Dear Life

  “Please come with me.”

  I quickly gather my purse and water bottle and follow the woman through two large double doors controlled by an electronic entry. A sterile hallway brightly lit by fluorescent lights greets me on the other side. The faint sound of beeping monitors fills the air as I’m guided to a closed wooden door with 213 on the front.

  “Dr. Mendez will be right with you.”

  I nod and twitch nervously in place as I wait. Leaning close to the door, I hear a steady beep come from the other side, putting me at ease, temporarily erasing the three images that have been running through my mind the last few hours . . .

  The look of terror in her eyes.

  Her face drooping to one side.

  The fall from her seat onto the floor, completely lifeless.

  A dull burn begins to form in my eyes once again, my breath starting to catch in my throat. She’s everything to me. I don’t know what I would do without her, without her guidance, without her warm embrace, without her unyielding love.

  “Daisy?” I look up to see a man in a white coat, a nametag over his heart that reads Dr. Jake Mendez.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I say meekly and on a shaky breath.

  “Daisy, I’m Dr. Mendez.” He holds out his hand that I take briefly. Instead of saying anything, I just nod, so he continues. “As you know, your grandmother had a stroke. We were able to conduct a CT scan and find a block in one of her arteries that pumps blood to her brain.”

  “Oh God,” I say, my hand involuntarily covering my mouth.

  Dr. Mendez gives me a reassuring squeeze to my shoulder. “To be honest, we were happy to see she had a blocked artery. There are two types of strokes: hemorrhagic and ischemic. Hemorrhagic is when there is bleeding in the brain, which is quite difficult to stop without long-term effects. Your grandmother had an ischemic stroke, a blocked artery cutting off blood flow to the brain, which means we can avoid surgery, which is preferable due to her older age. We administered anticoagulant medication intravenously that should help clear the blockage.”

  “So she’s going to be okay?” I swallow hard.

  “We are monitoring her right now. She broke her hip in the fall, which will require intensive rehabilitation therapy. There may be some loss of movement in the left side of her body due to her stroke.”

  “She’s paralyzed?” I ask, fear eating up my spine.

  “Temporary paralysis with likely long-term effects, meaning she might have trouble lifting her left arm or using her left hand. You might also notice a lack of movement on the left side of her face. It’s hard to tell at this point what the long-term effects will be.”

  “But she will be okay?”

  “She’s stable for now but has a long road of recovery in front of her.” He takes a breath and says, “I understand you live in a two-bedroom apartment with her now.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve been taking care of each other ever since I can remember.”

  “That’s very admirable.” The way he places his hands in his coat pocket makes me think I’m not going to like what he says next. “Given your grandmother’s condition, age, and the intense therapy requirements, it will be better if she goes to a rehabilitation center and then a nursing home.”

  “A nursing home?” I shake my head. “That’s not necessary, I can take care of her.”

  Dr. Mendez takes a deep breath. “I have no doubt in my mind that you can take care of her, Daisy. Just from our conversation I can tell you’re a loving and caring granddaughter, but she needs twenty-four/seven care.”

  “I can give her that,” I say quickly.

  “But what about your job, friends, other family? Caring for your grandmother will take over your life. You’re young, you should be just starting, just exploring what this world has to offer.”

  “I don’t have a job or friends,” I answer, desperate to hang on to the one thing that’s been a constant in my life.

  My grandma.

  Since second grade, she’s homeschooled me. She’s provided for me. She’s treated me as her own daughter. I’ve spent a great percentage of my life on this earth living in a small apartment with my grandma, watching Days of Our Lives, musicals, quilting, weaving baskets, and baking. She’s my best friend, my hero, my everything. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

  She can’t leave me.

  I don’t know how to live alone. I don’t know how to live outside the bubble my grandma provided for me. I don’t want to break free. I’m not ready. I’m not prepared.

  “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 m
y 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.

  In disbelief, I walk-sprint to my bedroom, tear open the bottom drawer of my dresser, and open the box stuffed in the back.

  Completely empty. It’s where I’ve kept all my extra cash from the last few years I’ve won from all my bets. Over ten thousand dollars fucking gone.

  Every last bill.

  I don’t trust banks, so hadn’t deposited my savings, believing my apartment would be a safer place. Fucking wrong on that one. Shit.

  “Fuck!” I shout, throwing the box across the room and gripping my hair. “Fuck. Fuck!”

  It’s all gone. My freedom, my way out, the only opportunity I had of releasing myself from my uncle’s iron-clad shackles. The room darkens around me, and all I see is a faint space of red. This is not fucking happening. There is no way Sasha just took everything I’ve ever worked for and left. Left me with nothing but a run-down apartment decorated in nothing but fractured furniture.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I dial her number but it goes straight to voicemail, no surprise there, so I send her a text to call me immediately, knowing deep down in my gut I will never receive that phone call from her.

