Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Bellatrix
“Gah, what the hell is that?”
From above her white surgical mask, Mom glowers at me. “Don’t say hell. It’s vulgar.”
This coming from an ER doctor who probably hears at least eighty seven point six two curses per minute. If not from the staff then the patients. No one likes hospitals. No one. Add injury to fear and dislike, and it’s a recipe for cursing.
What’s vulgar is that my mom is in her scrubs, and besides the mask, she’s wearing nitrile gloves.
“Why do you look like you’re scrubbed in for brain surgery?” I’m so nasally that I can barely understand myself.
My head is booming, my body is aching all over, and my throat feels like it has been lacerated by a spiny fish that swam into my mouth by mistake and left its spines behind, from my tongue to my belly.
I’ve been sleeping like garbage for the past few nights.
Everyone at work is sick, and they gave me this cold straight from the bowels of the fiery inferno itself—Mom’s right about hell, as there are many more satisfying words.
Anyway, they gave me the cold right before they fired me.
Without severance.
Three days ago, I was called into my boss’ office.
She wanted to know why Rowleigh canceled his wedding contract.
He was fine with not getting his deposit back for the work already done, but she told me that he was a big client.
A. Big. Client. If he weren’t happy with us, it would no doubt spread, so it was better to cull the weak links before anyone else could think about canceling.
In shock, I asked if he had said he wasn’t happy with our services.
My boss had to admit that no, he said he was very happy, but there was going to be no wedding, so no wedding planner was required.
I’d demanded to know how that was my fault then or how there was any fault at all.
None of my other clients had ever given me anything but glowing reviews over the past few years.
I didn’t get a straight answer until I was packing up my office right after that meeting and trying not to burst into tears that would humiliate me worse than my boss had.
My coworker, Amanda, snuck into my office to tell me that she was sorry I was leaving.
She’d said there were rumors about cutbacks, and the last ones in were the first ones out.
Brittany and Charlene, women who were hired right after me, were also getting laid off.
I understand that sometimes, shit happens. Business is business.
But covering it up by lying and firing me when I did nothing wrong? That’s a good way to get sued. Except I have no money for a lawyer. And there’s probably something in the stupid hiring contract we signed stating we could be fired at any time for no reason. Companies always cover their asses.
I thought I actually worked for a good one.
My heart goes out to all the others who lost their jobs and to the ones who have to stay, knowing they could be next. It’s not a great feeling to pour your heart and soul into something you could be terminated from at any time.
I’m curled up on the couch and covered with a handmade quilt that was a gift from my parents one Christmas.
I also have a trashcan beside me to throw used tissues in.
The plundered tissue box sits on the coffee table, along with the remote, a stack of books, and several mugs of discarded tea.
Two plates have toast scraps on them, and there’s a sleeve of saltines open.
Despite my sore throat, it was the only thing I could bring myself to eat on day one of this cold.
Boxes of sinus medication and a bottle of cough syrup with three dirty spoons balance near the edge of the table, where there’s free space.
Mom wrinkles her nose. “This place is a mess.”
It’s not. Other than the coffee table, it’s spotless. As per usual.
I get vertical and wrap the blanket around myself like a cloak. Holding the edges up to my face, I cough a wet, rattling cough into it before grabbing a tissue and blowing my nose. Twice.
Mom visibly shudders.
How on earth does she see blood, barf, broken bones, and contagious crap on a daily basis?
I’ve never been to the hospital my mom works at.
I’ve only ever had to go to minor clinics and my family doctor.
I always thought her bedside manner would be brusque but efficient, but I’m not so sure about that now.
Why become a doctor if you can’t stand sick people?
When I was little, it was my dad who took time off when I got sick, not my mom.
There was maybe one time that she was the one to look after me when I had the flu because my dad had this crazy big case he was working on, and he was in court that week.
Even if he’d been hit by a bus or ten buses, there was no way he could bail on that.
My condo is spacious and open. Now that I’m upright, I can see my dad hovering in the doorway.
