For Fox Sake

Chapter 5

Ryan

“Hey, Ryan. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

We only made it two steps past Elaine’s office door.

I spin around. “Of course, Elaine.” My stomach twists.

I’ve been waiting for her to ask for a conversation with me. The bill for mom’s care is over a month past due.

“Ari, you go on with Bernie. I’ll be right there.”

Bernie is waiting down the hall, outside of Mom’s room. Ari runs ahead, her pink sneakers squeaking on the shiny blue linoleum.

Bernie gives me a commiserating wince before they disappear around the corner, heading to mom’s room.

I follow Elaine into her office, and she shuts the door behind us.

Crap.

She moves behind her desk, motioning for me to take a seat.

I sit in the guest chair across from her, clutching my purse in my lap, staring at the stacks of papers lined up along one edge.

Her phone, computer, and keyboard are all aligned. Her dark hair is threaded through with gray and pulled back into a neat bun. Her blue pant suit is pressed and pristine—not so much as a ball of lint to mar the surface.

I’m wearing paint-stained overalls and I haven’t shaved my legs in a week.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure you know why I needed to speak with you.”

“I’m so sorry. I know the payment is late, but I’m still dealing with the trust stuff. They needed to do an accounting and the court has to review it, and they had all these delays and... I swear I’m going to have it to you as soon as I can.”

She reaches across the desk to pat my hand. “I know, sweetie.”

The trust is nearly depleted, but I don’t want to tell her that. There’s just enough in there to make Mom ineligible for any public benefits, but not enough to cover her hospital bills for the next few months.

“You know we will keep your Mom here, no matter what. We would never turn her out when she needs twenty-four-hour medical care.”

But.

She doesn’t say the word. It’s in her kind eyes, downturned lips, and tight shoulders.

If I don’t pay, they will send me to collections, eventually. We’ll reach a point where they won’t have a choice.

“I spoke with our billing department and got them to put a thirty-day hold on sending anything out in the mail, so that should buy you some time.”

I nod. They send out three delinquency notices every thirty days before they take any action to refer to collections or their legal department. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course. We miss Mia around here every day. You know we will do everything we can to help.”

My temples throb with the beginning of a headache.

Life isn’t hard enough as a single mom of a rambunctious child. I also have an aging parent with dementia and kidney disease who requires constant care.

After Dad died, his life insurance money was put into a trust, but when Mom’s health declined, we had to draw from it.

“Here’s the number to the Aging and Disability Resource Connection.” She slides a business card across the desk. “They might be able to help. It’s worth a shot.”

I pick up the card and slip it in my purse. “Right. Thanks, Elaine. I appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”

She means well, but I’ve already tried everything.

They have a limit on how many people they can assist in hospice care—budget issues and whatnot—and they’ve met their maximum for the year. Someone literally has to die for Mom to move up on the list.

I exit Elaine’s office, shutting the door behind me, and then move over to the wall, leaning back against it and taking a deep breath. I hold it for a few seconds before blowing it out, attempting to relax my tight shoulders.

My eyes fall shut. It’s no good. I’m so stressed out that tension is seeping out of my pores at this point.

I have to pull it together. I can’t let Ari see me all frazzled. I count, breathing in for eight and then releasing out for eight while thinking of everything I have to be grateful for. We have a place to live. I have a beautiful, healthy, smart little girl. I can put food on the table and clothes on our backs.

Yes, my mother is in hospice. Yes, some days she doesn’t remember my name or Ari’s, or anything, and she lashes out and it’s scary, but she has good days too. And there are good days ahead.

Please let today be a good day.

The anxiety is the worst on days I bring Ari. I don’t want her to witness her grandma’s erratic behaviors. That’s not how I want Ari to remember her. The nursing staff is pretty good at warning us ahead of time, and I didn’t get a call today, so it should be fine.

My skin prickles.

I blink my eyes open. To my left, where Mia’s pictures are hanging on the wall, the weight of another presence breaks through my attempts at relaxation.

