Sing (Songs of Submission #7)(3)

I didn’t want to call her.

I stared at my phone. The number was right there. I’d missed the rent twice before. Once when Kevin and I broke up, and once when Gabby had tried to commit suicide. Both times, I’d just sent two month’s rent in an envelope with a thank you note. So when Gabby died and I was short, I just figured I’d make it up. And I could have, except I was in Vancouver December first and forgot and then I stopped working when Jonathan collapsed into my arms, so honestly, even if I’d had the cash in there, I was too preoccupied to manage any practical aspect of my life.

That’s what I get for living in her house. Really. How long could I mooch off someone I wasn’t speaking to anyway? How old was I?

I hit her number while I unlocked my front door. It was easier to do difficult things if I multitasked through them.

My house was exactly the same every time I went into it to shower or grab something, as if it was a museum of my life. Nothing moved. The blanket on the couch was rumpled in the shape of an opening rose. The curtains draped over the back of the chair like perfectly-trimmed bangs. The dishes in the rack were filed and waiting for archiving in the cabinets.

The phone stopped ringing and there was a click. Mom’s voice still had the slight Brazilian accent that had been carefully chipped away, but never smoothed off completely. My heart skipped a beat, an adrenaline rush in preparation for the confrontation.

It was a message.

“Hi, Mom. I got a notice the bank is auctioning off the house? Should we talk about it?”

God that was stupid. I hung up. Shoulda paid the f**king rent. Shoulda called her to let her know I was in a pinch. Shoulda had Darren move in. One more stupid shit thing in a long line of other stupid shit things. I folded the notice and wedged into the corner of my notebook. Fuck the Christmas lights.

CHAPTER 2.

MONICA

I was nearly out of gas, and I had five dollars in my pocket, one maxed out credit card and a bank account dangerously close to scraped clean. I could get to work and make some cash, but without that eighth of a tank, I’d be taking the bus to the hospital for the duration and paying the fare with change found between couch cushions.

I didn’t dare tell Jonathan things had gotten that bad. I went to him every night with sunshine in my voice and rainbows in my pocket.

But when I wasn’t at Sequoia, I let the panic come. Slamming my locker closed, I painted on a customer service smile for no one in particular.

“Monica?” Andrea came up behind me, her hair dyed blue that week. It was always something new with her, and I seemed to have missed this change, because the color was already fading back to green.

“Hey, how are you? Love the color.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s my shift.”

She rolled her eyes and twisted her mouth around. “Uhm, we’re kinda in the habit of swapping you out. So, I’m working.”

“No,” I heard the squeak in my voice. “I need the cash.” God, I hated sounding like that. I hated whining about money.

She shrugged and walked out to the floor. I went to Debbie’s office.

“Come in,” she said after I knocked. She was alone, behind her desk, shuffling through God-only-knows. She looked up as if she was pleased to see me, standing and putting her arms out for a hug. “Monica. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I came to work, but Andrea says she’s got my shift?”

“You’ve missed five shifts, Monica. And you were out the week before. I need to run the floor.”

“I need my shift.”

She put her hand under my chin. “You’re in no condition to work. You lost weight. You have circles. A little lipstick?”

“Please.”

“What’s happening? Sit. Tell me.”

I lowered myself in the leather chair. Debbie sat on the arm of the one next to it. The nightly mist that descended on Los Angeles dotted the window. It was the wettest year in history. The bar would be slow, tips scarce, tourists who had nowhere else to go and regulars who came out of habit. The Hollywood hitters would be in clubs Downtown or Silver Lake venues.

“They’re trying to stabilize him so they can do a valve graft,” I said. She looked at me blankly, as if she was waiting to understand what I’d just said. “He damaged his heart when he was sixteen—” I stopped abruptly. I knew Debbie and Jonathan had been close, but I couldn’t be sure he’d told her about the fistful of drugs he’d taken. He hadn’t known he was broken. He’d been fine, until the stress of the past weeks broke him.

“Here,” Debbie said, handing me a tissue. “Go ahead.”

“They have to replace parts of his heart.” I felt strongly that I didn’t know what I was talking about, because I didn’t. “He hasn’t been stable enough for the surgery.” I pressed the tissue to my eyes. It came back with blobs of mascara. Now I really couldn’t work the floor. “I go in every night and talk to him, but I need to work tonight.”

“No, you need to go in to him.”

“I need the money. I’m sorry. I know it seems gross.”

“He can’t give you money?” She seemed shocked at the idea, as if he wouldn’t, which wasn’t the case. Money would sully the sunshine and rainbows.

“I don’t want him to worry.”