She’s struggling now more than ever, but I’m doing everything I can to put an end to that.
A smile lifts my lips as tears well in my eyes. I brush them away, smooth the front of my shirt, and stride through the front doors, pausing to sign in at the front desk before navigating the hive of brightly colored hallways to find my mother. If it weren’t for the patients in wheelchairs, or trundling by with IV stands, you wouldn’t know this was a medical facility. It looks more like an upscale community center.
When I finally duck my head through the door of room 208, I find Mom propped up in bed, eyes closed, breathing deeply as Spanish guitar flows through speakers on her bedside table. Fresh flowers bloom on the counter in the tiny kitchenette. Sunlight pours through the curtains she brought from home. Pictures adorn the walls, some she’s had for years and others she made in the art therapy classes here at Shady Cove.
She’s humming to herself; more content than I’ve seen her in a while. I lean in the doorway and watch, lost in memories of her grabbing me by the hand and spinning us into a dance in the kitchen while she hummed whatever song filled her heart that day. Mom worked long hours, followed by a race home to cook dinner because she promised me I’d never feel alone after Dad left. She kept that promise until I learned to cook and kept it for her. That’s what we did. We took care of each other.
And I’m going to keep on taking care of her until she can do it herself again.
I sniffle and Mom jumps, turning to me with a gasp. “Mina! Sweet Jesus!” She covers her heart with her hand then starts laughing. “How long you been there?”
“Long enough to see you need some of these.” I heft a bag of fresh mangoes from a nearby farmer’s market. “They’re not mango fritters from Tineil’s Bakery, but they’re the next best thing.”
Mom’s crooked smile springs to life and she waves me over, her eyes filled with vitality for the first time in a long time. “They’re organic right? You know how Shady Cove is about pesticides and stuff.”
“Organic. Grown locally. I wouldn’t dare go against your doctor’s orders.” Perching on the edge of Mom’s bed, I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her shoulder, breathing deeply. Her floral perfume soothes tension I didn’t know was hiding in my neck and jaw.
She cups my cheeks. Smooths my hair. Her eyes literally glisten with love. “I was just about to make some burdock root tea. I’ll make enough for both of us, and you can tell me all about your meeting with that fancy architect and new client.”
“Yum?” I wrinkle my nose, mostly in jest. The dieticians have Mom eating and drinking some strange concoctions, trying to meet her unique dietary needs so her body can finish healing. Burdock root tea is just another entry in a string of unusual food.
Mom pushes into a sitting position and swings her legs off the bed, then closes her eyes and takes a shuddering breath, gripping the mattress like her life depends on it.
I spring into action like the seasoned pro I am, clutching her shoulder in case she falls. “Here, Mom. You sit. I’ll make the tea.”
Two years ago, Mom got sick. Just your ordinary, run of the mill, spend a day or two in bed with the sniffles and then life goes on kind of sick.
Except life didn’t go on.
Mom got worse and worse, too tired to feed herself. Too weak to sit up. Pain wracked her body and confusion stole the sassy spitfire who raised me and left an old woman in her place. After countless trips to the ER followed by visits with every specialist in the area, they slapped her with a diagnosis of chronic fatigue syndrome, told us there was no cure, and that was that.
It might as well have been a death sentence. She was alive, but she wasn’t living. I refused to believe that was the best the world had to offer.
I spent hours researching online, devouring patient testimonials and the latest medical research, desperate to find something to bring her back to herself. I even called Dad, though to this day I don’t know what I expected from that. Whatever it was, I didn’t find it.
Then I found Shady Cove, an inpatient facility with medical, functional, and integrative doctors onsite, claiming to treat the individual, not the symptoms. The success stories had hope blooming in my heart for the first time since Mom slipped into bed and never slipped out.
But the best care comes with a price tag to match.
I made it my mission to find the money, which the universe graciously provided with Nathan West’s project.
And now she’s here.
And she’s going to get better.
Though the discount The Prince of Darkness negotiated last night threw a serious wrench in my gears. Finances were tight before my brush with the villain. Now? I’ll have to say yes to every financial opportunity that comes my way, no matter what it is. I may even have to pick up a second job for evenings and weekends in addition to the extra clients I’m adding.
Whatever it is, however strange, however unappealing, if it pays, I’ll do it.
For Mom.
“No, no.” My mother waves me off. “They want me moving around more. This is nothing but a little bout of dizziness. Doc Morgan says it’s my overactive nervous system trying to keep me safe, and I need to remind myself that I’m already safe.” Mom closes her eyes and takes several measured breaths. I watch as color returns to her cheeks.
“See?” she says, just as I decide to help her back into bed and choose another day for a visit. “All better. I just got back from PT, so I’m a little tired, but I have a massage to look forward to later. And my neurologist will be by after that to discuss my medications and supplements. Every time she tinkers with those, I feel a little better.”
“I should have picked a less busy day for a visit.”
“I can’t tell you how good it feels to be able to have a busy day.” Mom hits me with a smile I haven’t seen in a long time. She stands and shuffles towards the kitchenette, looking pleased as punch. Six months ago, she couldn’t go to the bathroom on her own. A month of dedicated treatment and she’s making me tea.
I was right to secure her place here the moment I accepted Nathan West’s offer, even though I couldn’t afford it yet.
I was less right to negotiate away the money he owes me so he’d send a shitty text, but that’s what I get for drinking bowls of wine with Fallon.
But… I’m resourceful and determined.
Mom won’t lose this momentum. There’s a way to afford the full round of treatment and the second I find it, I’ll snatch it up lickety-split. In the meantime, there’s room on my credit cards and I’m sure I’ll qualify for a loan if we get there.
“Tell me about this meeting.” She fills her tea kettle with filtered water and places it on the stove. “Was it everything you hoped it would be?”
“Yes and no.” I don’t usually keep things from Mom, but I don’t want to tell her my new dream client is rude. She’d worry. Just like if I told her how much it cost for her to be here, she’d worry. And if she knew I was spending money I didn’t already have, she’d worry.
And worrying isn’t good for her.
“That is not the enthusiastic answer I expected. What went wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing. Not really. Benjamin Bancroft is every bit as talented as the magazines made him out to be. And he’s even better looking in person. And so easy to be around. I have no business working with someone like him—”
Mom holds up a hand. “You do though. You might not have the name yet, but you’re every bit as talented as this guy.”
“I hope that proves true. If he likes working with me, this could really be a jumpstart to my career. Plus, he’s so very, very pretty.”
Nathan West is prettier, whispers a grinning voice in the back of my head.
As long as you like assholes, I reply, then realize part of me must, since I’m the one who brought it up in the first place.
Mom pulls two misshapen mugs out of a cabinet with a sheepish grin. “I made this one in pottery class last week,” she says, pointing to a chunky blue mug with a slight lean to the left. “It’s hideous, but I love it and I swore my next one would be better but…” She lifts a green one that looks like it’s melting. “Maybe I’ll do better next time?”
I take the thing in my hands, laughing as I turn it over. “Does it even hold liquid?”
She snatches it back, eyes wide with good humor. “Of course it holds liquid! Just because it’s not perfect doesn’t mean it’s worthless. Now tell me about this other guy. The one I suspect is the reason you’re not as excited as you should be.”
“He’s not exactly easy to be around.”
“People who can afford designers and architects usually have a chip on their shoulder.”
“He had a full concrete block on that thing. He’s rude, Mom. Just plain rude.”
“Good thing your hot architect makes up for it, huh? Focus on him, on his positivity, and don’t even let the client into your headspace. He’s a means to an end, that’s all.”
