Page 59 of First Comes Forever

“Hello?” I answer.

“Mrs. Rhodes?”

“Ms.,” I correct. “Yes, that’s me. Amani is fine.”

“Hi, Amani, this is Tim Morrish. I have you listed as the responsible billing party for our patient, Claire Rhodes.”

I blink slowly.Get to it, Tim. I know you have bad news.“Yes, that’s correct,” I reply flatly.

“I just have to inform you that we’re on a recorded line. Would you like me to read you our privacy policy before we begin?”

“No, thank you, Tim,” I grumble, shifting my weight from my left leg to my right. “Is everything okay with my mother’s treatment?”

“Everything is fine, but due to new compliance mandates, we’ve had to completely replace some of our machines, making it necessary to restructure our billing.”

“Plain English, please?” It’s obvious he’s skirting around whatever it is he wants to tell me.

“Treatment prices have gone up…significantly.”

“That can’t be right. Prices just went up a few months ago, and that was already unaffordable to begin with. You guys know her insurance refuses to pay a penny, right?”

“That’s likely because this treatment is considered more experimental. Insurance would help cover nerve block medication or opioids—”

“No,” I bark out. “No more pain meds. They make her so sick and she can’t have a lucid thought. This isn’t about masking her pain. It’s about giving her some quality of life. How can you guys keep doing this?” I release a slow, shaky breath. “Sorry, Tim. I’m not trying to shoot the messenger. Don’t give me the exact number. I don’t think I can stomach it right now. Just tell me, how dramatic of a change are we talking?”

“Will you be sticking to twice a week treatments?”

“Yes,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the strip of ocean that I wish I could dive into and just disappear in. “And the hydrotherapy massages too.”

“Nearly double, Ms. Rhodes.”

“Oh, fuck me,” I choke out. “Please just email me the new quotes,” I say before hanging up the phone. I resist the urge to chuck my phone right off the balcony. Hanging up was rude but far more polite than what else was about to come out of my mouth.

* * *

I pulled my blow-up mattress into the bedroom and unpacked some stackable plastic storage bins that I placed on either side. It’s almost like I have a functional bedroom. Every time I sniffle, the wobbly mattress jostles me, making it impossible to rest. Maybe if I could stop crying, I could get some sleep.

Yanking the covers over my head, I listen to the hum of the television behind me. I set my flatscreen on the carpet and set it opposite of the bed, hoping that mindless reruns of my favorite sitcoms could lull me to sleep. But no such luck. The stress and tears have me wide awake. That, and the fact that it’s six-thirty in the evening.

Minerva, in all her psychic wisdom, used to tell me that when you’re safe in the eye of a perfect storm, watching everything you built get smashed to smithereens around you, it’s the universe taking charge. It’s destiny ripping apart the pieces you’re too afraid to let go of to build something so much better. I’ve been in the eye of the storm for a while now.

Nothing is getting better.

After I got off the phone with Mom’s treatment facility, I became manic. I hit my accounts hard and posted four videos across multiple accounts. One glitched, the rest tanked. Two hours of content creation down the drain. I checked my email, only to see an astronomical quote from Mom’s treatment facility and that Gamma cosmetics is shutting down their influencer partnerships for the foreseeable future. From the social media stalking I did on their main account, it appears like they landed a huge celebrity endorsement, meaning I lose a solid chunk of monthly income, and one of the richest reality TV stars in the world probably just pocketed what they consider to be valet tipping money.

The cherry on top to this dismal afternoon is that my troll found me. Now, they are Niopette_05. I’ve already blocked their accounts one through four. This time they got a little personal, sliding into my DMs with a slew of spite. Anyone with half a brain knows not to read the messages, but I’m in constant psychological warfare. Maybe if I can take the blows and stay standing, it means I can actually survive social media.

Most of the insults were low-hanging fruit. Their word weapons of choice wereugly, uneducated, a whore, a con artist. I’ve heard all that before. I’m embarrassed to admit that it was the last portion of their message that sent me under the covers:please don’t reproduce. The world doesn’t need more of you.

Congratulations, Niopette. You win. I won’t be reproducing.

Now, I can’t afford to go through with IVF. Mom’s well-being remains my priority. She gave me everything. Her back is a mess because she spent the better part of two decades scrubbing floors, waiting tables, working triples in whatever underpaid manual labor jobs she could find. All so I could have a semblance of a normal life with birthday parties, new clothes for school, even a car at sixteen. Sure, it was a clunker, but I drove to school while my mom took the bus to work. And I know in my heart right now that if she knew I wanted to get pregnant, she’d willingly spend the rest of her life in agonizing pain to see me happy.

My choice is made. Mom comes first and my window is closing. I’m going to have to fantasize about something other than a baby.

fourteen

“Ican’t believe we canceled our reservation at Nova for this,” Mona, my friend and New York real estate agent, says as she leans back into the park bench. The lamppost we’re seated by switches on, officially marking dusk in New York City. The glow of the lamp illuminates the bright red blush she’s wearing. Or maybe she’s flushed from the coronary we’re both about to have from devouring about a quart of cheese grease, each.

---