“She is a beauty,” she said, while she admired the dress, allowing her foul mood to lift.

  “And so are you,” Mr. Sand said.

  Vivian liked how he made her feel—appreciated and worthy, which was quite the opposite of the treatment she was receiving from Mme. Tremblay, who made her second guess her ability to do her job.

  “But Mr. Sand, I’m not doing so well.”

  “Oh yes, yes you are.”

  “No, I’m not—I’m awful. All I did so far was clean rows and rows of nail polishes. And now I’m trying to sell cosmetics, but Mme. Tremblay has made it crystal clear that she does not want to share her territory.”

  “You did a fine job downstairs, and you will do a fine job right here on this department store floor. I just know it,” Mr. Sand said as Vivian stared at the floor. “Don’t let her get to you. Hey, I’m talking to you, Ms. Fashionista.”

  Vivian looked up into Mr. Sand’s warm hazel green eyes, which reminded her of the green meadows in the Laurentians. He really believed in her, and that was all she needed to hear.

  Mr. Sand looked around before he spoke. “You keep going on your own path. Get your goal. Ignore all that interfere.”

  Mr. Sand zoomed away with the Christian Dior dress.

  Vivian stopped for a moment to think, just as Mme. Tremblay returned from her coffee break.

  It was then that Vivian had a great idea.

  “Mme. Tremblay, would you mind if I walked around the floor and studied the rest of the cosmetic lines? I want to learn all about what we sell here at Sunderland’s.”

  “That’s fine,” Mme. Tremblay replied, not understanding the purpose, but it didn’t matter.

  Vivian discovered a twofold solution to help her get through the rest of the day: to get away from Mme. Tremblay and to educate herself.

  The Need for Mrs. G

  “You’re lazy.”

  Six-year-old Vivian sat at her desk at school, shattered. Not knowing what to say to her teacher, who was scolding her for daydreaming again. She slowly opened her mouth to try to say something, but no words came out. All she could manage was to place her hands on her hips.

  “What? You want to say something? What? What is it, Ms. Vivian? What’s on your mind?

  Actually, WHAT mind, right, children?” her teacher said as she spun around the front of the classroom.

  A roar of laughter came from all the desks around Vivian, which felt like lion scratches all over her body. She could feel her eyes beginning to fill. The teacher swirled around her ruler, tossed it into the air, caught it, and gazed her eyes wide at Vivian while the children watched in anticipation. “Give them to me,” the teacher instructed.

  Vivian swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and laid out her hands on her desk. The teacher lifted the ruler and slapped her palms five times.

  “That will keep your mind on my lesson and not in dreamland!”

  The stinging of her hands made Vivian wince with pain, and her mouth filled with warm saliva that trickled down the corners of her lips. Vivian closed her eyes and cried; her teacher’s final words, which were yelled at her, hurt even more than the physical abuse: “You will never amount to anything.”

  When she came home that day, with her hands squeezing the fabric from her dress to numb the pain, Miriam was there waiting for her. She saw her daughter’s hands and her face fell.

  “You’ve got to start to pay attention. I can’t have you come home every day like this.”

  “But it’s so boring, Mama,” Vivian admitted while crying.

  Miriam held her daughter and tended to the scabs on her hands.

  This charade became a constant pattern for the next three years, despite the teacher changes and the many meetings that her parents had with her school.

  “Why must you embarrass her like that?” Miriam held her purse tightly on her lap and propositioned her daughter’s teacher with clenched teeth.

  “Embarrass her? What about me? What about the lessons that I am teaching?”

  Henry shook his head as the two women fought neck to neck.

  “Why can’t you just let her be?” he asked.

  Vivian clearly had no interest in paying attention while her teachers lectured the class. Her mind was elsewhere, and she routinely got punished for it. The beatings became so typical: Vivian began to lay out her hands before they even asked her to do so, which was becoming nothing short of ridiculous. Thankfully, they eventually stopped because the physical abuse of slapping her hands wasn’t helping her pay attention, and the sight of her hands was just plain awful. The teachers would wince at them and say, “Never mind.”

