Chapter 1 #3
“How?” Alicia blurts out, ignoring the kick I give to her shin under the table. “How are you going to figure it out? I know what Leila makes, and it’s a lot, but this place and food and medical bills—” She looks at me nervously. “I just think if anyone else can help—”
I almost say something, then, about the card in my purse. But I know that’s not the kind of anyone else that Alicia means. And I know exactly what my mother would say.
“What about family?” Alicia presses on. “I know your grandparents are gone, but maybe you could contact your dad—”
“No,” both my mom and I say in unison. It almost makes me laugh.
“We’ve managed on our own without him for twenty-two years,” my mom says firmly. “I understand where you’re coming from, Alicia, but I’m not reaching out to him for anything. Even if I could find him, which I don’t care to.”
"What about a payment plan with the hospital?" Alicia suggests, and I can hear the note of desperation in her voice—a feeling I’m already well acquainted with. I’ve been through this entire conversation already, with my mom, with myself, with my boss.
Alicia is just catching up. "Or financial aid programs? "
"We've tried everything," I say quietly. "We make too much money to qualify for most programs, but not enough to actually afford the treatment. Their suggestions were credit cards and loans, both of which we’ve run the numbers on. We took out a loan, but it isn’t going to last long."
I’ve run the numbers so many times I have them memorized. We’ll be out of savings and the loan my mom took out by the end of the month. The cards are maxed out. We’ll just be living on my income then, and it’s not enough. I can’t get a sizable enough loan to help—not enough credit yet.
Except for the one my boss gave me the contact for.
"That's fucked up," Alicia says, then immediately looks apologetic. "Sorry,” she adds, looking at my mom.
"No, you're right," Mom says with a bitter laugh. "It is fucked up. The whole system is designed to bankrupt people like us."
We eat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in our own thoughts.
The weight of the impossible situation settles over the table like a heavy blanket.
It’s exactly what I was hoping to avoid tonight, but that, too, feels impossible—like the cancer is already infecting not only my mother but our entire lives.
"You know what?" Alicia says suddenly, setting down her chopsticks. "Let's not talk about this anymore tonight. Let's talk about something else. Something good."
"Like what?" I ask gratefully. I needed someone to help pull us out of this funk, because I don’t have the energy to do it myself tonight.
"Like... remember in high school when we decided to dye our hair blue for junior prom?" Alicia grins, reaching for another crab rangoon.
Mom laughs—the first real laugh I've heard from her in weeks. "I still have pictures of that disaster. They’re on an old laptop somewhere."
"It wasn't that bad," I protest, but I'm smiling too. I remember it very clearly—it was a disaster.
"You looked like a smurf," Alicia giggles. "An elegant, prom-dress-wearing smurf."
“So did you!” I exclaim. “It didn’t help that your dress was the same color.”
“I matched,” Alicia says with a sniff, and we both dissolve into laughter.
It feels like something in my chest pops, a weight briefly lifting off of me as we keep talking about old stories and memories, and my mother looks brighter than she has in weeks.
I can almost forget about calculations that don’t add up, and not enough hours of sleep, and the phone call I need to make later.
But not quite.
Later, after Alicia has gone home and Mom has fallen asleep, I sit in the living room surrounded by boxes and try to work up the courage to make the call.
I reach for my purse, pulling out the card.
It’s poor quality, which is the first warning sign, not that I really needed one.
I’m well aware that whoever this is, they’re a loan shark.
Someone I would never, under normal circumstances, do business with.
Just the look on my boss’s face when he handed me the card made my skin crawl.
But these aren’t normal circumstances. And I’m out of options.
I reach for my cell phone and dial the number before I can lose my nerve.
Someone picks up on the second ring, a rough, impatient voice. “Hello?”
"Hi, um, I'm calling about a loan? My boss, Richard… Richard Brooks, he gave me your number—"
"Brooks. Yeah, I know him. You need money?"
“I—” It’s alarmingly to the point, but what did I expect? I imagine everyone who calls this number is in a place where they don’t have any other choice. It’s not like I’m calling for conversation, and I’m sure this guy knows it. "Yes. For medical bills. My mother, she's—"
There’s a snort on the other end of the line. "I don't need your life story, sweetheart. How much?"
