You'll Be the Death of Me(5)

Now, she folds her arms and cocks her head at me. “Fine. By all means, walk a mile when you don’t have to out of sheer spite and stubbornness.”

“I will,” I grumble, finishing my second PowerBar and tossing the wrapper into the garbage. Maybe I’m just jealous of Gabe. I have a chip on my shoulder, lately, for anyone who has more than they need and doesn’t have to work for it. I have two jobs, and Autumn, who graduated Carlton High last spring, has three. And it’s still not enough. Not since the one-two punch we got hit with.

I turn as Ma enters the kitchen, walking slowly and deliberately to avoid limping. Punch #1: in June she was diagnosed with osteoarthritis, a bullshit disease that messes with your joints and isn’t supposed to happen to people her age. She does physical therapy nonstop, but she can’t walk without pain unless she takes anti-inflammatory meds.

    “How are you feeling, Aunt Elena?” Autumn asks in an overly bright tone.

“Great!” Ma says, sounding even more chipper. My cousin learned from the best. I clench my jaw and look away, because I can’t fake it like they do. Every single day, it’s like getting slammed in the head with a two-by-four to see my mother, who used to run 5Ks and play softball every weekend, strain to make it from the living room to the kitchen.

It’s not like I expect life to be fair. I learned it’s not seven years ago, when a drunk driver plowed into Autumn’s parents and walked away without a scratch. Still sucks, though.

Ma makes it to the kitchen island and leans against it. “Did you remember to pick up my prescription?” she asks Autumn.

“Yup. Right here.” Autumn roots through her backpack, pulling out a white pharmacy bag that she hands to my mother. My cousin’s eyes briefly meet mine, then drop as she reaches into the backpack again. “And here’s your change.”

“Change?” Ma’s eyebrows shoot up at the thick stack of twenties in Autumn’s hand. Those pills cost a fortune. “I wasn’t expecting change. How much?”

“Four hundred and eighty dollars,” Autumn says blandly.

“But how…” Ma looks totally lost. “Did you use my credit card?”

“No. The co-pay was only twenty bucks this time.” Ma still hasn’t made any move to take the money, so Autumn gets up and drops it onto the counter in front of her. Then she sits back down and picks up a scrunchie from the table. She starts pulling her hair into a ponytail, cool and casual. “The pharmacist said the formulary changed.”

    “Changed?” Ma echoes. I stare at the floor, because I sure as hell can’t look at her.

“Yeah. He says there’s a generic version available now. But don’t worry, it’s still the same medication.”

Autumn is a good actress, but my shoulders still tense because Ma has a bullshit detector like no one I’ve ever met. It’s a measure of how rough the last few months have been that she only blinks in surprise once, then smiles gratefully.

“Well, that’s the best news I’ve had in a while.” She pulls an amber bottle from the pharmacy bag and unscrews the top, peering into it like she can’t believe it’s the same medication. It must meet her approval, because she crosses to the cabinet next to the refrigerator and pulls out a glass, filling it with water from the sink.

Autumn and I both watch her like a hawk until she actually swallows the pill. She’s been skipping doses for weeks, trying to stretch the latest bottle much further than it’s meant to go, because our finances suck right now.

Which brings me to Punch #2: my mother used to own her own business, a bowling alley called Spare Me that was a Carlton institution. Ma, Autumn, and I all worked there, and it was fun as hell. Until six months ago, when some kid slipped on an overwaxed lane and got hurt to the point that his parents went full lawsuit. By the time the dust settled, Spare Me was bankrupt and my mother was desperate to sell. Carlton developer extraordinaire James Shepard scooped it up for nothing.

I shouldn’t be mad about that. It’s business, not personal, Ma keeps telling me. I’m glad it was James. He’ll develop a good property. And yeah, he probably will. He’s shown Ma plans for a bowling alley–slash–entertainment complex that’s a lot glitzier than Spare Me, but not stupidly out of proportion for the town, and he asked her to take on a consulting role when it’s closer to final. There might even be a cushy corporate job for her down the line. Way down.

    But the thing is: James’s daughter, Ivy, and I used to be friends. And even though it’s been a while, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t suck to hear about James’s plans from him instead of her. Because I know Ivy has the inside track. She hears about this stuff way before anyone else. She could’ve given me a heads-up, but she didn’t.

I don’t know why I care. It’s not like it would’ve changed anything. And it’s not like I hang out with her anymore. But when James Shepard came to our house with his rose-gold laptop and his blueprints, so goddamn nice and charming and respectful while he laid out how his company was going to rebuild from the ashes of my mother’s dream, all I could think was: You could’ve fucking told me, Ivy.

“Earth. To. Mateo.” Ma’s in front of me, snapping her fingers in my face. I didn’t even notice her move, so I must’ve been lost in thought for a while. Crap. That kind of zoning out worries my mother—who, sure enough, is peering at me like she’s trying to see inside my brain. Sometimes I think she’d yank it right out of my skull if she could. “You sure I can’t convince you to come to the Bronx for the day? Aunt Rose would love to see you.”