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“Sure.”
I close my phone and shove it into the pocket of my hoodie.
Lately, my conversations with mom have been just as dry as they look. She hates being stuck in the hospital. She told me it eats at her more than the actual illness, and that being there brings her down. I get it, I really do, but the situation is overwhelming, and she understood that.
We made the decision to admit her again at the beginning of last month when I found her unconscious by the kitchen door. It’s unbearable to see her so vulnerable. She needs specialized care, as I was just starting to grasp a few essential things from books, having missed out on my first year at nursing school. I am now working at a nursing home, thanks to a friend of my mom’s who got me in, just so we can afford the treatment.
The truth is, that’s how I manage to find time to study for school, but in the company of the elderly, I learn more about life than medicine.
I’m almost twenty-one, yet I feel like I’m ninety-one.
At least spiritually, because physically I try my best not to skip any workouts.
But for the sake of my mother, the words “I can’t” do not exist. Anyway, I wouldn’t have had time for college anyways. When you’re poor, universities become a distant fantasy for those who yearn to cling to their childhood. I had to grow up quickly, and the job at the nursing home is not as bad as it seems. The truth is that the elderly are more enthusiastic than I am, so I can’t really complain. I am young, healthy, and ready to face my Karma, but it stubbornly insists on wrestling with me.
The past year has been a complete nightmare, from every possible angle. Ever since I learned about my mother’s illness, my world has turned upside down. The pandemic is still a real problem, and the whole world is swimming in a sea of depression and anxiety, struggling to reach the shore.
I’m single, and my mother’s constant nagging only worsens my already deep-seated fear of men, in general, so I avoid relationships like the plague.
They probably avoid me too.
Seriously, what kind of person would be dumb enough to put up with me?
The only one who had fallen in love with me since birth was bad luck. He is a stubborn and jealous boyfriend. He doesn’t even give me time to breathe, but I hold my ground, refusing to succumb to his advances. I resist his advances, and I have no intention of marrying him. He will get bored sooner or later.
And I have no intention of marrying him. Sooner or later, he’ll get bored out of his mind.
I put the bags in the truck and delve into the depths of my bag in search of the keys. I find them, and as I try to insert them into the door, a sharp sound pierces my eardrums.
“Fuck!” I mutter, dropping the keys between my fingers, attempting to cover my ears because it’s deafening.
Across from the underground parking lot where I left my car, something is being constructed, and the sound is probably coming from there. I bend down on my knees, searching for the keys under the car when I catch sight of two slender legs, barely dragging themselves in the faint greenish light seeping from under the car.
My heart nearly leaps out of my chest, and I slowly rise, gazing through the car window.
I catch sight of a hunched shadow slowly moving with the support of a cane. A faint wheezing sound comes from under the black shawl draped over their head as if they’re barely breathing, and gray strands of hair, like threads of silver, hide their facial features, leaving only a thin and bent nose in sight.
It must be an elderly street person, I gather my courage and reach for the keys once again.
“There you are,” I whisper, stretching beneath the front wheel, lifting my gaze towards the car door.
Two bulging eyes stare intensely at me through the passenger-side window right when I try to unlock the car and leave the parking lot.
For a few seconds, I freeze. Their high cheekbones and almost invisible lips make their eyes seem even larger.
I gasp, and as I try to take a step back, still supported by my knees, I accidentally step on my creamy coat and end up falling backward, hitting the car door behind me.
Their footsteps quicken, and I watch them intently as they circle around the car. I quickly rush to grab the keys, and my teeth grit as I examine my palms, which are now covered in scrapes. The pain makes it difficult for me to find the keyhole.
The woman reaches my side, and I freeze, still attempting to unlock the car.
“22022022,” her voice, low and sharp, whispers some numbers out of nowhere.
“Do you need anything, grandma?” I ignore the knot forming in my throat and swallow hard, looking at her.
“22022022,” the old woman repeats the meaningless numbers, and I start rummaging through my bag.
“Here you go,” I hand her some loose change.
