And now I’m dealing with insurance, who randomly decided to stop covering several of Dad’s medications that he’s been taking for the last three years. I’ve been on the phone for over an hour, mostly on hold of course. I rest my head in my hands, zoning out as I continue to listen to crappy elevator music through the speakers on my phone.
Finally, I get through to a new person, whose accent is so thick I can hardly understand a word they’re saying. I argue some more, but in the end, there is nothing I can do. The insurance company no longer deems the blood pressure medication necessary and will no longer cover it.
I hang up and let my phone clatter to the table. The fall is cushioned by the million bills covering the surface. Seething, I close my eyes and clench my jaw. I want to beat someone up, preferably Steve at the insurance company who has as much empathy as a pile of dirt.
“I am so fucking sick of this,” I mutter. I’m sick of taking one step forward and two back. I’m tired of never having enough. I’m tired of everyone else’s shit always falling on my shoulders.
I want out.
Out of the ghetto. Out of poverty. Of working my ass off for measly tips and dealing with rude customers who see me as that trashy girl from the south side. I want to make a life for myself. I want to do better.
Picking pockets will only get me so far. I need to do something big, something like I used to do before, and get enough money to finally start the life I know I deserve. Picking my phone back up, I log onto a caregiver site. I have a profile on here, though it’s been a while since I used it.
Two years ago, I was a live-in nanny for a rich couple, looking after their entitled asshole children. Mostly I saw them off to school, spent the day hanging around the pool, and picked them up after school. I made sure they did their homework, but they each had separate tutors for their different subjects.
My biggest job while working there was constantly turning down advances from the children’s father. He was a decent-looking guy, ten years older than me and working the salt-and-pepper hair hard. He was funny, cultured, and totally infatuated with me. He started sending me gifts, which is how I acquired a few designer items.
Then the gifts turned into dinner dates, and after a night where he flew me to New York City on his private jet, I drank too many mini bottles of vodka and took things a little too far with him. I threw up before we actually had sex, but that night opened up a whole new window of opportunity for me, not that I’m exactly proud of it.
Afraid I’d tell his wife of what almost happened, he started giving me cash in exchange for my silence. I had photographic evidence of him shoving his tongue down my throat, after all. I quit working for his bratty-ass children and was able to live off hush-money for a good six months. Then he got caught cheating on his wife with someone else and she left him, so my silence wasn’t worth paying for anymore.
Not letting myself think about how deplorable I am, I make my account active again and update my resume a bit. I don’t think Mrs. Milton ever knew about me, and to be honest I don’t care if she did. She was an awful woman who didn’t deny marrying for money and openly admitted the only reason she had children was because she saw it as a way around the prenup.
Still, her name looks good as a reference. I’ll leave it. I spend a few more minutes tweaking my resume, not exactly lying but making myself sound way better than I really am. I submit it to the site for review and answer a few questions to see if I can still pass a background check. Luckily for me, background checks don’t go into my family history.* * *
“You make sure Jason does his homework, you hear?”
I press my lips into a thin line. “Dad, Jason isn’t in high school anymore. He’s in the Army now.”
Dad gives me a blank stare and tries to get out of his wheelchair. The new one is much more comfortable than the old one, but I guess I was overly optimistic that he’d keep his ass in this new chair better than the last. He’s too unsteady to be up walking on his own.
“And you tell your skank-ass whore of a mother to stop drinking my beer.”
“Mr. Cooper,” Corbin scolds as he comes around the corner. “Now I know your pretty little daughter didn’t take that nasty old bus and then walk two blocks in the rain to get her ass badgered by you.” Corbin stops in front of my dad’s wheelchair and pops his hip, holding out one hand.