Chapter Nine #2
He nods like he gets it and we step toward the elevator together. I’d take the stairs but I kind of like the idea of chatting with Khalil for a few minutes, even if it means being stuck in the steel box while imaginary hamsters on tiny treadmills try to get the dammed thing to move.
“Bills,” I tell him with an annoyed wave of the envelope. “I’ve been looking for a second part-time job, ideally something I can do on weekday evenings from home while Aggie’s going through the most critical stage of her recovery, but I haven’t had any luck yet.”
Khalil gives me another commiserating nod. “Good thing grad school’s so cheap.”
I snort a laugh. “And great that Congress isn’t obstructing student loan forgiveness.”
He laughs with me, and when the elevator arrives, I let him get on first so he can swing his cycle into position, well-practiced at how to rotate it so it fits.
As the doors shut and we start our slow ascent, my mind recycles old questions, ones I’m tired of wrestling with, and ones Aggie has graciously distracted me from over the past month, but I can’t shove them aside forever, as the ugly notice in my hand insists on reminding me.
“Is it worth it to you?” I ask Khalil.
“Grad school?” he asks, and when I nod, he pops the chin strap on his helmet and scratches his chiseled jawline. The man is all hard edges with zero body fat. One day I’ll ask him how far he rides, but only when I’m sure I can do it without sounding like I’m hitting on him.
“I just wonder sometimes,” I say. “It’s so much debt. And so much work. And so much stress. What if we don’t build successful careers in the fields we’re studying? Or what if we do, only to find out we don’t like the careers we’ve chosen? What if it’s all for nothing?”
“Well...” He considers this, still scratching at his chin as the elevator dings on two. “I get to play with supercool toys most days. The lab I’m in is working on robotic prosthetics for amputees. Pretty sure I won’t find out I don’t like that work. Or that it’s all for nothing.”
I feel my eyes go wide with astonishment. “Like, the real-life Bionic Man?”
“Something like that.” He unbuckles a saddlebag and carefully peels back the lid to reveal several zip-top bags full of gears, wires, and other mechanical parts. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“ Extremely cool.” I gawk at him, blown away by what he does.
He accepts my gushing with a humble shrug and a self-conscious smile that only increase my awe.
The more I learn about my neighbors, the weirder I feel about not speaking to them for so long.
All this time, I’ve been living between a literature professor and a robotics genius and I had no idea, though I guess that’s modern life.
We’re more connected than ever, but also. .. not.
“Do you really think you might not like being a vet?” Khalil asks as the elevator inches toward three. “Seems like a natural fit. Taking care of animals like Aggie.”
“It is, and always has been, though it’s harder than I used to imagine, seeing animals in pain all the time, or dying.
I barely held myself together when Aggie was in intensive care.
And her vets haven’t just been great with her.
They’ve been great with me . That’s the part that scares me most. The people part.
And then there’s this to deal with.” I hold up the envelope again.
“If I was working full-time, I wouldn’t have to worry if my Wi-Fi was about to get cut off. ”
Khalil winces. “Maybe you’ll feel better when you find that job you’re looking for?”
“Maybe.” I prod a blackened gum spot with the toe of my only decent pair of shoes, which I probably shouldn’t be doing but the spot’s been here as long as I have.
It’s not going anywhere. “I have classes Monday through Friday and a weekend job, so I’m only available weeknights, and I need time for studying and Aggie and dealing with dumb stuff like laundry. ”
“It’s the laundry that screws you every time,” Khalil jokes.
I laugh, but with effort, and he deflates at the same moment I do.
“Does it have to be remote?” he asks.
“I’d prefer it, for Aggie, but I may have to reconsider.”
“If you do, a guy in my lab does custodial work to make a few bucks. They’re always hiring. It’s after hours so it might fit your schedule. It’s not glamorous work, though.”
“I’m not expecting glamour.” I take a moment to imagine it, mopping floors and cleaning toilets while Aggie spends more time home alone.
