Page 5 of Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)

She snorts. “Good one. It looks like you got your jokes from me after all. Kind sir, please take me away to our spot.”

“Only for you.” I stand and offer her my tattooed hand.

She leans on me as I lead us through the house into the main living room. The grand piano gleams in the center of the space. I set her down on a comfortable chair before I sit on the piano bench, turning to look at her.

She claps her hands together and smiles. “The best decision I made as a parent was forcing you to take those lessons.”

“Really? Of all the options of things you’ve done, that’s the best?”

“Oh, yes. Your father can’t carry a tune to save his life, so you’re the next best thing.”

I smile as I turn my back. My fingers lightly run across the ivory keys before I begin playing the Jurassic Park theme song.

My mum’s voice carries over the music. “I can’t even say I’m mad about how you rejected learn

ing the classics for this kind of music.”

“Once a rebel, always a rebel.”

“Don’t I know it. Who do you think you got it from? You grew up listening to bedtime stories of me ditching my family without a second glance back.”

“You were a rebel with a cause. That’s the best kind.”

“And don’t you forget it.” She winks at me. “Play me Clocks next. I know you love it, too.”

I lose myself in the music. Like a valve, I shut off my thoughts, letting the worries of my life float away with the melody.

The tune is hauntingly beautiful, echoing off the high ceilings. My mum smiles the entire time. She makes my whole visit worth it despite the ache in my chest every time she struggles.

Life resumes once I cover the piano keys and help Mum up the stairs to my parents’ room. Her shaky legs and cane rip my good mood away from me, replacing happiness with despair.

That night, after Mum becomes tearful after dropping her fork three times during dinner, I text some old party friends about hitting up a club. And like nothing, my foul mood gets washed away with alcohol and bad decisions.

2

Elena

“With the care your grandmother requires, I’m not sure her needs are being met here. She should be put in a more permanent home meant for long-term patients. And with your funds, I’m not sure it’s possible.” The doctor looks up from his clipboard.

Everything always comes down to money.

Want to know how much I have? If you grabbed a euro, lit it on fire, and threw it in the trash can, that would summarize my bank account.

Every last euro I’ve made has either gone toward paying for my grandma’s care or bills. Adulting is hard, but adulting with debt is the hardest.

Abuela warned me about getting a degree from an American university, but I didn’t listen. I wanted to follow my father’s wish of me attending a school in the US, only to learn how dreams look better on paper. What should have been the American dream has turned out to become my recurring nightmare of high-interest rates and excessive loans. Hell, the loan I took out for my degree could feed a small country for a month.

The ache in my chest builds as I look over at my grandmother—the only connection I have left to my dad. I’d do anything to keep her happy and healthy for as long as she will live.

Her glassy eyes find mine. “¿Marisol?”

“Sí. Estoy aquí.” I shove the bitter feeling of resentment toward Abuela down. Having a relative with Alzheimer’s Disease has a funny way of making you crave simple things like not being called by your mother’s name. The notion makes a dark cloud take up a spot over my head, but I fight the sadness at the reminder of my parents.

While I despise the bitterness about my abuela confusing me for my mom, I love looking like her. People say I’m a spitting image, with curves, dark hair with a natural wave, and average height. The only reminder of my father I’m left with is my brown eyes and long lashes. Abuela used to say it was the best of both of them.

I face the doctor. “How much more do those facilities usually cost?”

“Right now, you’re looking at an estimated 4,000 euros per month, give or take.”