Fake Marriage Box Set

“Ew, no.” I helped mom set the rest of dinner on the table, a meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, and a basket of bread and butter. I could hear Nancie in my head warning me how many calories must have been in everything.

“Let me get you a bowl of ice,” mom said and left for the kitchen.

“A bowl?” I followed her. “Mom, don’t tell me your ice maker doesn’t work.” I stopped in my tracks as I saw the new fridge. It wasn’t new, actually much older than their old fridge, with a tiny freezer section and no ice maker built into the door. “You sold your fridge?”

“We just needed some extra cash at the beginning of the month,” mom said. “One of the neighbors put this fridge on the curb just when the car payment arrived.”

“We saw the opportunity and took it,” dad added from behind.

“Mom, dad, when people put their shit on the curb that means it’s trash. It doesn’t mean it’s up for grabs,” I argued.

“Watch your mouth,” mom said. “And everyone knows junk on the curb is up for grabs. It’s how we got our new washer and dryer.”

I grimaced. Nancie and I had rented a washer and dryer for the apartment after years of hauling our clothes to the laundromat, and even we had been hesitant about rentals. I couldn’t imagine buying used ones.

Mom and dad sat down and plopped some ice cubes in their drinks before eating. Conversation flowed easily between them, about dad’s new promotion in the call-center to mom’s blooming flowers she planted the previous year.

“Almost as beautiful as you,” dad said. Mom rolled her eyes, but there was a soft blush across her cheeks.

“Have you been looking for a more stable job?” mom asked. “I know your modeling gig is more than a hobby; you don’t have to lecture me.”

“Then you’d know that I’m not looking for a different job,” I said. “Plus, you’re one to talk. Dad, this is the third promotion you’ve gotten, but you haven’t been given more than a quarter raise.”

“Your father likes his job,” mom said. “He’s home all the time, he’s not stressed out about traffic and if the car breaks down, and doesn’t have to eat out every day for lunch.”

“I’d rather take a pay cut than go back to being gone for 10 hours a day,” he said. I realized that I had stuffed a bottle of wine at the bottom of my purse, but I wasn’t thrilled to have two drunk parents flirting with one another in front of me.

We finished our dinner, and I thanked the both of them. Dad closed the screen door behind me, holding it shut until the lock was finally popped into place. I couldn’t remember a time that it wasn’t broken.

I slipped behind the steering wheel of my car and looked at my childhood home once more. The windows were covered with thick iron bars, a feature that all of the houses in this area had, and the roof needed some serious work. My parents were more than okay with this sort of life, the one where your clothes were all purchased on sale days from thrift stores and food from the discounted corner of the grocery store.

It wasn’t for me; that much I’ve known for more than half of my life. Lower-middle class just wasn’t for me, and as I gripped the steering wheel, I made the vow that I would never settle for such a life. I would do anything, I realized.

Chapter Three

Gavin

The white walls of the hospital waiting room were as bleak as ever. I wished for some color, a pop of red or streak of blue, anything other than the white on white that filled Timothy Johnson’s Hospital from corner to corner. Mom didn’t seem to mind it, but I suppose it was because she wasn’t feeling well that particular day and had to close her eyes or else risk nausea. I stiffened my shoulder as it supported the small weight of her head and stayed alert as nurses rushed to and from the waiting room.

There was another family waiting for their father to return from his appointment with Dr. Lemonis. The kids were young, possibly a boy of eight and a girl of six or seven, but were far more mature than the rest of the kids their age. They sat with a woman who I presumed was their mother, gripping her thin hands as they glanced at one another. There was an elderly woman with pure white hair and a permanent frown sitting on the other side of the children. I had watched as the father, a man my age, promised to return with good news and left with the nurse just as Mom and I arrived.

Nearly 30 minutes later and there had been no news yet.

“He’ll be fine,” Mom said as she rested against my shoulder. I looked down as she peered up at me, a slight grin on her face. She was always in a better mood while waiting for her appointment.

“Who?” I asked.

“The father of that family,” she said. “You’ve been staring at them and the door for the whole 30 minutes.”

“I’m just trying not to think about your appointment,” I said. I tried imagining what the family was like. Did they have a family dinner every night? Church every Sunday? Was this their first experience with an illness? Did the dad remind his kids that he loved them every single morning and night?

“So you’re using that poor family as a distraction.” She kept her voice low as I shook my head. “Stop worrying so much, Gavin. Everything is going to be okay.”

“You always say that,” I muttered. She pushed herself off my shoulder and started fixing the curls of her hair. They were thin and frail, not unlike her, and strands clung to her skin. But mom was smiling despite squeezing her fists through her pain, and I realized that if you didn’t know she was sick, it was nearly impossible to tell.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she said again. I nodded, convinced she was right. She would always be right.

My father was often gone as a child, leaving only mom to raise me. And she had been right about nearly everything growing up. When father would return, how often he would leave, what he would bring me. When I stressed over tests, she would study with me, a woman nearly 15 years out of school, and I would always pass with flying colors. When I tried out for the football team, and I arrived home with a giant bruise on my face and cut on my lip, she assured me that my injuries would only make me stronger, and the following season I had been the star quarterback. The first tattoo I ever received, a lighthouse in a traditional pattern on the inside of my upper arm, she had warned me to take proper care of else risk infection. And it had gotten infected within nearly a week of me getting it. She found one of the best tattoo artists in Alaska and paid for them to fix it, and told me not to worry. The lighthouse was now better than it had ever been, vibrant colors and straight, black lines; it was a reminder that mom was always right.