The work can’t be that much less inspiring than my pizzeria job, but even considering it is like taking one more step away from the life I thought I’d be living at this point, the one I dreamed about when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and when I played doctor with my stuffed animals.
It makes the question Will it all be worth it?
flash in hot pink neon, bolder and brighter than ever.
Khalil must read something of my thoughts in my face, because he taps my elbow with his and tells me there’s no rush. I can let him know anytime if I’m interested. We swap numbers while the elevator’s still creeping toward our floor, and leave the conversation there.
When I enter my apartment to Aggie’s eager, tail-wagging greeting from her bed, my mood is instantly buoyed.
How I ever thought I could live without a dog is beyond me.
All that unbridled joy. It’s contagious, and a surefire protection against wallowing.
I get her outside for a little exercise, and feed her, and play ball, which she’s really getting into now.
I make off-brand mac ’n’ cheese I try to fool my brain into thinking is gourmet by sprinkling pepper on top.
Then I force myself to go through my mail.
All of it. Sorting student loan statements into a pile I don’t have to deal with yet, and outstanding bills and credit statements into a pile I do have to deal with, plugging the information into a spreadsheet so I can plan out a rough monthly budget, something that feels more essential now that I’m not just taking care of myself.
It’s daunting, the bottom line, both what I owe now and what I’ll need to bring in each month to cover expenses beyond what my loans afford.
I consider the custodial possibility, or waiting tables if anyone’s hiring, but Aggie’s so happy to have me home in the evenings, and finding times to keep up her exercise routine will get harder as the weather gets worse.
She’s my priority right now, and I don’t want to abandon her all hours.
It’s unthinkable after how she spent her first seven years.
So, after considerable thought, and a sharp pang of regret that I can’t afford to hit a liquor store first, I brace myself and call my parents.
“Cameron, hi!” my mom says when she answers, as chipper as ever, with a musical lilt to her voice that serves her well in her receptionist role at a local medical center, where she makes everyone feel welcome.
For all my complaints about her incessant bright-siding, her warmth is genuine, and my nerves loosen a little at the sound of her voice. “How are you?”
“Good. Fine. Well, um, more like okay, but sort of dealing with some stuff.” I grimace at my verbal clumsiness, and how I always autopilot to saying I’m good and have to course correct.
“Whatever it is, you’ll work it out,” she says. “But classes are going well?”
“Mostly. It’s a lot of studying. My immunology professor is a really hard grader. And my pathology prof must think we’re all speed readers with how much reading she assigns.”
“They wouldn’t set high standards if they didn’t think you could live up to them. And you’ve never been afraid of hard work.”
“I know.” My teeth clench the way they always do when she willfully misses the point. “What I mean is that I’m having a hard time keeping up with everything. And not just classes.”
She tsks and I try to convince myself I didn’t hear it.
“Give it time, sweetie, and keep your chin up. It’ll be the end of the term before you know it.”
I take a deep breath and let my annoyance out in a slow exhale while Aggie shifts her head on my lap and I bury my fingers in her soft fur, more for my benefit than for hers.
We’re on the futon, where she already has a favorite side and I always let her have it, along with her favorite blanket, favorite pillow, and the stuffed monkey she’s starting to like.
“Have you given any more thought to Christmas?” my mom asks. “Your dad and I can’t imagine the holidays without you. And we’re still happy to cover your ticket.”
“Actually, is he around?” I ask. “I’d love to talk to both of you for a minute.”
She sighs, barely, but enough for me to pick up on a hint of frustration that often slips out when my dad comes up in conversation, though she’s always quick to suppress it.
“You know your father,” she says brightly. “Straight from work to the gym to the television, but I can go see if he’ll step away for a minute, if it’s important.”
“It is. At least, I think it is. It’s a conversation for both of you, anyway.”
A beat of silence follows, and I can picture my mom rallying to tamp down the worry I’ve sparked. A swallow. A brow flicker that’s quickly smoothed. A smile that snaps into place.
“Okay, sure,” she says without a jot of concern in her voice. “Give me a sec.”