Purple Hearts(12)

“And this terrible, terrible hold music is killing me,” I added. From its spot on the floor, my phone on speaker piped a tinned synth version of “Young at Heart.”

Suddenly, the music clicked off. “We’re sorry. We are experiencing a higher rate of customers than usual. Please hang up and go to healthcare.gov, or remain on the line and we will assist your call as soon as possib—”

“WE’RE ALREADY AT HEALTHCARE DOT GOV,” I yelled. I was answered by another rousing rendition of “Young at Heart.”

Nora ate a Cheeto. “This would be a lot easier if it were two months from now,” she said. “Because then you wouldn’t have to qualify for the special enrollment period.”

“Yet another reason to finally invent that time machine,” I muttered.

Nora snorted, still chewing. “Oh, you should call Toby,” she said.

My gut did something flip-floppy, unidentifiable. Then again, it was doing a lot of that lately. “Why?”

“He texted me just now.”

“Why doesn’t he just text me?” And what’s with the sudden concern with my existence outside of band practice and our respective beds? I wanted to add, but Nora never liked to hear about us hooking up, no matter how infrequent.

Nora pointed to the still-serenading phone. “He probably couldn’t get through.”

“Oh, yeah. Well,” I said, feigning apathy, “tell him how much fun we’re having.”

I’d been on hold for two hours. I had found out that people who wanted ObamaCare in Texas could sign up only from November 1 to January 31. It was September 27. In the meantime, I would have to buy temporary private insurance, and my special enrollment period application had not gone through after a week. Nora and I were calling today to see if they actually received it.

Either way, there was no doubt I would be paying out of pocket for the ambulance ride, the emergency room visit, and the hour-long visit with Nancy, a diabetes nutrition expert who was unsettlingly cheerful and whose every sentence sounded like a question.

It didn’t look like my glucose levels varied enough to have to take insulin yet?

So for now, we would try meal planning and exercise?

Here were some good on-the-go meals?

For a snack, Nancy recommended nuts?

The nuts weren’t that bad. And neither was Nancy. She was just trying to help. But damn, eating greens and whole grains had tripled the cost of my last two trips to Central Market.

And over time, my insulin production would be worse. Once my insulin was gone, it would need to be replaced to keep my sugar levels safe. And that meant injections. And injections meant paying for all the items on the list I’d taped to my fridge reminding me why I was eating tasteless, boring foods like lentils: vials of insulin, needles, syringes, alcohol pads, gauze, bandages, and a puncture-resistant “sharps” container for proper needle and syringe disposal.

“Hand me that pen, Nor.” She tossed me the one in her hand. It was covered in Cheetos dust. I wiped it on my pants, then started to write it all down.

My total costs, just for diabetes, added up to $650 a month. On top of rent. On top of student loans. At The Handle Bar, I made about $2,000 a month, if I was lucky enough to get good hours.

I was in bad shape. Even if I qualified for a low monthly premium, I wouldn’t be above water because of the previous out-of-pocket bills. And until I reached the yearly deductible, I would pay hundreds of dollars each month for the insulin. And all of it just to live like a normal human being. Not even normal. A human being who would be alive enough to pay her debts.

I lay spread-eagle on the floor and tried not to panic. I’d read somewhere that cursing has a chemical effect on your brain, alleviating stress. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I chanted.

Nora crawled over and lay next to me, the whiny drone of the hold music serenading us.

I handed her the paper on which I had written the costs.

She cursed with me, and crumpled it up, throwing it across the room. “What are we going to do?”

“About what?”

“All of it.” She gestured to me, to the laptops, to where my keyboard was set up over by the living room window.

“First thing is to marry a wealthy patron,” I started, putting out a finger.

“Get on their health insurance,” Nora continued. We put out two fingers.

“Then we convert one of the rooms in their mansion into a recording studio, and we write a hit record.”

“I’d marry you if I were rich,” Nora said.

I tapped her stockinged foot with my bare one. “Me, too.”

She looked around. “You’d have to be a little cleaner.”

“Whoops.” The floor we lay on was dusty. Three different shirts graced the futon like throw pillows. Old magazines were stacked on the shelves next to the knickknacks. My bartending apron was tossed over my keyboard, its contents falling out. I really had to take more care. In every way. “I’d try,” I added.

“I wish we had rich friends who we could marry for their benefits,” Nora said.

“Yeah, well. We need new friends.”

As we spoke, my eyes landed on my bartending apron again. Sticking out of the pocket of the apron was the corner of a colorful brochure.

The army brochure.