I swallow hard. "Thirty thousand. For an initial loan—after I pay it down, I might need to take out more."
There's a pause. "That's a lot of money.”
My chest tightens with alarm. "I know. But I have a good job, I can pay it back—"
"We'll see about that. You free tonight to talk about it? Meet me at Flanagan’s Bar. I’ll be there until about midnight.”
"I—yes, I can do that." My heart is beating so hard it hurts. “I can be there within an hour.”
"Good. And sweetheart? Don't bring anyone with you. This is between you and me."
The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone for a long moment, wondering what I've just gotten myself into. Not anything good, I know that. I knew that, already—but this is worse than what I expected. The way he talked to me made that perfectly clear.
I get up, shoving my phone into my pocket, and heading to my room to change.
I don’t want this guy to get any ideas, but I figure it can’t hurt to look good, so I throw on a pair of dark, tight jeans, a black top with a low neckline and hook-and-eye closures down the front, and a leather jacket and boots to finish it off.
I yank my hair out of the ponytail it was in, trying to comb through the crease left in it with my fingers.
When that doesn’t work, I throw it up in a messy bun, figuring that looks sexier.
The bar is further downtown than I realized, and in a neighborhood that I would never choose to go to alone at night. Wincing, I call an Uber; the price tag on it for a Friday night is something that I know I can’t afford. But if I try to take the bus, I’ll be late, and I can’t afford that either.
I check to make sure my mom is asleep and grab my keys, shivering in the cold as I stand on the curb and watch for the Corolla that’s supposed to be picking me up.
The snow is coming down harder now, and I wish I were in a mood to appreciate it—the first snow of the winter.
It sticks to my hair and my jacket, and it would be magical if I didn’t feel like I was going to my execution.
Boston in the winter always is, but right now, nothing seems beautiful.
The Uber drops me off right in front of Flanagan’s, the driver giving me a look that’s clearly concerned before he shrugs and drives off as soon as I’m out of the car.
I look at the front of the bar and wince.
It’s seen better days, and from what I can see through the greasy windows, the inside isn’t much better.
It looks dim and smoky and like it’s frequented by the kind of guys that I should stay far, far away from.
A neon Budweiser sign flickers in the window, casting an eerie red glow on the sidewalk, and the smell of stale beer and cigarettes hits me as soon as I open the door.
Every conversation stops when I walk in.
I feel like I have a target painted on my back as I make my way to the bar, hyperaware of the way the eyes of the men in the room follow me.
I smooth my hands down my jeans, feeling a nervous quiver rising in my stomach.
I thought it was a good idea to look somewhat attractive for the meeting, but now I feel like a piece of steak hung out in front of a pack of dogs.
I wish I’d worn something shapeless, something that could hide what they’re all clearly staring at.
"You looking for someone, honey?" A man at the end of the bar leers at me, his words slightly slurred.
"I'm meeting someone," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I fight the urge to lick my lips—the last thing I want is anyone here staring at my mouth.
"Lucky guy."
I ignore him and approach the bartender.
He's a mountain of a man with arms covered in tattoos and a scar running from his left ear to his jaw. Despite his intimidating appearance, he’s not staring at me like he wants to devour me, and he doesn’t look completely like an asshole.
Instead, he’s looking at me almost—sympathetically.
Like he sees how out of place I am here and knows why I’m in this bar.
"You here to see the boss?" he asks before I can even say a word. Fuck. I guess I really do stick out.
I swallow hard. "Yes."
He jerks his head toward a door off to the right side of the bar. I figured it led to the bathroom, but maybe not. “In there. Neil is waiting for you. And, honey—” He leans his elbows on the bar, lowering himself to my level and lowering his voice. "You sure you want to do this?"
The question catches me off guard. The last thing I’d expected, walking in here, was for someone to look almost—worried about me. "What do you mean?"
He straightens, his expression clearing. “Nothing. Just—be careful.” He gives me a once-over, but it’s not the kind of hungry look that I’ve been feeling like grease on my skin since I walked in here. “Neil’s not an easy man to deal with. Especially for a pretty girl.”
“I—thanks,” I manage, feeling my hands start to shake a little. “I’ll be fine.”
I don’t sound nearly as confident as I wish I did.