The Edge of You
Page 9
He shook his head and slumped his shoulders forward. “What do they want to do?”
“The doctor says the clot is in a dangerous place. They want me to go into surgery. I guess there’s this new thing they can do that’ll speed up my recovery and take out the clot. And the insurance will cover most of the cost, but the copay is—” She paused and sniffled.
“Mom? You okay?” Jake slid his feet off the bed and rested them on the floor, listening intently.
“The copay is real high, honey. A whole lot more than either of us have right now, even with credit cards.”
Jake swallowed. “How much?” She sat on the other end of the phone, silent. “Mom, how much is the copay?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Any optimism Jake had left dwindled. All he’d done so far was work back most of the money he owed his skipper. It wouldn’t be until next month that he was in the green again, and even then, it would take him a while to make that kind of cash. “When do they need it by?”
“Honey, I don’t think I’m going to do it.”
“What?” He stood, every muscle in his body wound tight. “Mom, you have to have it done. If the doctors think it’s necessary—”
“But we can’t afford it.” Her tone was heavy with grief. “And you can’t pay for it when you have to earn enough to pay your own rent, bills, food...it’s just too much.”
Jake paced from one end of his room to the other, adrenaline coursing through him. “When do they want to do the surgery?”
“As soon as they can, I guess.”
“And you’ll stay in the hospital until they do?” Who knows how many days of that her insurance would cover.
“I haven’t asked them, but I really don’t think that’ll work out. I think I’m just gonna go home, stay on my meds, and we’ll figure out how to scrape up the money for the surgery when we can. If we can.”
Jake’s mind raced, crashing together to form a haze of chaos and static.
Someone spoke in the background, and his mom whispered back. “Okay honey. I have to go. The nurse is here to take more blood.”
“When are they going to discharge you?”
“At this rate? Maybe tomorrow, or the day after.”
“Listen. You remember my friend Marco?”
“Sure.”
“He lives close to you. I’ll ask if he can pick you up when they send you home so you don’t have to take the bus.”
“Only if you don’t think it’ll be too much trouble.”
Jake paused, doing math in his head to figure out if Marco would even be off work by then. “Uh...” It would probably be a major pain in the ass either way, but Marco would do it. Especially if Jake gave him a little money in exchange. “Just get some rest and I’ll give him a call. Make sure to keep me updated so I know what’s going on, okay?”
“All right. Talk to you later.”
Jake hung up the phone and tried to refocus. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. But now that Wayne wasn’t leeching off his mom anymore, at least she could afford some decent food. Jake would have to figure out how to take care of everything else from fifteen hundred miles away.
***
The next day, Jake walked across the parking lot toward Wounded Patriot, the fishing vessel he worked on. His skipper had bought it almost ten years ago, after the painted red stripe around the center had already faded to pink from the constant battering of sun and seawater. Wes was too cheap to paint it, so he named it and left it at that.
“‘Bout time.” Wes stood on the boat’s deck, his flannel shirt as faded as the color of his greying hair. Jake cringed under his skipper’s scrutiny. He was almost twenty minutes late.
“I’m sorry,” Jake said as he crossed the ramp to the boat. “I had a late night and—”
“Hope it was with the girl I saw out here the other day.” Wes’ mustache curled with his grin, and he slapped Jake on the back of his shoulder. “We have a lot of work today. Should be ready to make our first set in a week if you finish mending the nets and clean the hold.”
“That’s great. I was actually thinking of staying late today, if that’s okay. I need to make up some hours.”
Jake boarded the boat, carefully stepping over orange buoys scattered around the bow. The thick stench of year-old fish rose from the normally frozen hold, now defrosted and ready to be cleaned for the season’s first catch. Not a job Jake was looking forward to.
He leaned against the exterior wall, crossing his arms over his chest and rotating his head. Damn, his muscles were so tight.
“The rest of the crew’ll be here in a few days,” Wes said. He pulled up pieces of net and examined the patch.
“Oh.” Jake could barely keep up with everything he had to get done, and asking for another loan was his last resort, but it had come to that. It was generous enough Wes gave him an advance so he could get his car here, and Jake suspected the few hundred bucks came straight from his skipper’s pocket rather than the boat’s profits. But it was worth a try, and really, his only option. “So my mom called me today.” Jake kicked aside a small white buoy and glanced up at his skipper, who was still examining the net.
“Really? How is she?”
“Um...” Jake cleared his throat. “Not great. Still in the hospital.”
“Mm, yeah?” Wes looked up at him. “I’m sorry to hear that. You wanna go see her, then?”
“Well, I’d like to, of course. But I have to work. There’s a pretty big copay attached to the cost of the surgery—”
“Ah. So that’s what you’re acting all out of color about.” The creases around Wes’ eyes deepened as he peered across the boat, the overcast of the day glaring against the water around them.
“It would be temporary,” Jake insisted, stepping forward. “She really needs the surgery, and there’s nobody living with her now.” A sense of urgency forced him to talk faster than he intended until he was nearly begging.
