She wasn’t always sick. Normally, she could function like almost any other person. But when she was sick, she was really sick. Fatigued, weak, and fragile. Three weeks ago she’d caught pneumonia.
It was the second time in six months. We were lucky she’d taken the semester off college to try and make some money because, otherwise, she would’ve flunked out.
“I bought you clear broth.” I took out the carton from the bag when I heard her rustling in our bed. I set the soup next to her medicine and turned on the stove top. “How are you feeling, you little devil?”
“Like a leech who sucks all your money. I’m so sorry, Millie.” Her voice croaked with sleep.
Friends was playing on our ancient television set. The canned laughter bounced between the scant furniture and thin walls, making our Sunnyside apartment a little more bearable. I wondered how many times Rosie could watch without losing her mind. She already knew all the episodes by heart.
She rolled off of the mattress and stood up, moving toward me. “How’d the job hunting go?” She rubbed my back in circles and started massaging my shoulders.
I sighed, dropping my head back and squeezing my eyes shut. So good. I couldn’t wait to jump into our double futon and watch TV under the blankets with my sister.
“Temp agencies are swamped, and no one is hiring for retail this close to Christmas. Those jobs are already gone. On the bright side, heroin chic is making a comeback, so at least we’ll have that going for us.” I blew out air. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, money’s gonna be extra tight this month.”
Everything went quiet, and all I heard were her labored breaths. She slapped a hand over her mouth and winced. “Oh, fuck.”
Yup. Rosie was no Southern belle.
“Can we survive December? I’m sure I’ll get back on my feet soon. By January, we’ll both be working.”
“By January, we’ll most likely be homeless,” I muttered, placing a pot on the stovetop and stirring the broth. I wished I had something to add to it. Vegetables, chicken, anything to make her feel better. To make her feel home.
“We’ll take everything you just bought back and get a refund. I don’t need my meds. I feel so much better.”
My heart shattered in my chest. Because she did need them. She needed them bad. Her antibiotics prevented lung and sinus infections, and her inhalers opened her airway. Not only did my sister need her medications, she literally couldn’t breathe without them.
“I threw away the receipt,” I lied. “Besides, I can always get them to raise the limit on my credit card.” Another lie. No one in their right mind was going to give me more credit. I was already neck-deep in debt.
“No,” she interrupted again, spinning me around to face her. She gripped my hands. Hers were so cold I wanted to cry. I must’ve flinched, because Rosie withdrew them quickly. “It’s bad circulation. I’m feeling really well, I swear. Listen to me, Millie. You’ve done enough for me. Made too many sacrifices along the way. Maybe it’s time for me to go live with Mama and Daddy.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled. I shook my head and gathered her hands, rubbing them to warm her up.
“You’ve only got two years left on your degree here. You’d have to start over in California, even if you could find a program you could afford. Stay. There are zero opportunities for people like us in Todos Santos.”
Besides, our parents were still broke. So were we, but I was much better at shouldering the financial burden. I was young and still had fight in me. Our parents were old and worn-out, two sixty-something servants living in California, still in that stupid servants’ apartment on the Spencer estate.
It wasn’t that bad for us most of the time. Rosie had worked too, until pneumonia knocked her on her butt. The wet, cold fall had made her sicker, and now winter had hit early and we were behind on the heat bill. But spring was going to come. Cherry trees were going to blossom. We were going to get better. I knew we would.
Still, telling her about my encounter with Vicious was out of the question. She didn’t need another reason to worry.
“I need a distraction.” I rubbed my face, changing the subject.
“You can say that again.” She tugged on her lower lip before turning and walking toward my easel in the corner of the small room.
The easel held a half-finished painting I was working on—a sandstorm rising to an inky black sky. An art collector from Williamsburg named Sarah had ordered the painting. She used to work for Saatchi Art and was still tight with gallery owners all over the city. I wanted to impress her. I wanted to get my foot in the door. I also needed the money.
Rosie knew painting soothed my soul.
She took out the half-squeezed oil tubes, my brushes, and wooden palette, mimicking my usual routine when I prepared to paint. Then she swayed her hips to our old stereo, put on “Teardrop” by Massive Attack, and silently made me some coffee.
I loved my baby sister so much in that moment. It reminded me the sacrifices I made for her were worth it.
I painted as cold December rain furiously knocked on our window. Rosie plopped onto our mattress and talked to me like when we were in high school, exchanging notes about people we went to school with.
“If you could fulfill one dream, what would it be?” she mused, propping her pajama-clad legs against the cold wall.
“Own a gallery of my own,” I answered without even thinking, a stupid smile plastered all over my face. “You?”
She picked at the fringe of the pillow she was hugging to her chest. “Get that damn degree and become a nurse,” she said. “Wait, scrap that. Jared Leto. My dream is to marry Jared Leto. I’d take a stab at Jared Leto. I’m not even talking about, like, a shallow wound. I’m talking a full-blown, deep-cut, ER-worthy stab. I mean, we’d be able to afford it. He’s doing very well for himself.”
I shook my head. She laughed, prompting me to do the same. Lord, Rosie.
I knew it was important to box up these kinds of moments, keep them locked away in my heart, and call them up when things got hard. Because moments like these reminded me that my life was hard, but not bad. There was a difference between the two.
A hard life equaled a life full of obstacles and challenging moments but also full of people you loved and cared about.
A bad life equaled an empty life. One that wasn’t necessarily hard or challenging but was devoid of the people you loved and cared about.
By the time I was done painting, my fingers were numb and my lower back ached from standing in a weird position for hours. We shared mac and cheese and chicken broth and watched “The One With The Lottery” episode of Friends for the six-millionth time. Rosie mouthed all the punch lines, her eyes never leaving the TV, and eventually fell asleep in my arms, snoring softly, her lungs wheezing for air.
I was confused. Tired. A little hungry.
But above all, blessed.
Four days passed before I caved and bought a new phone. I didn’t want to spend the money, but how else would potential employers contact me? It was nothing fancy. The kind of Nokia from before the smartphone era. But I could text and make calls and even play some old-school games like Snake.
I’d been spending the week knocking on recruitment agencies’ doors during the day and working shifts at McCoy’s at night. Rachelle begged the other waitresses to give me their shifts so I could pay the rent, and even though I was embarrassed, I was mostly just grateful.