Page 29 of Love Marks
“It’s Hannah. Hannah Dwyer from billing. I’ve sent you a few emails and letters.”
All of which I have ignored.
“Yes, of course! Hannah. Hi.” I force a smile to match her tight, forced one.
“I’m so glad I ran into you. Maybe we can finally sort out the card issue. The one you have on file has been declined for the last three payments.”
I know, Perky.
“Oh, really?” I feign indifference and turn back to the casher, handing over some cash. I scoop up the snacks in my arms and turn back to her. “I’m actually on my way back to my mom, she’s waiting for me, so…”
I walk ahead, but Perky follows me, matching my steps. “No problem. I’ll walk with you.”
Can’t the woman take a damn hint?
I pick up my pace a little and she does the same. We’re speed-walking down this hallway like we’re racing.
“So, like I was saying. We really need to get the card sorted out. I contacted your insurance company and they’ve fulfilled their portion, but—”
“Yep, yep.”
I speed up again walking as fast as I possibly can without breaking into a literal jog. Perky’s fast, I’ll give her that. We’re almost at the cancer ward chemo area. It’s the finish line. Just as I’m approaching the door and almost in the clear, Perky grabs my arm and halts.
“Miss Taylor. You really don’t want this to go to the debt collectors. Whatever the situation is, come talk to me about it, and we’ll figure it out.”
“Sure. Yeah. Will do.”
I force another smile and hold up the granola bar like it somehow absolves me from this conversation.
“Gotta go.” I slip past her back into the chemo room, where my mom is finishing up. She looks tired. She usually is afterwards.
“How are you feeling? Hungry or nauseous?”
It’s always one or the other.
“Nauseous.”
Damn. I frown and help her stand. It’s a good thing we’ve got a joint waiting at home. I just hope she’ll be okay on the commute home. Picking up my mom’s bag, I catch Hannah watching us from the corner of the room, pity in her eyes.
Chapter 15
Quinn
My mom spends most of the rest of the day with her head in the toilet bowl. When she’s not throwing up, she’s curled up on her bed, moaning and groaning. It’s awful. I clean up the apartment and check on her occasionally, but she never really lets me hold her hair or anything. She says she doesn’t like me to see her like that. If there’s one thing we have in common, it’s our stubborn sense of pride.
Finally, around dinner time, she feels mostly better. We settle in the living room, sipping ginger-ale and splitting a joint between us. I don’t like to smoke that much, but this week has been too stressful to turn it down.
“Cancer sucks,” she says through her exhale.
“Yep,” I reply.
It’s a familiar exchange, one we’ve had at least three times before. Sometimes it feels as if there’s nothing else to say, really. I miss the days when we could talk without any weight between us, without the tension of wondering if this conversation will be our last.
“How’s it going with Joe?” I ask, taking the joint from between her fingers.
She shrugs, matching my yawn. “I’m not sure. We’re keeping things casual.”
Oh god. When did my mother’s dating life become more exciting than mine? Whatever. I’ve never been in a relationship before, and I don’t really see that changing any time soon. It’s not like I wouldn’t like to have someone special in my life. The truth is I really would. I just feel so…broken.