Wes raised his hand, cutting off anything else Jake had to say. “Hang on. Just hold on a second.” He lowered his hand. “How much are you talking about?”
It’s a lot more than I should be asking you for, but I really—” He dropped his head and kicked another buoy. It flew over the side of the boat into the water, bobbing over the waves.
Wes examined it, then turned back to him. “How much?”
Jake rubbed his hands over his face and let them fall limp at his sides. “Five grand.”
The huff that came from the old man made Jake wince. “Sorry, kid. But that’s just not possible.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jake mumbled.
“You’d have to work the load of two men to earn that much in such a short amount of time.” Wes bent down and picked up more net.
Jake’s head shot up. “Is that possible?”
“What?”
“Can I pull the load of two guys? I mean, I could do it. I know I can. But will you let me?”
Wes’ beady eyes widened. “I’d have to fire one of the deck hands!”
“Maybe, but it’ll be one greenhorn that you don’t have to worry about. I’ll do all the prep now, and when we go fishing, I’ll do double the work then too.” He waited, his skipper contemplating in silence. “You said it yourself.” Jake took the net from Wes’ hand. “You hate training greenhorns, and you know I’m a hard worker.” He held up the mended net, as if offering proof of his ability to do his job. “I can do this, Wes. Please. I really need the money.”
The old skipper stood there, his eyes darting from one side of the boat to the other. He scratched his beard, mumbling.
“I swear I’ll come early, stay late, I’ll do—”
“Shut your pie-hole!” Wes stomped past him, still mumbling. “Now I have to tell one of them boys he won’t be workin’ this season. That’s is if they haven’t landed already, in that case I imagine they’ll be mighty pissed.”
Chapter Seventeen
Maya
Maya stood at h
er front door, anxiety bubbling in her chest. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing her mother. Especially after what happened the last time they were together. But she promised herself she’d stick around and not avoid her, no matter how difficult that would be.
Maya wiggled her key in the lock and pushed open the door to the entryway. “Mom?” When there was no response, Maya climbed the stairs and walked through the hall, pausing at her parents’ open bedroom door.
Her mother turned side to side, admiring her own reflection in the full-length mirror, wearing a plum-colored dress with a scoop neckline. Maya stepped toward her. “You look great,” she said. “What’s the occasion?”
“Your father’s taking me out for our anniversary tonight.” She fluffed her dark curls, wearing the most killer pair of strappy shoes Maya had ever seen.
“Oh, right.” It was good her mom would finally have some time out of the house. “So where is he taking you?”
“I don’t know. He called and said to be ready by six, and to get dressed up.” She turned in a circle. “So? How do I look?”
“Hot.”
Her mother smiled—the first real smile Maya had seen from her in weeks. “It’ll be so nice to spend some time with him. He’s been at work non-stop since we got here.” Her smile faded. “Like I’ve been living in this house all alone.”
Maya’s brows furrowed, though arguing her case would get her nowhere. “I’m sorry if I haven’t been around very much lately.” Not that Maya felt welcome when she was.
Her mother turned toward the mirror and smoothed her dress down with the palms of her hands. “We all have a lot going on.” She glanced at Maya in the mirror. “I, uh, I actually wanted to talk to you.”
Maya shifted her weight. Her mother never wanted to talk, and she wasn’t sure how to handle the prospect. “Sure,” she said as casually as possible, making an effort to keep her shoulders relaxed.
Still staring in the mirror, her mother didn’t look at Maya when she spoke. “I know you’ve probably been worried about me.” There was a long pause. Maya wasn’t sure if she was supposed to respond or not. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I upset you the other day. I had a really bad night, so I opened a bottle of wine. I had one glass...” She examined herself in the mirror with more scrutiny. “It got out of hand.”
“Oh.” Maya pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, I appreciate—”
“Anyway.” Her mother turned, her lips pressed tight and her chin tilted up. “I just thought you should know that.” She forced a smile and grabbed her clutch from on top of the dresser.
Maya stepped aside, giving her mother a wide berth as she passed into the hall. Her mother was a professional at making her apologies have the opposite effect of her intent.
With a weight firmly settled in her gut, Maya grabbed the knob to close the door, and paused when she spotted the edge of a canvas shoved behind the headboard of her parents’ bed. She carefully slid it out, unveiling the painting she had left in the hall beside her mother’s bedroom door. Figures.
Maya carried the painting into her bedroom, leaned it against the wall, and then stepped back to examine it.
It was really a beautiful piece. The fact she painted it at night in the cool, dry air made the paint thicken as she applied it to the canvas. As a result, tiny peaks of paint dried, reaching up from the waves. Especially on the white highlights used to mimic the reflection of the moon on the water, and the dull yellow to create texture on the face of the moon itself.
Why her mother would shove it behind her bed was beyond her, but Maya couldn’t allow it to wither away without being enjoyed. After all, that was the purpose of art.
Maya dug in her closet hoping to find a blank canvas—or at least a project she had started that she could paint over. She pulled out an untouched eight by ten canvas, and set it on the empty easel. She stepped back and peered at it carefully.
