Page 70 of Wicked Sinner

“It’s fine. I’ve got it. Really.”

It’s an expense we can’t afford. Not when the college has let her go after she couldn’t commit to a full course load this upcoming semester, when her health insurance isn’t covering all the costs, when her savings are being blown through faster than either of us can imagine.

Luxuries are not going to be something we have for a while. And if I could afford any luxury, it would be for my mom, not to take something off of my plate.

“You’re giving up so much.” She bites her lip. “I really wonder if it’s worth it, sweetheart.”

The tears that I’ve been fighting so hard all day instantly well in my eyes. “Don’t say that,” I tell her firmly, leaning forward to grasp her hand. “Don’t even think it. Of course it’s worth it.”

I’m sure of that. She’s right—I am giving up a lot, even if I’d never admit it out loud—the dream apartment I was supposed to be living in, all of the exciting nights I was looking forward to as an early twenty-something living in downtown Boston.

Nights out with friends, hangover brunches, bringing home hot guys and not caring if they called me back.

Working long hours not to see all of the money instantly vanish, but to build my own future and give myself something secure, so that I’d never struggle like my mother did when she was alone and raising me.

I’d pictured saving for vacations I’d take Alicia on.

We’ve talked so many times about going to Spain, or Greece, or Japan, and she always laments how long it’ll be until she can afford something like that with her bartending job that doesn’t pay all that well.

I calculated savings and how soon I could surprise her with a birthday trip.

Now that money is going toward chemo and my mom’s mortgage. But I don’t regret it. I can’t.

I also can’t let myself think about it for too long, though, or it feels like too much.

"I'm not giving up anything that matters," I tell her, and I mean it. "You're what matters."

She squeezes my hand. "I love you, sweetheart."

A few of the tears spill over, clinging to my lashes. "I love you too, Mom."

An hour later, the three of us are sitting around my mom’s antique dining table with containers of Chinese food spread out in front of us.

The smell of sweet, sticky sauce, lo mein, and grease is comforting.

It feels like Friday nights back in high school, when Alicia would come over for a sleepover and my mom would order exactly this.

For a moment, everything almost feels normal.

"So, Leila," Mom says, picking at her sesame chicken, "tell me about work. How are things going with the new project?"

I exchange a glance with Alicia. I haven't told Mom about how strained things have gotten at the office, how irritated my boss is that I have another demand on my time that isn’t what he needs or wants from me.

I have no plans to, either—the last thing I want is her feeling like more of a burden. "It's good. Challenging, but good."

"She's being modest," Alicia jumps in. "She's basically running the whole client analysis for this huge merger. It’s a really big thing.”

I grab a crab rangoon, giving her a pointed look. My mom knows what kind of workload someone with my job has, but I don’t want to overemphasize it. I don’t want her spending any energy worrying about me.

"That's wonderful, honey." Mom's eyes light up with pride. "I knew you'd impress them."

I feel myself relax a little. “It takes a lot to impress the higher-ups there,” I admit. “So I don’t know if that’s what I’m doing, exactly, so much as earning my keep. But it is a big deal. And it’s going well, so far.”

So far. Half the reason I’m not sleeping is the nightmares I have every night about showing up to meetings unprepared, documents getting mysteriously deleted from my computer, being late to work because I slept in.

The typical late-to-an-exam high school nightmares—but now with much more at stake, and dialed up to eleven.

My mom pushes her sesame chicken around her plate again, and my stomach twists. “You’re barely eating,” I murmur. I’d promised myself we wouldn’t talk about anything bad over dinner, but worry is making me break my rule already. "Is the nausea getting worse?"

She shrugs, pushing a piece of chicken around on her plate. “It’s not great,” she says with a chuckle. “But it’s more that I just don’t have that much of an appetite. It’s really good, though,” she adds, taking a bite. “Thank you for ordering it, Alicia.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Alicia says quickly. “That, and helping Leila move in. I wish I could do more—” She looks at me, and I give her a narrow-eyed glare.

Don’t, I mouth, and she lets out a sigh.

“What?” Mom looks between the two of us. “Is there something I’m missing?”

Alicia looks at me nervously, then at my mom. “I offered to give Leila some money,” she blurts out. “I’ve got some savings. But she said no—”

“Absolutely not,” my mom interrupts. “We will be just fine. There’s no way I’m taking money from you, sweetheart.”