  She did not just wipe me clean of everything.

  There is no way she just stripped me of my freedom. Of the fucking freedom I’ve been working for years to achieve.

  This can’t be happening.

  Please . . . don’t let this be true.

  Sitting on my bed, my head in my hands, a dull pulse flickers in my throat. Utterly defeated. There is no other way to describe it.

  “Fuck . . .” The word slips off my tongue, hanging in the heavy air. The urge to punch the living shit out of my brick wall is coursing through me, burning up and down my arms. The deep-rooted anger I’ve harbored for years upon years, roaring up inside me with a sullen vengeance.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  Why? Why the hell would she do that? I thought what we had was good. And now she’s just . . . gone?

  As is my freedom—just like that—vanished within a blink of an eye.

  Step One: Grieve

  HOLLYN

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . . HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Blue and silver confetti bursts into the sky as Nivea-sponsored hats and noisemakers bounce around on the screen. Couples kiss, people celebrate, and everyone is having a jolly freaking time as Ryan Seacrest says some emotional bullshit about starting a new year.

  “Talk all you want, Ryan, you’re not going to get any taller,” I mumble, a Cheez Doodle hanging out of my mouth, permanently marking the corner of my lips in an orange hue. Sighing, I nibble on the doodle and say, “Happy New Year, Prince William.”

  Glancing over, I take in Prince William, my goldfish. Or should I say, my dead goldfish. He went belly up two days ago but I’ve been too lazy to flush him.

  “I would kiss you if you weren’t stinking up this entire apartment. Your smell is rather offensive so I’m passing.” Flopping over the arm of my sofa, my Cheez Doodle falling onto my chest, I reach for my can of air freshener, stick the doodle back in my mouth, point the freshener toward the ceiling, and press down on the button.

  A mountainy mist sprays into the air filling my apartment with a rugged aerosol smell. Fake, yet refreshing, as if I’m snorting up an aspen tree.

  This is the life. It’s now the start of a new year, and I have a coated ring of processed cheese tarnishing my lips, my hair tied into a rather unattractive knot by the chip clip that once held my doodles shut, and my rainbow-striped toe socks from middle school dangling off my feet, giving no definition to my little piggies at all. Yup, living it large.

  Spraying my air freshener again, just for the hell of it, I watch the mountain-scented aerosol fill the air as it slowly falls to the floor, coating the once-new carpet with its foresty splendor.

  “You know, Prince William, this year’s ball drop was slightly anti-climatic. Is it just me or do you feel the same way?” I ask the deathly floating common carp. Peering over at him, I oddly wait for a respons
e, conjuring one up in my head.

  “Blub, blub, blub, I agree, Hollyn,” I say in a creepy bubbly fish voice.

  I take in my surroundings: bags of chips scattered across my coffee table, pictures of celebrities torn out of magazines on the floor, a wet spot on the carpet from my air freshener binge, and Cheez-Doodle fingerprints scattered over my couch, almost like a leopard print.

  This is what rock bottom must feel like.

  Shaking my air freshener, realizing it’s finished, I let it roll out of my hand and across the carpet. Tears start to fill my eyes over the depleted aerosol can. Yup, this is one-hundred-percent rock bottom.

  I wipe under my eye as the front door to my apartment flies open and my best friend, Amanda, pops through the entrance, her boyfriend, Matt, tagging closely behind.

  “Happy New . . .” she pauses and then starts whipping her hand feverously in front of her nose. Beside her, Matt starts to cough and quickly pulls his vest over his face as a mask. “Oh my God,” Amanda complains. “Did a forest die in here?”

  With a blasé attitude, I respond, “I got carried away with the air freshener.”

  Sitting up, I take in their party garb. Amanda is in a tight-fitting sparkly dress that’s peeking through her long, black pea coat, and Matt is in his classic dark-wash jeans, button-up shirt, and vest. He’s shaking and blowing into his hands trying to calm the cold that is capturing the Colorado skies outside.

  “I thought you two were going to a party,” I say, lying back down and sticking my hand in a chip bag, rifling around for crumbs.

  “We were but it got lame.” Amanda walks into the living area and takes in the scene, her nose cringing from the disarray of my apartment. “You’re a pig, Hollyn.”

  “Gee, thanks. Care to comment on the condition of my bush as well?”

  “And I will be in the kitchen.” Matt quickly disappears where I can hear him rummaging around in my fridge.

  “Your goldfish is dead,” Amanda points out.

  I tear open the chip bag and start to lick the cheddar and ranch seasoning off the foil. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Do you have anything other than tabasco sauce and a lonely grapefruit in here?” Matt calls from the kitchen.