No canvas was ever blank. Not really.
Michelangelo believed every block of marble already held a statue deep inside, and all he had to do was carve out everything around it. She looked at her paintings the same way. Each canvas was meant to be something. In her experience, when she ended up with an unfinished project, it was because she tried to force something the canvas wasn’t meant to be.
Maya gathered her supplies and set up a work area, using her bed and dresser to arrange her paints and brushes.
First, the white wash with a two-inch flat brush, adding a little paint thinner to make it a solid background. She mixed colors, smeared and blended them, and then applied chunky droplets hanging from the tips of her bristles. The way the boar hairs pressed against the stretched wool fibers always made Maya feel at peace.
Stroke.
A sharp line.
Dab.
Fade.
More paint.
She added some blue and a touch of orange.
Splatter.
Another brush, full of paint.
When she was finished, Maya stepped back and eyed her creation. It wasn’t a portrait of anyone, a landscape, or some tacky bowl of waxed fruit. It was nothing, really. Just lines and colors, blended and working together to create visual nirvana.
Maya checked the time, reading ten o’clock. Had she really been painting for almost four hours?
She gathered her brushes to clean them, and frowned. Some wouldn’t be good for much more than one or two more paintings, and she had a feeling restocking her supplies on Kodiak would cost a small fortune.
She moved into the hall toward the bathroom, pausing when she noticed the light in her mother’s bedroom was still on. Maya slipped into the bathroom, filled the sink with some water, and tossed her brushes in to soak before she turned back to her mom’s room.
With neither of her parents at home, she pushed open the bedroom door to an empty space. Maya slowly reached up and flicked off the light. It was so strange her mom would leave without turning it off. Especially considering all the years her dad spent reminding them to do otherwise.
“Neat as a pin. Ship shape.” They were terms her father used while picking up dirty socks from the bathroom floor, or tucking the corners of their bed sheets under the mattress as he made his rounds. “A machine has to be well oiled to run smoothly. In a house, that means keeping it clean.”
Of course that was when her father didn’t always work insane hours, and spent more time at home with their family. Maybe since Gracie died, there wasn’t much of a family left.
Maya walked down the stairs, but froze halfway when she heard a crash in the kitchen. She gasped and rushed down the rest of steps, stumbling to a stop when she saw her mother balanced on the counter near the sink, reaching into the tallest cabinet.
A few plates were shattered on the floor, shards of glass scattered in every direction over the textured tile.
“What the hell are you doing? I thought you and dad were out!” Maya carefully tiptoed around the mess.
Her mother sniffled, and finally pulled out a bottle from the cabinet.
Maya’s heart sank.
“Your father was supposed to pick me up hours ago.” She carefully turned, balancing on the counter as she tore the foil off the top of the wine bottle, mascara streaked down her face. “But of course he didn’t show up.”
Maya stepped toward her mom and extended her hand, afraid she would fall off the counter. “Did you try calling him?”
“I called him. Texted him.” She gave an indignant laugh, shaking her head while she tugged at the cork.
“Can you please get down from the counter?” Her mother’s head popped up, and she stared at the floor several feet below. “Oh. Right.” With more stability than Maya anticipated, her mother crouched and reached with her toes for the nearby chair. Maya nudged it within her mother’s reach and snatched the wine bottle from her hand. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding wine up there. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Okay, Maya. Don’t get overly dramatic.”
“It’s none of your goddam business, that’s how much.” She snatched the bottle back. “You’ve always acted like I’m the bad guy. Like I’m the one to blame for our lives going to hell.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Maya bit her tongue in an effort to hold back from saying something she’d really regret.
“Oh, don’t give me that.” She pointed to the front door. “There’s no possible reason that’s good enough for leaving your wife home alone on your anniversary. None!” She popped open the quark and took a swig right from the bottle.
Maya gripped her stomach. It had been a long time since she saw her mother drink, and the memories it brought back nearly made her sick. “In fact, his reason is probably blonde, a size six with teased hair.” She raised the bottle as if giving a toast. “Hope he’s having a grand time. I know I am!” She chugged down another mouthful. When she lowered the bottle, her mother’s lip curled, as if waiting for Maya to defend her dad.
But she couldn’t.
Not when what her mother suspected could be true.
Chapter Eighteen
Jake
Jake tossed the last bucket of old fish scales and murky water overboard. The boat’s hold was finally clean, and he’d smell like year old chum for the next week. He slumped against the boat as the seagulls feasted. His stomach on the other hand rolled from the raw stench.
He’d gotten half of his to do list done in seven hours. Seven hours of nonstop hauling and lifting, scrubbing and dumping. Thankfully it was overcast and in the high forties. Now he needed to get some food or he’d throw up. He’d eat anything to get the taste of rotten seafood off his tongue.
“Hey, Wes. I’m going to get some lunch. Want anything?”
When he didn’t reply, Jake figured he had something packed, as usual. The old man was too cheap to buy lunch. Jake wouldn’t have either, except that his fridge only housed some ketchup and an open box of baking soda.