gesture.

“Four hundred for it all?” he offered. You weigh his offer and nod slowly. Standing from your stool, you lead him into your room and shut the door behind you. You close it harder than you expected and the sound echos away down the hall.

By the time he leaves, you've lost three hours of work time but are four hundred dollars richer. That would get you and your son through at least the end of the week. Usually you're hard pressed to get that much from a customer, but with no competition its a completely different story. You've heard stories of the girls in the upper floors who get four hundred Euros just to have intercourse. You are jealous of them. You toss the money into your purse, throw on your clothes, straighten the bed and head back out to your stool.

You despise your job. You wish there was something else you could do but everyone else turned you away. Earning a livable amount isn't the issue. The problem is that you never finished high school, let alone college. The best you could do is work at a fast-food chain, but they already turned you away. Back when you first arrived in Cologne, Germany, you couldn't speak German. It was a major setback, and selling off your body became the easiest way to deal with it. You needed few words to get and give what you needed for this occupation.

Your son doesn't know. You know someday you will have to tell him, but you are hoping that day will fade away and never come. It is an unrealistic thing to wish for but you still do. Maybe one day you'll be a successful writer, or a famous artist. Perhaps you will become that pop star you always wanted to be, or that nurse that you used to pretend to be back in the third grade. You wish you could wear a ballgown like Belle and Aurora and Cinderella, but you know you're stuck with high-heels, mini-skirts and see-through blouses. You should be used to it by now but the clothing of this profession still makes you feel uncomfortable. In more ways than one.

You used to hate it when men looked at you the way that one did. Oh, the irony. Now you make a living off of it.

The end of the day arrived quickly enough. You tucked the stool behind the door and grabbed your purse. A quick count showed that you made a good eight hundred, which was a great deal more than usual. You locked your room and walked down the hall towards the elevators. As you passed several doors you could hear loud moaning, among other things, and you quickened your pace. It was no different from your room when the door was shut and you had a client. Still, it sent a shiver down your spine and a grimace into your lips. The elevator moved slowly, as did you when you walked outside the tall, blue building and unchained your bike. With a warm breeze heavy on your face and the sun just starting to set, you smiled, happy to be heading home to your son.

You maneuver your bicycle up the driveway and leave it sitting in the garage with a sheet pulled over it. You walk inside the small house and call out for your son and his nanny.

“Lisabeth! Kip! I'm home,” you say to the quiet house.

You hear water running and a young voice call out Mommy. You smile as your naked son runs into the room screaming the word mommy with a grin full of dimples. You scoop him into your arms and blow onto his belly, making him laugh and squirm.

“Who's my favorite?” you ask Kip with that fake baby voice every parent makes.

“I am!” he yelps as Lisabeth comes running into the room, her hands caked in bubbles.

“Oh, you little mister. Come on back, we gotta finish your bathie,” she said harshly, causing Kip to cling to your legs.

“Lisabeth, I'll finish up, okay? Go ahead and head home, alright?” you offer her the chance to get out early and she takes it without hesitation.

“Now, come on little one. Lets finish with the bath,” you take Kip's hand and lead him back to the small bathroom, where the tub is filled with soapy water. You pick your son up and place him into the water. He starts splashing around and you watch him with a wide smile. Something in your heart churns for your boy, and how much you love him. No matter how much you hate your job, you know you will always want to provide for him, any way you can. You stroke his head full of sandy curls and he looks up at you.

“Why do you look sad, mommy?” Kip asked quietly, his smile suddenly gone. You have a sudden urge to get it back onto his face. You cannot bear to see him not smiling.

“Because you aren't laughing, you little rascal,” you laugh as you take his rubber duck and squirt him on the head with it. Kip laughs loudly and pulls the duck from your hand.

“No mommy!” he yelps as his smile is revived. From the other room, you can hear your phone ringing.

“I'll be right back.” you say to Kip. He ignores you and plays with his duck, popping all the bubbles he can see.

You run into the main room and return to the bathroom as quickly as you can. With an eye on Kip, you answer the phone without looking at who the caller is.

“Oh my god,” an older woman's voice asks through the phone, full of surprise. Your eyes widen as you realize whose call you just answered. “Bill! She picked up! Get over here, now. Baby, please don't hang up. We just need to hear your voice and know that you're okay. Three years baby, three years its been and all we get is an email every couple of months. Where are you? Do you need money? How is your life?”

“Sweetie? Is it really you? Say something, please,” your dad asked, his voice worried and fearful. It was almost as if he were pleading with you to speak. You find yourself incapable of making sounds. Incapable of creating words in this moment of emotion. You have suddenly forgotten the reason why you ever left these people in the first place. Your eyes flicker to Kip and you sigh lightly.

“Baby, we’re sorry for whatever we did. We miss you. Please please come back to us. At least tell us how you are. One word, baby, one word,” your mom begs.

You are shaking your head as you stare at Kip, playing with his toys in the tub, oblivious to the tension running through you right now. You are torn between needing your parents and not wanting to seem weak. You've gone three years without them, should you really give in now? Is it time for you to forgive them and move back to America? Is there really a chance for you to live a better life? If there is, shouldn't you take it, if only for Kip's sake?

“Sweetie, you're still my princess. I don't care what you did, what we did, or what you are doing now with your life. I only want to hear your voice. And I would love to see your face again and be able to hug you. Don't you remember how much you used to love my hugs? And how I used to play with your hair? You always loved that. I want to be a dad to you again, sweetie. Please give me a second chance,” your dad explained.

You bite your lip until it bleeds. You miss your parents. You love when Kip plays with your hair because your dad taught you to love that sensation. They have the same hug, Kip and your dad. You wonder if your dad feels the same way about you as you do about Kip. You know that must be the case, or else why would he be saying any of those heartwarming things to you? The tears are rolling down your cheeks and soon they grab Kip's attention.

“Mommy?” he asks from the tub. “Why are you crying?”

You cover the phone with your hand. “Because you're my favorite, and I just love you so much, little man.”

He smiles and returns to his playing as you return to the cell phone against your ear. You hesitate for a moment longer before you speak.

“You have a grandson,” you say the first thing that comes to mind. Suddenly your mind is flowing with everything you want to tell them. You cannot hold yourself back. “I want to come home. I've regretted this forever and I know I hurt you Mommy, and you Daddy. I've had such a terrible time, but you guys have a grandson who is four now and I've been working as a prostitute and I just really need you guys right now. I just really need to come home. And Dad? I really need one of your hugs. Your grandson, Kip, has the same hug that you do. He reminds me of you, Daddy. I want to come home.”

They are silent for only a moment.

“Then come home,” you hear your dad say quietly but confidently.