  Nevertheless, the verbal abuse didn’t stop. And it wasn’t only from the teachers.

  “Stupid,” classmate Scott Sheraton would say to Vivian on their way home from school. Vivian would squint her eyes and run away from him as fast as she could.

  Then came the 5th grade, when Vivian had a teacher named Mrs. G, who had noticed her student looking out the window and twirling her hair whenever she taught. Many comments were shared from her colleagues about this child, such as “She’s got her head in the clouds.”

  “That girl does not belong in the classroom.”

  And the one comment that made Mrs. G perk up her head like a Dobermann Pinscher when something suspicious was nearby.

  “Why won’t she listen to me?”

  Ah ha! Mrs. G squealed with delight to herself. How she loved figuring out our missing pieces with a student like this. The question was why the student wasn’t listening. Mrs. G. was an educator who was ahead of her time—careful not to be the victim while pointing her finger at the culprit. Yes, most of the classroom was on board with the material being taught, but that’s not to say that everyone absorbs information the same way, and why should the student get punished for it? Did any teacher think that maybe they were the problem?

  Mrs. G. entered her new classroom that fall with an open mind, as she did every year. After ten minutes of teaching, she saw what her colleagues were talking about. It was as clear as day that Vivian’s head was somewhere else when Mrs. G was teaching.

  Right in the middle of her lecture, she walked up to Vivian and gave a piece of paper to her.

  “Write what you’re thinking,” she whispered.

  Vivian’s eyes widened, and her face glowed like a lantern. She sighed happily as if she had been given a new toy as she took the paper from her new teacher’s hands and started to fill it up with her thoughts.

  After class, Mrs. G handed her a booklet and privately said to the young girl, “If you’re not going to pay attention in my class, I need you to pay attention on your own time.”

  Vivian gazed at the booklet, which was filled with math problems, and nodded her head, as she was eager to try this new regime. As she took the booklet with both hands, she looked up at Mrs. G and screamed with her eyes: thank you—you get me! Can you be my teacher forever, and can I come and live with you?

  The next day, Vivian handed in her homework booklet and continued to write her thoughts on the blank piece of paper that she received every day while her teacher taught her lessons. All was well received by her parents and Mrs. G. Praise, and, most of all, acceptance was bestowed upon her, and Vivian relished in the moment.

  “Why didn’t we think of this before?” Henry asked one night at dinner.

  “Not all teachers are like Mrs. G,” Miriam said.

  “Thank you,” Vivian said to Mrs. G. on the last day of fifth grade.

  “You’ve got a lot going on in there,” Mrs. G said as she pointed to her head. “Sometimes you need someone to see the other side of the coin.”

  Mrs. G was a one-hit wonder, and sadly, there were no further pioneering educators like herself to come across Vivian’s classrooms. Alas, the wicked and impatient teachers took center stage and pushed all hope for any academic potential to the ground.

  If it wasn’t for Mrs. G, along with the honor of her family members turning to her for all things fashion, Vivian would not have been able to get up and dust herself off after each challenge Sunderland’s brought her.

  Mrs. G’s influence and the Fashion Police title weren’t strong enough for Vivian to venture to college after high school and to battle the demons that screamed lazy and stupid.

  It’s amazing how such negative influences can shadow our potential.

  Fun with Blinders with Vivian

  “Keep going on your own path; get your goal; ignore all that interfere.” These were the words that Mr. Sand said to Vivian, which were repeated over and over like a mantra as the morning shift began.

  Sometimes, Mme. Tremblay arrived late, and on those days, her hair was not in a Gibson bun at the nape of her neck but in a sloppy ponytail. The button that was missing from her dress when the two first met now had a friend. In place of her trademark Revlon Pango Peach lipstick, she had chapped lips and very bad breath. Vivian sometimes wondered if she brushed her teeth in the morning and couldn’t figure out why she would present herself this way—while working at Sunderland’s of all places!

