God, Rose. Stop acting like a teenager with a crush.
Once I’ve dried off I slip into my bedroom and into bed, pulling the covers up to my neck. God, I’m tired. I have another class tomorrow and I’m really, really looking forward to seeing Burt tomorrow after that little show Quentin put on.
At least sleep comes fast.
Maybe because I’ve relieved a little, ah, tension.
The alarm clock follows it, bleating at me in an acidic monotone, beep beep beep. I slam the thing with my fist and swing out of bed, lean on the dresser, and sigh. I could sleep for fifty years.
First things first, the kids. Karen practically claws my eyes out when I wake her up, and Kelly stumbles around in a stupor. They were both up too late last night waiting for me to get home. I should put my foot down and insist they get in bed at a proper hour, but I can’t make them go to sleep without seeing me.
I hate this. I’d get a babysitter, but I can’t afford it. If Russel finds out I’m leaving them alone like this, he might use it against me in court and sue for custody. I can’t stop, though. I have to get a better job. I can barely feed them. Karen will be old enough to drive soon, and how will she get a car if I can’t pay for it? They don’t pay kids enough at part-time jobs to afford a car anymore, and even if they did, she’d need the car first. I’m not putting her on the bus every day.
Then there’s college, and four years behind Karen, Kelly will be ready to drive. They’ll want things I can’t provide. Neither one of them wants to live with their father, and I bless them for that, but they might have to. The thought of giving them up sickens me.
“Mom?” Karen says between bites of eggs. “You okay?”
“Just tired, honey. I have a lot on my mind. Try to actually stay in school all day this time, huh?”
“Yeah, I will.” She nods.
After I walk them to the bus stop and get ready, I find Quentin leaning on his car, in his driveway. He beckons me over and I smile as I stride across the grass. He’s looking me over and even in these stupid scrubs, it feels good.
“Hey, need a ride?”
“Yeah.”
I drop myself into the car and fight off fatigue. I want to nod off even before he starts it up. The sound of the engine startles me awake, and Quentin backs out.
Mrs. Campbell is eyeing us again, from her front porch as she waters her little garden. Her head swivels to watch us roll all the way down the street.
“What’s her problem?”
I shrug. “Your car is too old for her.”
He snorts. “Whatever happened to taste?”
I sigh.
I’m dreading work like my daughters must be dreading school. I don’t want to get out of the car when Quentin stops to let me off.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I sigh. “Should I take the bus home, or…”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“I have another class tonight.”
“That’s fine.”
I start to step out of the car then slink back and look at him.
“Um, could you do me a favor?”
He leans back in the seat and smirks at me. I swallow, trying to wet my throat.
“Would you mind staying with the girls? Maybe you can get them to go to bed while I’m gone. They stay up too late when I’m in class.”
“I could, I guess.” He shrugs.
“I don’t want to impose…”
“I can work around it. It’s only a few hours. What the hell.”
I beam at him. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s nothing. See you after work.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Resigned to my fate, I trudge inside. Laura is already behind the desk, in my spot.
“You’re on insurance today,” she says, giving me a funny look.
Great. I have to process the insurance claims. I’d rather deal with angry patients with broken teeth and screaming children. Sartre said hell is other people. He was almost right. Hell is other people who work for the insurance company.
I settle into the desk to find that Laura has left me a pile of claims to settle. It’s mostly tedious computer work, until the computer inevitably pops up with an exception.
The first claim I enter pops up with an exception. I can’t do anything else until it’s fixed. So I spend the next hour listening to crackly, barely intelligible hold music that sounds like the distant wailing of the damned.
Oh, joy.
By lunchtime I’ve cleared half of Laura’s backlog from the previous day. By midafternoon I’m partway into my own, fresh backlog.
That’s when Burt strolls up to me.
“How’s that going, getting it sorted?”
“Yes,” I say curtly. “I’m getting it done.”
“Good, good. I’m going to need you to stay late until they’re all cleared. You can lock up when you leave. Hope that isn’t too much trouble.”
It would be, if I was taking the bus. I’ll have Quentin hang out with me until it’s time to leave.
“No trouble,” I say wearily.
“Good. Hop to it, then.”