Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Loki jumps up on his hind legs, more puppyish than ever, as he realizes he is right and jumps out the window. The second he reaches me, I lean down. He jumps up like he can’t contain himself. He’s got too much pride bubbling up at having found me.
“Do you want to stay?” I ask him. “Or come home?”
He tugs on my pant leg, whining. I know what he’s saying. Follow me to the nice family.
“Are you trying to get me to believe in fate and all that crap, boy?” I whisper, though the woman hasn’t left the house. She’s standing in the light, staring into the darkness.
That’s us, all right—light and dark. I have to remember who I am. What I am.
“No,” I tell him.
He moans and tugs on me again. I credit dogs with a high level of intelligence, but I’m usually realistic about it. This has me thinking all kinds of insane things, though. It’s almost like he can sense something in me—some need—but that’s ridiculous. I’m stressed. Who wouldn’t be in my shoes? It doesn’t mean a lady is the answer.
“Last chance,” I say. “I know you can get home on your own. Clearly, you’ve been handling it just fine for months. So …”
He tugs on my pant leg again. Then he must realize he won’t get anywhere. He yawns dramatically and nudges at me instead, like he’s saying, Fine, take me away.
Picking him up, I cradle him between my legs. Luckily, the bike is electric, so it’s very quiet. The engine won’t burn him up. That’s what I like about it. It’s almost silent. It helps with my second job.
CHAPTER FOUR
MAYA
“All this fuss for me,” Mom murmurs.
I almost tell her this was her idea, me handling the bills and everything in her room. She “wants to help,” but she can’t accept we’re long past that. Her Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis has reached the stage where just being able to talk or croak is a victory.
“We can make it work for a couple more months,” I say. “I just need to pick up more work.”
“College—”
“Can wait,” I cut in.
I can see she wants to argue. She used to be such a tough woman. It’s like the old Mom is trying to press through her skin. “Maya …”
“Mom, I was studying English Lit because I didn’t know what else to study. You talk about college like I’m missing out on this whole other world, but I’m not, okay? I’m happy to take care of you. It’s not like this is even a debate. We need the money. You need a nurse here.”
“Do you think I enjoy being a strain on your life?”
“Do you think I enjoy it when you say things that aren’t true?”
As I go through the bills, figuring out which ones I can get away with not paying, I try not to let silly thoughts into my head. When Mom got sick, I became superstitious, thinking a bunch of unhelpful stuff. Now, the thought replaying repeatedly is, “Something bad is going to happen because Loki ran out on us.”
“You already work a full-time job,” Mom says.
“The waitress hours aren’t exactly reliable.”
This works for and against us sometimes. The unreliability means that now and then, my boss will want me for seventy hours one week, but then it might be nothing for a while.
“I’ll go into the city,” I say, “ and hand out more resumés. That’s how I got this job. They liked the personal touch.”
“I wish I could help.”
Putting a bill aside, I reach over and touch Mom’s hand. “The best thing you can do is stop beating yourself up. I want to approach this with a positive mindset, okay? I can’t do that if you’re …”
I cut myself off. I almost said, “Playing the victim.” That’s not what Mom’s doing at all, obviously.
“Sometimes I just wish you’d let me—”
Leaping to my feet, I wave my hand, cutting Mom off. There’s no way I’m going to sit here and listen to Mom say a bunch of crazy, twisted stuff like that. Let her—and I know where it was going to go. It wasn’t going to be that she wanted me to let her live.
“I need to check if I have any more resumés. I’ve got a shift at one. If I hurry, I can cover some ground before then.”
Mom doesn’t reply for a moment, and then she with a sigh says, “That sounds great, dear.”
It’s not very convincing, but at least she’s trying.
“Can you work more, though?” Riley asks on the phone as I walk through the city, heading toward a salon. I know nothing about hair, but I’ll try anything.
“I don’t have the luxury of thinking like that,” I tell Riley, my best friend since high school. “Mom needs medical care. That’s all there is to it. If I had the luxury to choose, do you think I’d be a waitress?”