  On the days when Mme. Tremblay seemed out of sorts and in a foul mood, Vivian busied herself before she had a chance to bark her orders for the day. Of course, even when the lipstick tray was as clean as a surgeon’s tools, Mme. Tremblay would still make a negative remark.

  “If you keep cleaning like that, you’ll be mistaken for a femme de ménage.”

  Vivian couldn’t win, but maybe she wasn’t supposed to.

  * * *

  “A full house of kids. Husband took off years ago. She’s alone,” Mr. Sand shared this one day after closing as he was walking Vivian to her streetcar.

  “I had no idea,” Vivian said softly.

  “If I could tell you one thing today, it would be that everything is not what it seems. Everyone has a story that you don’t know about, so when someone doesn’t treat you as you think you should be treated, or vice versa, give them the benefit of the doubt. Don’t be so quick to judge. It’s just good measure,” Mr. Sand said matter-of-factly.

  Vivian nodded her head, feeling badly for judging Mme. Trembley when she was frustrated with her. She looked directly into Mr. Sand’s eyes to make sure that he understood. She heard every word loud and clear, as she was so appreciative of his kindness, which she knew was genuine.

  “Thank you for telling me,” Vivian said softly, not realizing that this piece of advice carried so much weight in her life. No one knew what Vivian had been through when she was a little girl at school except her immediate family, and the trauma that she experienced lived through her daily, even if she didn’t notice it.

  For the rest of the summer, Vivian kept the advice that Mr. Sand had told her close to her heart. After much thought, during her nightly bath, Vivian came up with an idea of imaginary blinders. Miniature blinds on the side of her face that resembled a pair of glasses, but instead of the lens being in front, they would be on the side, so that no one could distract her from what she wanted to do: to be the best darn sales lady she could be at Sunderland’s and maybe even get promoted to manager one day. And even though Mme. Trembley came to work still carrying the stress that she endured at home, dumping her frustrations on Vivian wasn’t fair, and it was mean. She could have been such a role model for Vivian—someone to look up to and learn from, but Vivian needed to protect herself with the blinders she thought of.

  Each morning, Vivian got creative with these blinders, as they were not clear, like the lens of glasses, but happened to blend perfectly with what she was wearing. With a chuckle, she would say to herself something like, “Are these the brown coral pattern blinders? Perhaps I should pull out the ones with the red roses on them? Nah, the bright yellow ones will look just darling with this ensemble today.” It was all about the details as she closed her eyes and really thought about the blinders she was wearing, which would make them work in her favor.

  Mr. Sand was often found working in the women’s clothing department, where Vivian would visit as often as she was able and was quickly taking on the role of a mentor. Those few words that he shared with Vivian never left her mind, and she was grateful for that.

  Vivian decided that no one was going to stand in her way, especially Mme. Tremblay, and decided that she was going to really make her mark at Sunderland’s and, most importantly, to help women feel beautiful, regardless of where she was working in the store. She quickly learned that clothing wasn’t the be-all and end-all, even though she was still a huge fan of that world.

  One evening, as she left the department store after her shift, she paused for a few moments as she stood outside the hunter green double brass doors and thought about her original dream: Vogue in New York. Although that was a fun and exciting goal when she was a child, there was something about interacting with customers that made her want to stay at Sunderland’s. Where this was going, she had no idea, but that was part of the fun, as Vivian found it fascinating that the swipe of a lipstick, a bit of rouge, and nail polish could completely transform a woman, more than she ever realized.

  An observation that Vivian quickly made and appreciated was that there was so much preparation behind the final sale of a product. Cleanliness was the first on her list. Besides polishing every inch of the counter around her every morning, she was sure to brush her teeth and rinse with mouthwash and to carry the strongest mints in her pocket to refresh every few hours, especially after drinking coffee.

  Research on the latest trends and the care of Revlon’s products was also crucial. Besides reading the latest advertisements in magazines and receiving product information from management, Vivian took it upon herself to ask her customers what they were looking for, what they wanted to learn, and what disappointed them in the line. She wanted to be known as the girl who found the perfect cosmetic product for them, and she stopped at nothing to earn this status.

