SKYLAR #2
It’s dark by the time I lock the office doors.
It’s not uncommon for me to be the last one here.
I tend to throw myself into work when my personal life goes up in flames, and it is most definitely a complete dumpster fire right now.
I’ve been avoiding Ashton since he found out about the marriage, pretending to be on a call or buried in work.
Meanwhile, Declan has been avoiding me. I texted him again after Patrick left, reminding him of our appointment, but he left me on read.
I’ve just turned the key in the lock when my phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I shuffle the folders I’m holding in one hand so I can grab it. I’m both disappointed and relieved to see it’s my mom.
“Hi, Mom.” I try to sound as upbeat as possible, but I’m sure she can see right through me, even over the phone.
“Oof. Rough day?” Her voice is calm, even, soothing. She has always been my safe place.
“Something like that,” I mutter.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Well, you have my number. The second you want to talk, you let me know, okay, honey?” That’s the other thing about my mom—like Ash, she doesn’t push me. Instead, she lets me take the lead.
“I will,” I promise. “But enough about me. Did Dave get the results back yet?” I try to keep the hope from flooding my words.
“Yeah, honey. He did.” I feel the moment her demeanor shifts, a strained sigh escaping, one I’m sure she meant to hold back. “I know we talked about how the doctors were hopeful he could be treated medically, but it looks like he is going to need a transplant.”
My stomach dips as the all-too-familiar feeling of dread washes over me.
Suddenly, nothing matters anymore. Not the anger toward my dad or the anxiety about the annulment.
All that matters is my stepdad, the man who loved me even when he didn’t have to, even though I was already technically an adult when we met, needs a liver transplant and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Skylar, honey? Are you there?”
“I—I don’t know what to say, Mom.”
“I know this isn’t the news we were hoping for, but we will get through this. Dave is young enough that the surgery is lower risk than usual, and he has a good attitude about the whole thing. He’s a fighter. He wanted me to tell you that he’s the ‘captain of his soul.’”
Despite my devastation, I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips at his reference.
It’s from William Ernest Henley’s “Invictus.” When he found out about my love of poetry, Dave bought me a book of poems that we would read together and discuss when I’d come home for Sunday dinners.
He’s a musician and songwriter, which he says basically makes him a poet.
Dave isn’t perfect. He lived life without fear of consequence for the better part of a decade before he had a son and decided to turn his life around.
Unfortunately for his liver, it was too late.
I can’t help but think that his edge, the faded tattoos and the rasp of his voice from years of smoking are what my mom was drawn to.
Such a stark difference from my dad. Dave and my mom came from very different worlds, yet both had struggled, and now they’re just two people who got a second chance at happiness.
Until this.
I start walking in the direction of my cottage as my mom lays out more of the specifics regarding the surgery.
The whole time she’s talking, I can’t help thinking that something is missing from the picture she’s painting.
It’s not until I get to the steps leading up to my front door that I finally interrupt her.
“What aren’t you telling me, Mom?”
“Skylar, I’ve never lied to you about anything. That has always been really important to me.”
“I know.” I walk up the steps and unlock the front door. “Why does it feel like there’s something you don’t want me to know?”
She sighs, deep and tired. “We don’t have insurance, honey, so it’s just going to be a little tricky.”
“You don’t… what? How do you not have insurance?”
My mom owns a flower shop. She has a friend who helps her, but no other real employees. I’ve never thought to ask about her insurance status, but David works as an audio editor for podcasts. Surely, he has insurance.
“It’s one of those tricky situations. We make too much money for assistance, but not enough to actually afford it. I thought we had a few good years left of paying out of pocket for routine visits.”
“Okay, but Dave—”
“He works freelance, so he doesn’t get benefits. I know it wasn’t smart, Sky. Believe me, I’m kicking myself. I guess I was just so happy to be…” Another sigh.
“Free?”
“Oh, Skylar, no. I was going to say ‘making my own way.’” There’s a shuffle on the other side of the line.
“I wasn’t trapped with your father, honey.
I just wasn’t happy. I saw a chance at a better life—one that I could carve out myself—and I took it.
Anyway, we’ll figure it out. I don’t want you to worry. ”
“How much?” I ask. Normally, I wouldn’t be so blunt, but this is life or death.
“Skylar.”
“How much, Mom?”
“I know where you’re going with this, and I don’t want his money.”
“So you’d rather have your husband die of liver failure?” It’s fucked up, I know, but she’s not making any sense. “Besides, the money's not his anymore. It's mine.” Or it will be. Maybe.
“Skylar, I told you, I don’t—”
“Mom. Tell me how much.”
“Hundreds of thousands, Skylar, but there are financial assistance programs we can apply for and payment plans offered by the hospital. Besides, he may be on the list for months if he gets one at all. You know with his history, he won’t be the first on the list.”
The thought brings fresh pain to my chest. I understand it. There are rules, considerations, ethics. It’s complicated, but it doesn’t hurt any less. They don’t put former alcoholics at the top of organ donation lists.
“You’re giving up?” I hate the tinge of misplaced anger in my voice.
“I know you don’t mean that, honey,” she says softly.
“I’m sorry, Mom, but I’ll be twenty-five in a little over a month. Do you think he could hold on until then?”
“Skylar, I don’t think you’re hearing me.”
“Just answer the question, Mom.”
“Yes. He’s stable for now. His doctors are optimistic that he can make it through a few more months.”
“Okay.”
She protests again. I’m not sure if she knows about the marriage stipulation, but she doesn’t mention it if she does.
She’s torn. This is the love of her life.
Granted, she met him in the middle of it as opposed to the ripe age of fifteen like me, but it doesn’t matter.
He’s the other half of her soul. How could I not protect that for her when I have the power to do so?
Long after I’ve ended the call with a promise to talk to her in the morning, changed into my favorite oversized T-shirt, and let the tears spill freely down my face, it finally dawns on me.
I don’t think I fully wrapped my head around every detail.
It was fight or flight, and I fought with all I had.
Now, in the quiet of late evening, my mind is catching up with what I need to do to make this happen.
It’s only six weeks. I turn twenty-five in April. I won’t even have to speak to him except, of course, to ask him to commit fraud with me. Except it’s not really fraud. We got married before I even knew about the terms of the trust.
When it becomes clear that any more thought about this tonight will only lead to spiraling, I pad into the living room dead-set on losing myself in reality television for the next few hours.
But the second I wrap myself in my favorite blanket, there’s a knock at the door.
I wait for the sound of a truck driving off, thinking maybe it’s a package being delivered late. That’s not uncommon.
But after a few seconds, the knocking returns, louder, more urgent, along with my name being called by a voice I know all too well.
It only haunted my memories for years.