“Daisy, I’m not saying you have to make a decision now, but most likely you won’t have a choice in the matter. If you want her to thrive when she leaves this hospital, I suggest you start looking into nursing homes or assisted senior community housing your grandmother would enjoy. Maybe something on the west side so she can have a view of the mountains.” Patting my shoulder, he says, “I’ll be back to check on her. She’s sleeping right now, but you’re welcome to go into her room and stay with her.”
Feeling defeated, I nod my head and thank him.
Most likely you won’t have a choice in the matter . . .
Those unwanted words bury deep within my brain, haunting me with their meaning, with the realization that the comfort I’ve felt for so long is about to change. Dramatically.
How is this possible? Two days ago she was a lively, funny woman. How do I reconcile what Dr. Mendez says about her with the strong and resilient woman I know and love?
My grandma. Tears fill my eyes, blurring my vision of the bleak hospital door in front of me.
She had a stroke. She broke her hip. She might be temporarily paralyzed on her left side. We might not have a choice in the matter of where she lives.
Meaning . . .
My life is about to be flipped upside down. The tiny cocoon I’ve been wrapped in since I was seven is quickly unraveling before I’m ready, before I have my wings.
I knew this time was looming over me. But I’m not ready to go solo. I know nothing of the outside world, apart from the fact that it is absolutely terrifying.
CARTER
One week ago . . .
I flip the visor of my helmet down, look over my shoulder, and rev my motorcycle out into the street, feeling the rumble of the engine beneath me. Free for the day.
I need to get as far away from this place as possible.
My overbearing uncle is pushing me to my limits, the miserable fuck. Just a few thousand dollars more until I can pay him back for putting me through culinary school and finally start my own restaurant. Until then, I’m indebted to helping him out at his Italian restaurant making cheap and shitty food for the Denverites with unrefined taste buds.
I’m not a fancy fuck when it comes to food, but I sure as hell don’t stick my creations in a vat of grease and call it a day. I worked hard to get to where I am, making a deal with the devil, aka my uncle, in order to get here, so having to follow his recipes verbatim is like living in hell on a daily basis.
But, I needed the money and he had it, so I agreed to work under his watchful eye while in school and years after to pay off my debt. I’ve been working multiple shifts, saving and scrimping as much as possible. It helps that I’m fucking good at doubling and tripling my money on friendly sporting events, escalating my savings. I only place a bet when I know I can make some money on it. I haven’t lost once.
Taking a right and merging onto the on-ramp, I make my way down the highway under the stars of the dark chilly night. Thanks to Denver being named the best city to live in, in the United States, apartment prices have skyrocketed, leaving me one option of places to live: in a converted warehouse on Delaware Street that neighbors the highway. Rent is ridiculously cheap and splitting the bill with my girlfriend, Sasha, has made it that much easier to save.
Red lights beam up ahead as I slow my bike to a stop. Christ.
Sitting back, my steel-toed boots on the road, I curse this damn city and its godforsaken traffic.
Pulling out my phone, I connect it to the Bluetooth in my helmet and dial Fitzy, my best friend. Inching my way forward on the highway, I wait for him to pick up.
“Dude, are you finally on your way over?” Fitzy answers with impatience. I’ve known Gerald Fitzsimmons, aka Fitzy, ever since elementary school, so his restlessness isn’t new to me. Fitzy is all about instant gratification.
“I have to stop by the apartment, shower, and then I’ll be over.”
“Fuck changing, the game is on in ten minutes. Just come here.”
“I smell like a pig’s asshole,” I counter. “I’m showering and changing. That’s if I ever get through this traffic.”
“Be a dick and ride the shoulder. You can’t be that far from your exit.” He’s right.
“It’s the next one.”
“Then ride the fucking shoulder and get here.”
Not being one to follow the rules, I take his advice and ride the shoulder, not caring if there’s a cop waiting to bust my balls. Just add it to the pile of irresponsible I have stacked and accumulated on my kitchen counter.
“You just want me there to make wings.” Glancing at my side mirrors, I prepare for flashing lights that never appear.
Fitzy pauses for a second and then says, “Of course I want you here to make wings, and don’t forget to bring some beer.”
“You’re an asshole.” I laugh, taking the exit right next to my apartment building.
“I’m the asshole with the fifty-inch flat-screen TV with picture-in-picture. That’s more than you can say for your TV/VCR combo on your fold-out table.” It’s embarrassing how accurate that statement is.
“Yeah, well I don’t have Daddy funding my life either.”
“Am I going to stop a man from buying me stuff because he feels guilty for abandoning me twenty years ago? Fuck, no. He can buy me all the electronics and expensive shit he wants.”
Fitzy’s dad was a real dick when he was younger and took off one night, never returning. We were able to commiserate together over our abandonment issues. At least Fitzy had his mom. I was stuck with Uncle Chuck. And you would think after so many years, holidays, and family gatherings, he would treat me like a real son and give me a break. No, every day he reminds me of how much of a burden I was and how I owe him for “stepping up” and gracing me with a roof over my head and putting me through college at the early age of sixteen.
He’s making a man out of me.
That’s what he thinks. When in reality, he’s turning me into a bitter bastard like himself.
I park in my regular spot outside my apartment building, noting Sasha’s car’s not in the parking lot. I unload my bag and take the steps of my apartment two at a time, ready to take the quickest shower of my life.
“Hey, I’m in my place. I’ll be over in ten.”
“Fine,” he huffs. “Hurry the hell up.”
When I enter my sparsely decorated apartment, I flip on the lights and notice a letter on the fold-out table in the makeshift dining area. Taking a quick glance around the space, I note the lack of stupid knickknacks Sasha put around the bleak room and start to realize something is off. Setting my helmet down, I stutter-walk toward the note with trepidation.
It’s in Sasha’s handwriting. She never leaves notes . . .
Not taking my time, I rip it open and read it.
Carter,
I’m sorry. Maybe one day I will be able to repay you.
-S
Repay me? What the hell is she talking about? Is this her way of breaking up with me? Through a fucking note?
This can’t be real.
Confused, I read the note again, not that it’s really long, I just need to make some sort of sense of all this. She’ll repay me. Repay me for what?
Repay me for . . .
My mind races, my stomach starts to churn, a cold sweat drapes over my skin, and a sinking feeling takes root within my soul.
No fucking way . . .
She’s the only one who knows, the only one who has access.