  There was a small catch, though. The war was in full swing, and everyone was on a shoestring budget. Yes, there was a niche of women who had a generous budget to enjoy themselves at Sunderland’s, but most customers needed to put food on the table before they could purchase a face powder.

  There were several occasions where a woman would stop by the Revlon counter and just linger—longingly gazing at the lipsticks or perfume bottles as if they were lost past lovers, admiring what was on display for the week, picking up a sample powder compact and trying it on in front of the mirror. Vivian would think it was a prime opportunity to sell something, but this type of customer was not interested. And in a matter of moments, Vivian understood.

  “May I help you?” Vivian asked a woman who came by the counter.

  A shocked and mute response was given, as this woman would stop applying the sample powder that was displayed for customers to sample and gaze up at Vivian, allowing her face to fall as if she had been caught. The sample powder that she held in her hands slipped away from her and fell onto the floor. Aghast, she ran away.

  At first, Vivian was in total shock from this behavior, as she hollered across the department store aisle, “Wait—come back—wait until I show you a few more colors!”

  “Let her go…,” Mme. Tremblay said. She waved her hand in the air as if she were swapping away an annoying fly and then walked around the counter to retrieve the powder compact from the floor to place it back where it belonged on the display.

  “But why would she just try it on and run away?” Vivian would innocently ask.

  “Oh, my goodness—do you ever have a lot of learning to do,” Mme. Trembley replied with a deep sigh, as Vivian obviously lived in a privileged bubble and had absolutely no clue what went on behind closed doors in people’s homes that influenced their actions, despite Mr. Sand’s explanation of Mme. Tremblay’s world. Being well-groomed and able to converse under pressure wasn’t at the top of the to-do list for those who were struggling.

  “Well, teach me!” Vivian bravely replied as Mme. Trembley shook her head with brows that slanted south.

  “Isn’t it obvious? She can’t afford it! Where have you been?” Madame Trembley said.

  “But it’s only $1.10!” Vivian stated.

  “Only? If it’s between lipstick and a loaf of bread, what would you choose?” Mme. Trembley shot back, while her eyes glared like daggers. “Merde!” She said, shaking her head.

  Vivian’s face fell lower than that of the woman who ran away. And her heart, too. She didn’t know anyone in that situation, and the idea of not being able to buy one measly lipstick was something that she wasn’t used to.

  “May I help you?” Vivian would ask another woman who was holding a lipstick she was sampling. Not shy in the least bit as she boldly told Vivian that she used to wear this color all the time before the war and now couldn’t afford it. “My dirt-cheap husband can’t spare the measly $1.10 for me, but of course, he could spare it for his God-damn beer every night after work, that son-of-a-bitch.”

  Vivian nodded with wide eyes.

  “There he goes, day after day. Can’t enlist because of his back—he fell off a ladder when he was a kid. Damn luck, I tell you; he so could have gone! Lazy son-of-a-bitch … all he does is go to work, come home and go out for beers with his buddies. Yeah, what about me? I’m cooking. Cleaning. Buying the groceries. It just doesn’t stop. Where’s my fun? Where’s my lipstick?” Vivian remained nodding with even wider eyes, making marriage and children a stronger deterrent than ever before.

  “Please take care of this order,” Mme. Trembley would come and interrupt the monologue, allowing for a quick getaway, even though the idea of getting away didn’t cross Vivian’s mind, as this kind gesture of listening to someone vent didn’t bother her at all.

  “Oh, boo-hoo! Those ladies waste my time. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t want to hear one peep of their sad stories,” Mme. Trembley would say, as Vivian now knew that she not only witnessed the exact same conversation but also took part in it as well, in her very own living room, which now made sense of her impatient tone. Thankfully, Mme. Trembley could afford a new lipstick, thanks to samples and her discount, but other things like a new winter coat or a fur stole were out of the question, as she was constantly reminded.