My breath hitches, heart stuttering in my chest. “Jake?”

“Hey, Ryan.”

I blink a few times. What the hell is 2E doing staring at me in the hallway of the hospital?

“What are you—?” I take in his outfit, a navy-blue, long-sleeve button-up with the logo of the hospital stamped on the breast pocket, dark pants, and tan work boots.

“You work here?”

Why is this so weird? I’m so shocked by his sudden appearance I can barely think straight. I haven’t seen him since Saturday, when I plugged in his oven. It’s Wednesday now. His truck has been gone every morning and parked out front by the time Ari and I get home. He must work early. Not that I’ve been paying a lot of attention or anything.

“Yeah. I started Monday. I was just taking a break and,” he nods toward the pictures on the wall in front of him, “checking out this memorial.”

I step in his direction, stopping beside him to face the wall.

The assorted photos and messages are familiar. In the center is an eight-by-ten of Mia in black and white, laughing. I took it six years ago on a trip to the coast when Mia was pregnant. Our last trip together. Her blond hair is blowing back in the wind. She has Ari’s nose and Mom’s lips. Surrounding the central photo are a circle of smaller framed artifacts, a photo of Mia with hospital staff, another of Mia with a long-term care patient, and a few framed cards with handwritten messages.

I vaguely remember someone asking if I wanted to sign it, but it was within a month of her death. I was at home with a newborn and a terrible boyfriend, barely holding on to my sanity. Ari was exhausting, but also the only thing that kept me together. She was a miracle. A little piece of Mia.

“How did she die?” His voice is a low rumble.

I never tell people she died giving birth, although it’s true. The thought makes my hackles rise. I would never want Ari to think she was the cause of her birth mother’s passing. “She had a congenital heart condition.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-two.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down at the floor. “I lost my sister too.”

My head whips in his direction. “When?”

Down the hall, a nurse opens a door. I vaguely register the sounds of murmured voices and distant beeps, but my attention is more focused on the man beside me.

“Twelve years ago.” He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow, I can’t believe how long it’s been.”

“How old was she?”

“Fifteen. We were twins.”

Shit. Without thought, I reach out and grab his hand, squeezing his fingers. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“I’m sorry too.”

We stand there, both of us staring at Mia in silence. But it’s not weird. What’s weird is that it’s not weird. It’s completely normal to stand here, staring at my dead sister’s image while holding the hand of some guy I barely know.

Maybe it’s the odd comfort of his presence, maybe it’s Mia’s laughing eyes, maybe it’s because he’s lost a sister too, or maybe it’s because I’ve been alone and shouldering so much weight for so long... Whatever the reason, my mouth opens and words pour out.

“It’s been so hard since she died. Her death was the worst pain imaginable. But I couldn’t let it affect me, let alone overwhelm me. I have a daughter to think about. Then Mom got sick and I couldn’t take care of her alone. Her memory started to fail, her moods became erratic, she started lashing out, getting physical, and then she needed dialysis frequently. I had to admit her to the skilled nursing hospice care here and it’s just been... it’s been so much, and it never gets easier, only harder. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

The last words emerge on a breath like my frustrations have run out of steam right as my lungs have run out of air.

I shut my eyes. I can’t believe I completely unloaded on this poor guy.

But then his fingers squeeze mine and my eyes fly open.

“After I lost my twin, my dad got sick.”

I swallow, hard. Not sure if I should ask him to elaborate or wait for him to speak. Thankfully, I don’t have to consider my options long.

“He had prostate cancer. I was his primary caregiver until the end. It was awful. But I had something to focus on other than... the loss. When he passed, I didn’t do a great job coping with everything that had happened in my life. I turned to alcohol and used it to escape, to avoid dealing with my grief. Which meant my family had to pick up the pieces of all my mistakes. Life can be super shitty. But you’re still here. You’re present. You’re taking good care of your daughter. You’re stronger than you realize.”