“What’s Dad doing there?”
Mom sets the big box down on the floor and thrusts her hands on her green-scrub-clad hips. I hate that color. Probably because it screams hospital, and my mom’s scrubs always smelled just like that place. Strongly astringent.
“He has a big case he’s working on. He can’t afford sick time right now.”
Ahh. That probably explains why she suited up to come and see me too. One would think I’d caught a zombie flesh-wasting disease, not a freaking cold. I’ve had it for days. Am I even contagious at this point? I thought it was worse before you even knew you were sick.
Dad wriggles his fingers at me, and I sniffle and wave back, letting it go like I’ve always let it go. At least he came. He could have just let my mom come by herself.
“What’s in the box?” I ask.
“A 3D printer.”
“A what?” Of course I know what they are. I mean, vaguely, but why on earth did she bring me one?
And here I thought that when she called an hour ago to tell me they were on their way over to bring me something, it was chicken soup or an ice cream cake.
Mom nudges the box with her black, non-slip shoe. She’s probably going to get my dad to drop her off at the hospital, which explains the scrubs.
I guess.
“You lost your job, so you have nothing right now. That wedding planning nonsense was your whole source of income. At least you could do this while you’re looking for another job.
It needs filament, which I’ve ordered to your house.
It should be here tomorrow. They take a little bit of instruction, and it’s a slight learning curve, but I bought a model you can just unbox and basically start printing on.
I’m sure they have instructional videos online. ”
“Uhhhh…” I sniffle, grab another tissue, and blow my nose before I can continue. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Print things. For sale. It’s the perfect time of year to get your name into some of the craft shows that everyone holds leading up to Christmas. You can make all sorts of things. It’s really very interesting. You could sell them online.”
“Just open up my own shop,” I state. It’s not a question.
Mom bobs her head, only half listening. “Exactly.”
I don’t want to seem ungrateful. My parents bought this for me, and it probably wasn’t cheap.
They would never buy something half-assed.
If there’s anything my mom believes in, it’s quality.
She even ordered all the filament stuff, or whatever it is, and sent it directly here, which probably wasn’t cheap either.
“While you look for another job,” she makes sure to stress. “You can do that as soon as you’re better. Use this time to work on your resume and cover letter.”
“Yeah, I was planning on doing exactly that. I just haven’t been up to it.”
“I’m glad it’s just a cold, honey. They never do keep a body down long.” She air kisses me and waves. “I have to run. I’m due on shift in an hour.”
“Yeah. Uh, thank you for stopping in. It was good to see you.” For all of five seconds.
Thanks for the hug, for asking me if I’m doing okay, or for any sort of empathy or sympathy at all.
Thanks for telling me that you love me, that you’re worried about me.
Thanks for asking me how I’m truly doing and for caring.
“You could always go back to school,” my dad calls from the doorway, sounding hopeful.
It’s at times like this that I wonder why I even gave them a key.
“I don’t know. It’s been a shock. I haven’t thought much about it. I have my savings, and that will get me through a few weeks. I’ll find something, even if it takes longer to get a job I really want. You don’t have to worry.”
“Sounds good, baby. You’re a fighter.” He punches the air, then follows my mom out. The suction sounds of her stripping off her gloves drift inside just as the door closes.
I flop back onto the couch, rolled as tight as a burrito in my quilt.
I don’t want to SOS text Mika, but I feel like shit. Doubly so now. I really could have used a hug and some soup.
I can just see my mom telling me that chicken soup is an old wives’ tale—I’m not sure it actually is—and that she’s never in her life made anything homemade.
Also, she’s far too busy to go out and pick it up.
If I want it, I should just order it in.
If I’m having trouble paying the bills, she and my dad will cover them until I can do it myself again.
To her credit, at least she didn’t say I told you so.
I was bracing for it.
I’m still bracing for it.
The door could open at any second, and she could pop her head back into my miasmic den of sickness, shout the words, and then run.