“I want to help, though—”

“I know.” Mom offers her a smile. "But we'll figure it out. We always do."

“How?” Alicia blurts out, ignoring the kick I give to her shin under the table. “How are you going to figure it out? I know what Leila makes, and it’s a lot, but this place and food and medical bills—” She looks at me nervously. “I just think if anyone else can help—”

I almost say something, then, about the card in my purse. But I know that’s not the kind of anyone else that Alicia means. And I know exactly what my mother would say.

“What about family?” Alicia presses on. “I know your grandparents are gone, but maybe you could contact your dad—”

“No,” both my mom and I say in unison. It almost makes me laugh.

“We’ve managed on our own without him for twenty-two years,” my mom says firmly. “I understand where you’re coming from, Alicia, but I’m not reaching out to him for anything. If I could even find him, which I don’t care to.”

"What about a payment plan with the hospital?" Alicia suggests, and I can hear the note of desperation in her voice—a feeling I’m already well acquainted with. I’ve been through this entire conversation already, with my mom, with myself, with my boss.

Alicia is just catching up. "Or financial aid programs? "

"We've tried everything," I say quietly. "We make too much money to qualify for most programs, but not enough to actually afford the treatment. Their suggestions were credit cards and loans, both of which we’ve run the numbers on. We took out a loan, but it isn’t going to last long."

I’ve run the numbers so many times I have them memorized. We’ll be out of savings and the loan my mom took out by the end of the month. The cards are maxed out. We’ll just be living on my income then, and it’s not enough. I can’t get a sizable enough loan to help—not enough credit yet.

Except for the one my boss gave me the contact for.

"That's fucked up," Alicia says, then immediately looks apologetic. "Sorry,” she adds, looking at my mom.

"No, you're right," Mom says with a bitter laugh. "It is fucked up. The whole system is designed to bankrupt people like us."

We eat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in our own thoughts.

The weight of the impossible situation settles over the table like a heavy blanket.

It’s exactly what I was hoping to avoid tonight, but that, too, feels impossible—like the cancer is already infecting not only my mother but our entire lives.

"You know what?" Alicia says suddenly, setting down her chopsticks. "Let's not talk about this anymore tonight. Let's talk about something else. Something good."

"Like what?" I ask gratefully. I needed someone to help pull us out of this funk, because I don’t have the energy to do it myself tonight.

"Like... remember in high school when we decided to dye our hair blue for junior prom?" Alicia grins, reaching for another crab rangoon.

Mom laughs—the first real laugh I've heard from her in weeks. "I still have pictures of that disaster. They’re on an old laptop somewhere."

"It wasn't that bad," I protest, but I'm smiling too. I remember it very clearly—it was a disaster.

"You looked like a smurf," Alicia giggles. "An elegant, prom-dress-wearing smurf."

“So did you!” I exclaim. “It didn’t help that your dress was the same color.”

“I matched,” Alicia says with a sniff, and we both dissolve into laughter.

It feels like something in my chest pops, a weight briefly lifting off of me as we keep talking about old stories and memories, and my mother looks brighter than she has in weeks.

I can almost forget about calculations that don’t add up, and not enough hours of sleep, and the phone call I need to make later.

But not quite.

Later, after Alicia has gone home and Mom has fallen asleep, I sit in the living room surrounded by boxes and try to work up the courage to make the call.

I reach for my purse, pulling out the card.

It’s poor quality, which is the first warning sign, not that I really needed one.

I’m well aware that whoever this is, they’re a loan shark.

Someone I would never, under normal circumstances, do business with.

Just the look on my boss’s face when he handed me the card made my skin crawl.

But these aren’t normal circumstances. And I’m out of options.

I reach for my cell phone and dial the number before I can lose my nerve.

Someone picks up on the second ring, a rough, impatient voice. “Hello?”

"Hi, um, I'm calling about a loan? My boss, Richard… Richard Brooks, he gave me your number—"

"Brooks. Yeah, I know him. You need money?"

“I—” It’s alarmingly to the point, but what did I expect? I imagine everyone who calls this number is in a place where they don’t have any other choice. It’s not like I’m calling for conversation, and I’m sure this guy knows it. "Yes. For medical bills. My mother, she's—"