I’m now wearing a pair of worn-out Nikes and have twisted my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head. I had to hurry to get to the medical supply store in time to put in the order and have it delivered with tomorrow’s shipment.
I’ve had this wheelchair on hold for weeks now, and after arguing with insurance for days on end, I knew it was either make my father suffer in his current ill-fitting chair that pinches his thighs and causes sores on his lower back or do whatever I can to get the money to get him this new one before the sores open up and turned into pressure ulcers. Again. We’ve been down this road before and it almost ended his life. The sores get infected and he’s too old and too weak to fight off another infection. It would take me weeks if not months to earn enough from my waitressing job to cover this expensive as fuck wheelchair.
I confirm everything, making double sure the wheelchair will get delivered to the nursing home and then the right patient tomorrow afternoon. The cashier throws out a catty, “Well, you could be there if you’re so worried,” that I respond to with a glare and a roll of my eyes. I don’t have time for her shit.
The wind picks up, carrying a cool fall breeze with it. It’s the end of September, and it’s been unseasonably warm all week. Not that I’m complaining, though. The lake-effect snow will be here before we know it, and I’ll be trudging through it to work and back.
But today, though it’s nice enough out to walk, I have enough leftover cash from Blue Suit to take public transportation and buy myself something for lunch. I put on my headphones and sit at the back of the bus, ignoring the world around me.
I get off a block away from the nursing home, intent on grabbing a taco from a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place. My stomach grumbles, and the last remaining twenty is burning a hole in my pocket. I round the corner a little too fast and almost step on a homeless woman sitting close to the side of a building. Her eyes are red and glossed over, but not because she’s high. It’s because she’s been crying.
A sleeping toddler is tucked under her arm, wearing dirty clothes. They’re both in desperate need of a bath, and suddenly tacos seem irrelevant. I come to a stop, digging the twenty out of my purse.
“There’s a church three blocks over that’ll take you in for the night,” I tell her. I know this because I stayed there before years ago, back when it was me, Heather, and Jason against the world. “They’ll have clothes for her too.”
The woman takes the twenty from me, bottom lip quivering. “Thank you. My boyfriend…he got arrested, and we’ve had nowhere to go.” She starts to get to her feet, struggling to keep her child nestled against her body and pick up her shit at the same time.
“Want some help?”
The woman eyes me suspiciously, and if you’re going off my looks, I can’t blame her. Two-bit whores aren’t known for their generosity.
“I’ve been in your shoes,” I offer.
“You have kids?” The woman gets to her feet and grabs a duffle bag full of baby clothes. She only has a backpack full of stuff for herself.
“Not my own, but I looked after my siblings for a few years.” I take the duffle from her and lead the way down the street. We walk in silence, and when we get in front of the church, the woman tells me a tearful and heartfelt thank you.
I hike back to the nursing home, sweating by the time I get there. Dammit. This dress is dry clean only. The smells of body odor, urine, and bleach hang heavy in the air, mixed together like some sort of stomach-churning perfume. I turn down the hall and head in the direction of my father’s room. I slow, seeing the curtain pulled around his bed.
The nursing assistant behind the curtain hums “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” and I hear him plunge a washcloth into a basin of water.
“Hey, Corbin,” I say, knowing who he is without having to look.
His shoes squeak on the tile as he steps over to peer at me. “You pulling tricks again, hooka?”
“Magic tricks,” I say, snapping my fingers. “And for my next act, watch that new wheelchair appear tomorrow.”
“You didn’t.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I did.”
He waggles a finger at me. “Girl, you are something else.”
“How’s he doing today?”
“We’ve had some good moments today, haven’t we, Mr. Cooper?”
I perch on the edge of the other bed in the room, not wanting to go behind the curtain. My father’s been in this shithole of a nursing home for the last several years, thanks to heavy drinking in his youth, a brain injury acquired during a bar fight, and most of all, early-onset Alzheimer’s.
“Good.”
“I’m going to take him down to Bingo after I get him cleaned up. He got a little messy during lunch.”
“How’d that happen?”
“New CNA. Let him alone with a bowl of soup.”
I let out a sigh. You can’t leave food out around Dad. He’ll try to feed himself and will end up spilling it everywhere. I pull my phone out of my purse, checking the time. I’m going to have to cut my visit with Dad short today if I want to make it over in time to see Heather, which I need to do. It’s been a few days, and I have to make sure she’s staying out of trouble.
Once Dad is up and dressed, I wheel him down into the cafeteria and sit him at a table along with a few other residents. I stay through one round of Bingo and then give him a kiss on the forehead and rush out, getting to the prison with only minutes left of visiting hours.
I’ve gone through the process of signing in and going through security so many times I could do it in my sleep.
“Hey, Scarlet,” C.O. Benson says as I pass through the metal detector. “Looking good.”
I flash him a smile and bat my eyelashes, just enough to keep him hanging on. “You too. Have you been working out?”
“I have,” he replies with a wide smile. “Starting some new supplements.”
“Keep it up. I can tell.” I grab my purse, holding the smile on my face until I turn away. He’s not a total loser but isn’t my type. And by that, I mean, I’m not into guys who live in their parents’ basement and find taxidermy a fun way to pass the time. But I know how helpful it can be to have that flirty relationship with someone in his position, and I never know when I’ll have to ask for a favor.
For my sister, that is.
I get seated in the visitor area and lean back while I wait. My mind starts to wander, and I quickly reel that fucker in. Don’t think. Don’t feel.
“Scar!”
I look up and see my sister quickly walking over.
“Jesus Christ, Heather.” My eyes widen, and I shake my head. “What the fuck did you do to your hair?”
She flops into the chair with a huff. “I knew you’d hate it.”
Reaching over, I run my fingers through the rough cut. A natural blonde like me, Heather has butchered her long locks into a terrible above-the-shoulders bob with streaks of black and red throughout.
“It looks like a prison haircut.”
“Well, it is a prison haircut. I’m in fucking prison, Scar,” she spits out, nostrils flaring. We glare at each other for a few seconds and then burst out laughing. She reaches over the table and gives me a quick hug, ignoring the C.O. telling us not to touch.