Sighing, she toed empty snack bowls aside and climbed out of her game chair to stretch. Her back protested, and she winced. Maybe she should be more understanding of Pearl Jean’s supposed sciatica?
Think of the she-beast, and she will appear. Pearl Jean marched down the hall, a woman on a mission. “I hope you’re happy with yourself.” She wagged a finger in Cookie’s direction. “All your chatter made it impossible for me to sleep.”
The old biddy stood at five-foot-seven, an inch taller than Cookie. They were both plump in the bust and the butt, and could easily pass for a hot young granddaughter and her thousand-year-old grandmother. A fact Cookie loved to tease her friend about. Although they didn’t have very similar features.
Cookie possessed shoulder-length brown hair, smooth pale skin and gray eyes; Pearl Jean had a cap of silvery curls, lined golden skin and navy eyes. An older Marilyn Monroe, she liked to say.
With a wry undertone, Cookie said, “Next time take out your hearing aids. Problem solved.”
Pearl Jean sputtered a moment.
Sugars jumped to the floor and wound around Cookie’s legs, letting her know he expected his evening meal. She’d found him in her backyard last year, injured and freezing to death. With a little online help, she’d nursed him back to health. They’d been together ever since.
He meow-meowed with the whiniest voice. Sugars-speak for Faster, woman.
“Okay, okay.” She saluted Pearl Jean before heading to the kitchen, dragging the oxygen tank behind her. Strands of fur clung to yoga pants in desperate need of a wash. One day. Soonish. Laundry required energy, and Cookie had burned through hers to slaughter a digital enemy.
A floorboard whined when she passed, and another groaned as if collapse was imminent. Because of course it did. She’d scrimped and saved to purchase this old farmhouse, eager to fulfill a childhood dream of living in a big, boxy home with acres of land, a white picket fence and a massive oak tree with a tire swing. Visions of neighbors offering welcome casseroles and borrowing eggs for last-minute baking emergencies had danced in her head.
She’d craved a community similar the those she’d seen on TV. Everyone shopped at the same grocery store, despised the same high school football team, and shared way too much personal information with each other.
She’d thought, Get the house. Spend the money. Enjoy your life while you can.
Translation: All aboard the Titanic.
Opportunity. Crash. Sink.
Now the house slowly crumbled around her. Small-town Wi-Fi came straight from the pits of hell. In a cart. Without wheels. Thousand year old Mr. Benson, the only neighbor within walking distance, had never given her the time of day, much less a culinary masterpiece.
Whatever. Cookie had better things to do than lament failed reveries. She concentrated on preparing a bowl of nibbles according to Suggy’s specific demands. Wet food in the center, dry food forming a perfect circle around it, with ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TOUCHING THE EDGES OF THE BOWL. If a single kernel made its way outside the circle of acceptable morsels, her precious A-hole refused to eat.
When she finished, he looked over the offering and issued a meow of approval. As he ate, she set course for her bedroom to steal a quick power nap—nope. Pearl Jean stood guard in the living room.
Her roommate stepped directly in her path and motioned to the couch. “Have a seat. We’re going to talk. In case there’s any confusion, I’m not asking.”
“What’s wrong?” Without the aid of war-spawned adrenaline, fatigue seeped into Cookie’s bones. Have a seat? No problem. She released the tank and plopped onto the cushions. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Your reactions were slower than usual today, and you struggled to maintain your focus. I could tell.”
So the old bat had watched due to more than boredom, huh?
Needing a moment to consider the best response, she pitched her gaze over the well-worn floral furnishings, a huge plasma screen TV, portraits of smiling families she and Pearl Jean had found at various yard sales, and a coffee table scattered with all her must-haves: a bottle of water, iPod, earbuds, a bag of crackers, ChapStick, an iPad loaded with true crime and romance novels, and more snacks.
From this vantage point, she had a view of the bay windows across the room. Outside, clouds rimmed in rose and lavender smeared the sky, the sun setting over her neglected acreage. Fruit trees no longer produced and weeds abounded. What she wouldn’t give to have the energy to garden. Or at least the money to pay someone to do it.
Here goes. “I’m fine today, Pearl Jean, and I’ll be fine tomorrow. Honest. You don’t need to worry. You’re not going to wake up and discover I’m dead.”
“Are you sure? Because you look like death right now.”
“Yeah, but I always look like death lately.” Twelve months ago, her doctor guessed she had eleven months to go, unless they located a new heart. Living on borrowed time now. “It’s coming, just as we knew it would.”
“No. There’s got to be something else we can do. Have you pursued ads on the darknet wide webs?”
“That isn’t what it’s call—”
“I don’t care what it’s called. Use it. You might get lucky and find someone who’s selling a perfectly acceptable preowned organ.”
Cookie blinked back tears. No emotion. If she broke down, Pearl Jean would break down.
“No, I’m not going to search for a preowned heart on the quote-unquote darknet wide webs,” she said softly, evenly.
“Is money the problem? Because I’m willing to donate my Social Security.”
Lying there, fatigue got the better of her. Cookie fought to keep her eyes open. “Can we postpone this conversation?”
“No, we cannot,” her best friend cried. “This is life-or-death.”
Guess she’d have to end this the Cookie way. Brutally. “All right, then. Let’s talk about the fact that I’m not going to get a new heart. I’m going to die sooner rather than later. Before I go, I want to ensure you and Suggy have someone to take care of you.” Preferably someone willing to attend to the house panther’s smallest whim, exactly as he deserved, while this same paragon resisted the urge to stab themselves in the ears anytime Pearl Jean convinced herself she’d rung Death’s doorbell.
In other words, Cookie needed to find the unicorn of people. The champagne of friends. A generic brand, maybe. Cheap didn’t always mean lower quality.
“Okay, yes,” Pearl Jean said with a nod. “We can postpone this conversation.”
Finished with his meal, Suggy jumped onto the couch, pranced across Cookie’s legs and curled up on her chest.