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I’ll also ask that he not contact me on the weekends unless it’s work-related.
Popping a Swiss mocha pod into my Keurig, I wait for it to brew and hunt through my medicine cabinet for two Advil. My brain pulsates with regret, wishing I could wave a magic wand and re-do last night. I should’ve ignored his texts. I shouldn’t have engaged.
As soon as I finish my drink, I hit the shower and then throw on a pair of boyfriend jeans and a vintage Prince t-shirt before lacing into some Converse—my weekends are all about comfort. A second later, I grab my phone and car keys and lock my apartment behind me.
Forty minutes later, I’m at my mom’s outside the city. Saturdays are when she gets a break from caring for Emmeline. Usually she’ll use this time to grab groceries. Get an oil change. Sometimes get her hair or nails done. She has a caregiver who comes during the week when she’s working, but during the evenings, it’s just the two of them and it isn’t always easy to run errands on a whim.
“Hello, hello,” I call out, letting myself in.
“In the back,” my mom calls. I follow her voice to Emmeline’s bedroom, where she’s braiding Em’s hair.
“Love that blouse on you,” I say to my sister, bending to kiss her cheek. She smiles and places her hand over mine. “You’ve always looked so pretty in violet.”
“Thanks, chica,” she says with a wink.
Ten years ago, this wouldn’t have been possible. The muscles in her face were so constricted she could hardly sip from a straw. While my sister’s disease is incurable, the progress she’s made because of Nolan Ames’ connections have given her a new lease on life.
Prescription pill bottles, vitamins, and perfumes cover her dresser, and in the corner, a small Bluetooth speaker plays Fleetwood Mac—forever her favorite. Here it’s an ordinary Saturday morning, and I almost forget about last night.
Almost.
“I can take over, Mom,” I say. “Go do what you need to do. We’ll be fine.”
Mom exhales as she secures the end of Em’s braid and then she kisses the top of her head.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” she tells us on her way out.
As soon as the front door closes, Em turns her chair and wheels down the hallway toward the living room like she’s got somewhere to be.
“You want to watch our show?” she asks with sparkling eyes.
I chuckle and pretend to resist. “It’s so awful.”
“Please?”
Ever since my relationship with Nolan—if you can call it that—my mom has become ultra conservative and hyper protective, especially when it comes to what she allows my sister to watch. Things with sex (gasp) or swearing (God-forbid) are outlawed under her roof.
But she’s not here.
And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
I grab the remote, cue to Netflix, and settle in on the sofa.
The opening credits of Emmeline’s favorite show—one about a college-aged escort living a secret double life in New York City—begin to play. I don’t know why she loves this show with its cheesy dialogue and second-rate acting, but I suppose we all have those themes that just resonate with us for whatever reason.
That and she loves the male lead. She’s had a mad crush on him ever since I took her to see one of his movies several years ago.
An italic subtitle flashes across the bottom of the screen—produced by Westcott Cinematic Enterprises.
I roll my eyes. How I never noticed that before is beyond me.
The man owns software companies, grocery chains, pharmaceutical companies, newspapers, and the largest e-commerce website in the world. Amongst a million other things. Of course he owns a movie production company.
My sister laughs, and I recall a time not so long ago when that wouldn’t have been possible. I’ll never forget the first time I saw her smile—truly smile—or the first time she was able to brush her own teeth. Or the day we moved her from her expensive motorized wheelchair to one that allowed her more independence because her needs had changed for the better.
I can say many things about Nolan Ames, nearly all of them unfavorable, but at the end of the day, he was the one who put us in touch with the world-renowned physical therapists and physicians who were able to use cutting-edge stem cell treatments and yet-to-be FDA approved medicinal regimens that completely changed Emmeline’s prognosis and quality of life. And he paid for every last cent along the way … he still does.
It didn’t come for free though.
I sold my soul to the devil—though it’s not like I had a choice at the time. And I’m happy for Emmeline, for what she got from the bargain. But he took a piece of me I’ll never get back and left something hollow in its place.
But I’m older now. Wiser.
