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If I was a dinosaur, I’m certain they wouldn’t be extinct. The asteroid would have smacked me on the head only, sparing the rest.
If I had siblings, I would be the ugly duckling, black sheep, no-brained one of the group.
That’s not to say I think I’m unattractive or uneducated. But surely, my sister would be model-beautiful like Miranda Kerr, and my brother… well, maybe a young Ben Affleck.
Luckily for me, my parents stopped procreating after the first. Though, that had nothing to do with their satisfaction with the child they got, and instead, everything to do with the affairs my father had while my mom was pregnant with me.
Like I said, the shadow of bad luck sticks close by.
I walk through the glass sliding doors of the Copeland City Hospital with a limp. I’ve done this every day for months, which means as I pass the nurses’ station and recognize familiar faces, they allow me to go about my business and limp-shuffle toward the elevator.
Three months ago, I’d have chosen the stairs every time. Broke college girls can’t afford a gym membership, which means I’d take the incidental exercise wherever I could find it. However, two-and-a-half months ago, I was minding my own business, sleeping in my car atop a hill overlooking a quiet little town, when a drunk driver slammed his shitty truck into the side of my car and shattered my femur.
I was coming home to be with my mom, but that accident destroyed my car, pushed my travel plans back by a month and ended with the surgery that placed nuts and bolts and all sorts of machinery inside my thigh, and a massive bill destroying my bank account and credit rating.
Why should I pay for that hospital stay, when it was his fault for putting me there?
But that damn coat of luck just thrills at the idea of making my life more difficult.
Now I walk with a cane—for a while, anyway—and my leg still smarts in the cold. Februarys in Copeland City aren’t much fun. The snow continues to stick, and the wind bites enough to hurt a girl’s bones. However, Februarys inanycity suck when you’re staying in an old, tiny, fibro home with lackluster insulation and noisy neighbors.
But when your wealthy father bangs every female colleague past, present, and future while his pregnant wife is at home puking her guts up and unable to get out of bed, jerks like him tend not to handanythingover in divorce without a judge prying it from their stubborn, spidery hands.
Which means twenty-one years ago, my mother was left homeless. Jobless. Hopeless. And expecting a kid in a few short months.
The moment I was conceived, I’m convinced I became her bad luck.
The tiny fibro home I speak of was hers. Her hard work. Her blood, sweat, and tears. It was her three jobs, while raising a daughter, and every other weekend when she had to share me with the jackass who screwed everything up, she had a fourth job and used her free time productively.
The home I speak of isn’t actually a place I dislike. But rather, a point of pride. It’s a safety net and a house filled with peace. Unconditional love. It’s resilience and teen anguish. It’s talking of the future and excited girly squeals the one or two times either of us had a date.
My mom is still single these days. Her life got away from her, and her spare time was spent on me or repairing things inside that old, decrepit house. She’s only forty-six-years-old, so objectively, she should have plenty of time to renovate and still slide on a layer of lipstick before a hot date.
What’s the opposite of Lady Luck?
Judy Jinx, maybe?
Well, here comes Judy Jinx, riding in on her stallion and slamming my mom’s body with enough cancer that instead of counting down to a fun date, we’re counting down to the end.
We had months. Then we had weeks.
Now we have right now.
I hobble into the elevator and come to a stop beside a couple of tall cops who give a friendly smile and head tilt that everyone knows is a polite greeting. One wears a badge hung around his neck, and the other, a chain and wedding band hung around his.
They both stand easily over six feet tall, forcing me to look up as I return their polite smile and spin to face the doors. Whether they were discussing something important, I have no clue, but they keep their mouths shut now as I hit the button for the fourth floor and wait as we ascend.
I don’t carry a purse. Nor a bag, except when I’m studying. So, as the elevator comes to a stop, I shuffle forward without the added weight and leave the handsome cops behind to go about their day. I walk the oncology ward and loathe the almost silence, except for the random retching of someone not feeling great.
I internalize the beep-beep-beep of heart rate monitors and wonder if my choice to attend medical school in the new year was my best decision ever.
I’m coming to the very end of my four-year undergraduate. I’ve sat the MCATS. I’ve been placed in the medical school of my choice. And now my mom is dying, and I wonder if I might quickly go insane if I’m forced to listen to that wretchedbeep-beep-beepevery day for the rest of my life.
Twenty-one-years-old and I think I’m having my midlife crisis already.
“Hey, Rory.” Brenda, a sweet nurse who seems to really give a shit, wanders by and winks as I step-shuffle past. “It’s a good day today, baby girl.”
“Yeah?” I perk up a little and straighten my back, twisting to keep her in my vision as she does her work. “She feeling okay?”
