TWENTY-SEVEN Hope
ZACHARY
“So, do the doctors have treatment plans for your mom?” Jerome asks me on one of the rare occasions when we’re all in our triangular common room. As often as we spend nights with Sadie in her wing, we do occasionally gravitate back to our spaces to conduct the more mundane activities like showers without sex or snatching a quick wardrobe change.
In my hands is the thank you card my parents sent me after they received the gift basket, one that in the past Mom would’ve handled from start to finish. This time, though, the addresses on the outside are labels, and the writing on the inside of the card are all in Dad’s hand except for two words.
Love, Mom.
My fingers run over the ridges made by the pen marks of her handwriting. Mom’s never had the best penmanship, but now, it’s barely legible.
“Yeah. But her insurance doesn’t cover this new experimental drug her neurologists are so eager for her to try. It’s crazy expensive, but hopefully, with this, I can afford it for long enough to find out if it’ll put her back into remission.”
“She’s been in remission?” Dom asks.
It’s not a weird query. Most people associate the word with cancer, and once upon a time, so did I. The only difference is that I’ve basically had to become an expert on MS. Dad, too.
When some evil disease affects someone you love, you feel compelled to learn everything you can about it to discover how it can be destroyed.
If it can be.
“She has. But then her symptoms returned. That’s been four years ago now, and they’ve only gotten more severe.” I march into my room and set the card on my dresser. I’m more than ready to quit talking about my mother’s less-than-stellar chances. “How’s Paisley?”
Jerome and I have been inquiring about Dom’s younger sister on the regular ever since we all had our little heart-to-heart about our family situations. He hasn’t introduced her to us, but that doesn’t bother me. Dom’s the type of guy to keep things—private things—under his vest. I’m actually astounded that he’s shared as much as he has.
“She realized Ripley erases stuff. It sorta blew her mind.”
As he states this, one side of Dom’s beard hitches up, which on most people would probably be a beaming smile. Also, since Ripley, his sister’s doll/toy, is a legitimate eraser imagining this is pretty hilarious.
“So, does Paisley treat you like a father?” Jerome inquires of him, and any grin Dom wore slides off his face.
“She’s my sister.”
“I know.” Jerome raises his hands as if in surrender. “Don’t mean no disrespect. I was just wondering. Grew up with a lush dad and an absentee mother I’ve never even met, remember? So no judgment here.”
“My father is a worthless piece of shit who skipped town right after Paisley was born. Mom tried for a while, but she’s an addict who couldn’t cope with Paisley’s diagnosis. So, I’m it. All my sister’s got.”
“That’s a lot,” Jerome says, his voice soft. “You’re a good guy, Dom.”
I nod. After being around these dudes and Sadie, I’m beginning to realize that we’ve all taken some knocks. Maybe life is rough on everyone at times, even if we don’t always recognize it in others.
“Three and a half weeks before we go home,” I mutter, my feelings about it mixed. On the one hand, it’ll be so dope to visit Mom and Dad. On the other, though...
Our contracts will expire. Unless Sadie offers us that new long-term one she had us working toward to begin with. But since that was going to whoever she chose out of the three of us, it’s outdated, right? Old news.
So, shouldn’t she have mentioned something about this to us already?
“Yeah,” Jerome agrees. “Went by fast, didn’t it?”
“Super fast.” I sit down next to him and across from Dom, lowering my voice. “Do you think she’ll like, bring up what’s going to happen when we return to Boston soon?”
Dom’s dark gaze glances toward the wide-open doorway before flitting back to first me, then Jerome. “I hope so.”
“Why hasn’t she, do you think?” Jerome stays on topic. “Is it a foregone conclusion to her?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’d feel better if she let us know something definite up front.”
Dom’s nodding and so is Jerome. Clearly, we’re all feeling a bit... untethered. Like we’re floating out in space without the guarantee of a lifeline to drag us back to the station.
Yet our oxygen is running low and the air’s getting kind of thin.
Or maybe I’m exaggerating the problem.
“Think it’d be too forward if we’re the ones who initiate the discussion?” Jerome’s pale green eyes peer out into the distance. “If we sat her down and requested the information?”
“Don’t want to seem intimidating, though,” Dom points out. “All three of us coming at her might feel like too much.”
I purse my lips and shake my head. “We’re not intimidating.”
“Not normally,” Jerome explains. “But we have to remember our places in this situation. At the end of the day, we’re her freelancing contractors, her employees. It’s one thing for an individual to go speak to their boss about a concern, but a group of them might feel more like we’re ganging up on her. Probably not in this case,” he backpedals a bit. “Sadie’s not some shrinking violet. But maybe we should figure out what we want to say and nominate someone.”
I shrug. “I could bring it up to her.”
But Dom is scrutinizing Jerome like he might a slide of pond water under a microscope.
“No offense, Zach, but I think it should be him.”
The thing is, I’m not offended. Of the three of us Jerome’s not only the most eloquent, he’s also the most Zen. Everything about the man’s attitude and energy gives off this air of tranquility, of being someone you can rely on no matter the crisis. Even when Sadie lost it that time, Jerome held it together. So, I back Dom up.
“It should be.”
Jerome blinks at us like an owl for a beat. Then, his features go slack with contemplation. “Okay. I’ll think it over, then put what I’ll say by you two first. Cool?”
“Cool,” Dom and I say in harmony.
––––––––
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER, our spokesperson approaches us.
“So, I figure I’ll be straightforward. Mention the contract and the fact that we’re no longer pursuing that specific endgame. Then, I’ll ask her what her plans for us are. Easy-squeezy, yeah?”
“Sounds that way,” I encourage him.
“Yeah,” Dom’s right there with us.
Yet as he heads off in search of her, there’s this itch I have at the back of my brain. Why has Sadie allowed all this time to barrel by without talking to us about such a major decision? Is she hiding something, or has she simply assumed that the atmosphere and habits we’ve developed here will continue in Boston?
Even if that is her assumption, I have questions.
Does she expect us to move into that townhouse where she initially her interviews, or does she have other homes or properties in mind? Will she give us time to visit family first and make arrangements for the move? Or would she want us to remain in our separate residences and come see her according to a schedule?
There’s so much to hammer out.
I watch as Jerome leaves to track her down, feeling as nervous as I did when I first met Sadie. I’m sure I’m being ridiculous. That he’ll come back to us with some detailed plan she’s already swung into motion.
At least, that’s what I hope.