“He is. Everyone loves him.”
Nancy smiled kindly. Tiredly. “Thank you for saying so. I’m afraid I don’t have much for you today. Dazia is in town for a few days and has been hovering over me like a mother hen.”
“I stole your job, didn’t I?” Dazia flounced into a chair beside the bed and took up a pile of yarn. Nancy was knitting a scarf in blue and purple.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I can make myself useful. Can I bring you anything? A cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Dazia?”
“Make it two. You’re a peach.”
“No problem.” I left the room and pressed my back to the door, and this time I didn’t fight the tears.
Yes, I was soft. But that didn’t mean weak. Being a doctor wasn’t about having zero emotions. It was about channeling them toward the patient to give the best care possible. I wasn’t giving up on being a surgeon, but in those first few moments with Nancy, I felt a little of what Dr. Johnson must’ve seen in me. I let a few tears fall for her. And Dazia, Amelia, Mr. Whitmore and River. Especially River.
And then I wiped them away and got to work.
Chapter Six
Saturday, I worked from ten a.m. until four p.m. at the arcade. It was the largest on the Boardwalk, a short walk to the rides, coaster, and Ferris wheel that loomed over the beach.
As I walked home, the sounds of explosions, gunshots, and tokens dropping into slots rang in my head. Sometimes, the wakka wakka sounds of Pac-Man kept me up at night, conjuring flashes of the little yellow disk endlessly running from ghosts that grew faster and faster, inevitably cornering him.
I hated that fucking game.
Outside my apartment complex, I stopped, inhaled, and mustered the will to climb the cement stairs. Inside, Chet was in his usual spot: his ass glued to our couch, his eyes trained on our TV, his mouth crammed with our food. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. The fact that a diabetic (or anyone, really) shouldn’t be living around secondhand smoke didn’t seem to faze good old Chet.
“How was the arcade?” he asked. “Making change and trading tickets for plastic shit they’re just going to throw out in a day. You’re doing God’s work, aren’t you?”
“It’s work,” I muttered. “Where’s Mom?”
“Shopping for groceries.”
“We can’t afford groceries since she quit the diner.”
Chet sneered. “Oh, you think your mom’s gotta work two jobs to keep a roof over your head while you play video games all day?”
“I have school and I have a job,” I said, gritting my teeth. “And just what the hell do you do?”
“If you must know, Mr. Smartass, I got injured. I get disability and a nice workman’s comp check. That’s why your mom doesn’t have to work two jobs. I’m taking care of her. And your sorry ass.”
Jesus, that was even worse. Not only did Mom want him around, she needed him too. Not for the first time, I contemplated dropping out of school to get a better job. My dreams of getting out of this place and playing my music were blackening at the edges. If things got worse, they’d go up in flames altogether.
“The words you’re looking for is ‘Thank you,’” Chet said, breaking me out of my thoughts.
I ignored him and went to my room—a tiny square that had space enough for a twin-sized bed, dresser, and a small table and chair shoved under the one small window. It was a mess of clothes all over the floor and papers all over the desk, but I’d always kept my guitar safely stowed under my bed in its case.
The case was now on top of my bed’s dark green plaid bedspread, open and empty. Disemboweled but for a few pages of scribbled songs spewing out like innards. I hurried back to the living room, stomach twisted in knots.
“What the hell…?”
My words trailed as Chet reached to his feet, retrieved my guitar from the floor behind the coffee table, and sat it on his knees.
In two strides, I was looming over him, the table between us. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Chet hefted the neck with one hand, a cigarette clutched between his fingers. His other meaty fingers strumming the strings. “Nice instrument. Your daddy give this to you?”