We turn toward each other at the same time, our eyes locking, as if the movements are choreographed.

I’m not even sure how to respond to this strange, surprising, and vulnerable conversation, but then something strikes me. “You’re only staying in Dull for three weeks. But you got a job here? I didn’t think they hired temps.”

He clears his throat and pulls his hand from mine, the intimate connection severed. “Um, I rented another place longer term that’s cheaper.”

“Where are you staying?”

He waves a hand. “I can’t remember the address. It’s in the west part of town.”

“Oh.” There are at least a dozen different rental properties and apartments on that side. I guess that makes sense.

“I’ve got to get back to work.” Jake gives me a tight smile.

I frown at his back. That was weird.

Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen slacking since he just started this job.

A hand touches my shoulder and I spin around. It’s Bernie.

“Hey, they just brought your mom lunch and Ari wants to help her eat. She’s having a good day.”

Mom. Right. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

Still a little discombobulated from the whole interaction, I follow Bernie down the hall and into Mom’s room.

She’s sitting up in bed and smiling. Her gray hair is cut short for ease of care, and she’s wearing the pink flannel pajamas Ari picked out for her for Christmas.

Since she’s a long-term resident, the room isn’t as stale as a normal hospital room, even though it has all the same bells and whistles. The walls are a sterile white, and the floors are the same squeaky linoleum from the hall, but she has framed pictures of family on a side table, a soft throw blanket on the guest chair, and a tall lamp in the corner casting a golden glow, counteracting the frosty LED lights in the ceiling.

Some of the tension eases from my shoulders.

She’s happy. It’s a good day.

Ari is sitting on the edge of her bed by the fold-out tray, while next to her, Bernie carefully opens the pudding cup.

Mom beams at her. “My Mia. Such a pretty girl.”

Ari glances at me and then smiles brightly at her grandmother.

We’ve had a lot of discussions about how Grandma is a little bit like Dori and has a hard time holding on to memories. How sometimes she gets scared because she can’t remember and she might get angry. Ari has witnessed her agitation, but it’s never been directed at her, and we remove her from the situation quickly when it happens.

The nurse, Nicole, pulls me to the side by the door, far enough away that we won’t distract Mom while she eats, but close enough to intervene if needed.

“She’s lost a little bit of weight, she’s sleeping more often, and she’s been having quite a bit of itchiness, bad enough that she’s scratching until she’s breaking the skin.”

“What does it mean?”

She offers a sympathetic wince. “It could be symptomatic of the ESRD progressing.”

I nod. “Right.” My stomach sinks.

“We’ve been treating it with hydrocortisone.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll let you feed her lunch, and I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”

“Thanks for the update.” I squeeze her shoulder before she exits the room.

I move over to Mom’s bedside, kissing the top of her head and breathing in the sharp, astringent scent of the hospital underlined with the strawberry shampoo we bring in for her. “Are we starting with chocolate pudding?”

“We should always start with dessert.” Mom smiles up at me.

Ari’s eyes widen. “Do you hear that, Momma? Always start with dessert.”

I purse my lips. “How about sometimes start with dessert, like special occasions?”

She swirls the spoon in the pudding. “Like birthdays? My birthday is next week.”

Mom swallows the bite of pudding Ari feeds her and then asks, “Are you having a big party?”

“Yes. And we’ll come see you too,” Ari assures her. “I’m sorry you can’t come to the party.”

Mom reaches out and cups her cheek with one hand. “My Mia. So sweet. And getting so big. Don’t run around too much with your friends and overtire your heart, okay?”

“Okay.” Ari feeds her another spoonful of pudding before launching into a story about a field trip she went on with her summer camp.

Mom listens and eats, her eyes bright and interested.

It’s a good day. A good moment.

Yes, my mom is dying, I owe the hospital more money than I can pay, and my life is mostly chaos, but at this moment, everything is okay enough. I can hold on to that.