Translation: Rico, I can’t work this week, so you’re gonna have to pull doubles to ensure we have enough to pay rent next month.
And there it is. The Hulk *SMASH* on tomorrow’s ticket-hunt shenanigans. What really sucks is that the smash itself is a reminder of how useful that kind of money could be.
The worst thing about these flare-ups is we never know when they’re going to end.
Did I mention my grandfather died of colon cancer? I try not to even think about that, but at times like these…
Why couldn’t I have picked that other ticket? Certainly wouldn’t be in this position if I had—surely millions of dollars would provide adequate stress relief to avoid any future bouts of Mama’s gut-shredding plague.
“Mama, you really need to see a doctor about this,” I say.
“Don’t start, Rico. You know we can’t afford that.”
Right. Because no health insurance.
It’ll never cease to amaze me that my mother’s fear of unpayable medical bills is stronger than her fear of death. Yes, medical debt can and does sink families in situations like ours, but come on.
I think about those (now) forty-nine hundred-dollar bills hidden in my box spring….But no. If I use that, there won’t be any money if we have a true emergency. Mama’s gotten over this every time before….
Jesus, I’m doing the same thing she does.
She shifts, and Jax snuggles in deeper. God, what the hell will I do if she—
No. Can’t think like that.
“We could move somewhere cheaper. I don’t mind changing schools, and I’m sure Jax would be fine with it too.”
She shakes her head. “The places I could comfortably afford with one job are all in areas I do not want you and Jaxy to live in. And we won’t even talk about the schools.”
I take a deep breath and look away from her then. Because this next thing I’m about to say…“Mama, I know you don’t want to apply for public assistance, but thi—”
“I’m not having this conversation again, honey. We’re fine. We don’t need it.”
And this is the problem with her. Clearly we do need health insurance, but the last time she tried to get it through the marketplace, we discovered that even combined, we don’t make enough to afford the cheapest plan. All the site did was confirm what Mama doesn’t wanna hear: for us, it’s Medicaid or nothing.
I grit my teeth. Normally, I would just nod and go about my business. Okay, Mama, that’s fine, I would typically say. Avoid an argument that would end with her being mad at me for days because I made her feel like a “bad parent.”
But that was before I sold that ticket.
Before, I didn’t have the courage to even speak to Zan Macklin, let alone plan a trip to Birmingham with him. A trip I can’t make because now I really do have to work extra shifts while my mother waits for her inflamed bowels to return to normal. The stigma punches at her dignity to the point where she refuses to draw from a system she’s helped feed for as long as tax money’s been taken out of her paychecks.
Which means I get to bear the brunt of the slack.
Before the ticket, I would’ve held my peace because I do get it. Wearing scavenged clothes to that school is bad enough. Being the Medicaid kid on top of that would’ve been unbearable.
Now, though?
“You know what doesn’t make sense?” I say. “You claim you moved us here for ‘a decent education,’ but I struggle to even get my homework done because I work so much to keep us from drowning.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t even go to college. So what exactly is the point, Mama? We live way beyond our means, and you can’t say it’s for Jax because he gets bullied so much for being the poor kid, his self-esteem is like…subterranean. You think a kid who feels as bad about himself as Jax does can muster up the motivation to get good grades? And God forbid me or him get sick—”
“He or I, Rico.”
“Are you seriously correcting my grammar right now?”
She glares at me with so much vitriol in her face, if I weren’t so pissed off, I’d probably cower and apologize.
But I don’t. Because I am pissed off. For more reasons than I can even count in this moment. “This ‘attempt at a better life for us’ is failing, Mama. At what point are you going to accept that and make some changes?”
“You have no idea of the sacrifices I’ve made for you and your brothe—”
“I make sacrifices too!” Jax stirs, so I lower my voice. “Extracurriculars. Parties. Friends. A normal high school experience. I’m even sacrificing college—”
“You think I don’t know that?” she snaps. “You think this is the life I want for my children? You think I want to always be at work? You think it doesn’t scare the shit out of me every time I get sick? I can sell some of your granddad’s stuff I’ve got in storage to give us some extra money, but I’m doing my best, goddammit!”
“Well, it obviously isn’t good enough, is it?”
She looks like I just backhanded her, and I immediately feel like a garbage can overflowing with poop diapers and dirty Macklin wet wipes. Her hazel eyes shift back to the television. Full of tears (again) that will definitely overflow any second now.
Of course she’s doing her best, Rico.
I clench my jaw to keep my own facial waterworks in check, then march into the bedroom. Before I can change my mind, I lift my mattress, shove my hand into the box spring hole, and remove the envelope.
Back into the living room I go, and into the air it flies.
She catches it.
“My holiday bonus from work,” I say. “Should give us a little breathing room, and maybe you can go see a doctor.”
Before she can look at me again or form a response, I return to my bedroom and slam the door.
And then I cry.
Rico will never know it, but after Stacia Danger put Jax in bed and confirmed that Rico was asleep as well, she took the forty-nine of us that remain—Rico placed Bill Fifty in a checking account to cover some grocery store splurges—into her closet. Then Stacia dropped to her knees, removed us from our envelope dwelling, and counted us one by one.
She counted again.
And again.
And again. (Don’t these humans realize all that friction begins to chafe? Mercy.)
After the fifth time, she gathered us into a pile and stacked us against her knee a few times. Then she squeezed us so tightly, it became impossible to breathe…and promptly burst into tears.