He pats his pockets again, pulls out a flattened pack of cigarettes. “So you’ll be coming back, I’m guessing?”
“Damn right I will. I’ve been here almost every weekend these past months? Did you even notice?”
He sticks a smoke in the corner of his mouth, lights up and squints at me. “Can’t say I have.”
Liar. Asshole. Goddammit, I feel as if my head’s about to explode.
“Never said I understood women, you know?” he shrugs, as if talking to himself. “Never thought she was sick. I thought it was a woman thing. Hormones, you know? From having you kids.”
Is this an apology?
I scrub a hand over my face. “Whatever.”
Hey, wait a sec. There’s a doctor checking on Mom. I can’t take her away. Not yet. And if she has treatment, if she gets better, then maybe… Maybe she won’t need saving. Maybe she can save herself.
Maybe she’ll look at me and smile. Tell me, hey, Ocean. Thanks for being here. I love you.
My chest is so tight with hope I can barely breathe. Hope for Mom, hope for Kayla. Hope for me.
God, I fucking hate hope. It makes everything so much worse when it inevitably fails to deliver.
***
Mom doesn’t say much when I sit beside her with a cup of coffee. That’s not unusual. When I ask her about the doctor’s visit, she gives a tiny smile I can’t interpret.
Glancing around to make sure my old man isn’t within hearing distance, I lean in, put my hand over hers. “What did the doc tell you, mom? What sort of therapy is needed?”
I vaguely recall what lupus is. Something about light sensitivity. And many complications.
Shit.
She doesn’t answer.
“You’ll be fine,” I tell her, although there’s a knot in my throat. “Okay, Mom? You’ll be fine.”
Mom stirs a little, pulls her hand away from mine. The creases around her mouth deepen. “No money,” she says, her voice like rust. “There’s no money for this.”
“It’ll all be covered, Mom. The state will cover it, right?” It was a rhetorical question, so it’s a shock when she shakes her head. “What do you mean, no?”
“My Badgercare enrollment ended years ago,” she rasps.
“What? Why? It won’t be easy to get back in, and…” Shit. She’ll need to pay for doctor’s visits, medication. I drop my head in my hands. “Hell. You have to re-enroll, Mom, ASAP.”
“I called them. It will take some time. Meanwhile,” she goes on, “your father won’t tell you this. But he has no money for this.”
“Fuck.” No news there.
“The cost—”
“I’ll find a way. I’ll… Goddammit.” I clench my hands into fists and grind my teeth together, fighting to regain my calm. I let out a long breath. “I’ll check if there’s anyone who can push your file in the system. Don’t you worry about it.”
She looks away, stops paying me any attention.
It makes me wonder if she heard me all those times I told her I’ll take her away. That I’ll find a place for us to live, and I’ll take care of her.
Fuck, this mess with the insurance. Can’t fucking believe it. If this is serious, it’ll cost an arm and a leg. But dammit, although she might have disappointed me, forgotten all about me, neglected me–she’s my mom.
She’s my mom.