It has been the week from hell.
A series of unfortunate events that should have come with a warning.
It started off with some moron from overseas trying to hack into my bank account. I had no clue it had happened until the bank notified me that my account was temporarily suspended. No big deal except I was in the middle of ordering a foot-long sub and was asking the lady serving to pack on extra olives and meatball sauce. Great—when you have money to pay for it. Unfortunately, I have no cash in my purse and a card that won’t work. It’s embarrassing, mortifying and I can go on. I walked away hungry with a very annoyed sandwich artist mouthing off profanities even after I explained my situation.
From then on, things went downhill. The photocopy machine decided to be my arch-nemesis. A paper jam alert in some secret crevice gave me a paper cut when I went in to retrieve it. My computer did this update thing, and I lost all my contacts in the process. Then the icing on the already screwed-up cake—my boss tells me she’s retiring. Since it’s her law firm, I will be jobless in just two short months.
It was a shitty week.
There had to be a bottle of wine calling my name. Until I found out that the truck carrying the latest shipment of alcohol broke down outside of Anchorage, and the only thing that Billy, our local grocer, has stocked in his store is beer.
I don’t care for beer.
Mama, as usual, is my knight in shining armor. She knows exactly how to make me feel better, and it involves her world-class lasagne—five types of cheese are melted in between a bolognese sauce that’s so saucy it makes you drool just staring at it.
Though, I should have known it was a ploy. I smelled the rat that followed the delicious meal.
“I’m going to put the house on the market.”
The lasagne that sits on the plate in front of me suddenly loses its appeal. With my fork sitting firmly between my fingers, I place it gently on the edge of the plate and raise my eyes to meet Mama’s. I’m sure this is some sort of joke, a prank to tip me over the edge after a bad week. I’m mentally scrambling to check the date. No, it’s not April Fool’s Day. Not that Mama is the type of person to pull pranks.
My brother, Flynn, silently chews on his last bite. Upon his final swallow, his expression mirrors mine as we stare in confusion, awaiting her explanation.
Mama pushes her chair out and walks to the counter, where she retrieves a yellow envelope that has been sitting around for weeks. She carefully removes the contents and places them in the middle of the table. It’s a brochure—Rose Meadow Care Facility. I flick through the brochure, pages of people sitting around with smiles on their old faces. Mama is only fifty-five, and this place appears to be a senior citizens’ gateway to death.
“Mama, I don’t understand. You want to sell our house?”
She nods, keeping her lips tight and emotions restrained. “It isn’t supposed to be this way, the two of you taking care of me. I can’t live with myself knowing that. I don’t want to be a burden on you.”
“Mama.” I push my chair back and fall onto my knees, clasping her hand in mine. “You’re not a burden. Please don’t do this. I’ll find another job. Granted, it may not pay as well as now, but I can pick up a third job. Many people have three jobs, and if that’s what I need to do to pay for a full-time nurse, I will, too.”
She shakes her head, ignoring my desperate pleas. This is just another one of her episodes. This will pass. Tomorrow we will all wake up, and this conversation will be forgotten.
“I know what you’re thinking, Milana, and this won’t pass. I’ve spoken to a professional who will follow through with my plans despite my condition. I can’t do this anymore. You have to understand that I only want the best for you both, and that’s not staying here.”
She called me by my full name. She only does that when I’m in trouble and when she’s dead serious about something. On its own accord, my head is shaking left to right, fear turning into anger, refusing to allow her to do this. She isn’t thinking straight. This is our family home. A home that my grandpapa built with his bare hands. He will be rolling over in his grave if he knows his only daughter is selling this prized possession.
“This isn’t the best for us!” I raise my voice, pulling away from her. “You’re our mother. Taking care of you is our job. Just keep the house, and we’ll sort something out.”
“Full-time help is costly, and frankly, I’m tired.” She lowers her head, keeping her gaze down. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow let alone five minutes from now. I need to be somewhere with people who
know how to help me.”
Flynn is quietly sitting at the table, offering no words to stop Mama from making this rash decision. I glare at him, demanding he speak up and help me convince her this is stupid. When he doesn’t say a word, I begin to panic at the thought of this going ahead. The knot in my stomach is tightening, and my fingers twitch while I hold down the urge to dry heave from the tightness in my chest.
“I promise you we can keep the house. Like I said, I’ll just get another job.”
“About that…” She pulls another piece of paper out of the envelope. “One of the ladies at the facility has a daughter-in-law who owns a recruitment agency in California. She’s looking for a personal assistant, and it pays four times the amount you earn here. I’ve recommended you for the position.”
She hands the paper to me. It has the name of the agency and a description of the job.
Personal Assistant to a well-known client. Must have extensive organizational skills with the ability to multitask and handle all matters in a confidential manner.
“I can’t move to California!” Arguing, I almost throw the paper back at her in disgust. This idea is ludicrous. “As if I could leave you here… and what about Flynn?”
“Your brother will go with you. Besides, you’ve come a long way from your teenage rebellion days. I think this will be good for you.”
Flynn’s chair scrapes along the wooden floor as his body reacts instantly. “Move to California? Us?”