Page 11 of Botched

“We’re…your father may need more care than we can provide, Aurora,” she finally says.

I know what she’s getting at. Dad should be somewhere better than this. Mission Health Rehabilitation is a good rehab center for patients who are recovering after a stroke. Except Dad’s been having complications during his recovery. He’s not progressing like the doctors expect. He needs more personalized care, something that Mission Health can’t give him.

Money is a problem, though. Everything’s been paid for with his barely-there savings, and the money I manage to save up between wrestling and working at the bakery. The money is dwindling to the point where I’m worried about how I’m going to continue paying for everything.

“I know. Thank you,” is all I say to Janet before I slip into his room.

More white. White walls, white tile floors that are scratched to hell and back. The hospital bed is white, the sheets are white – atleast his blanket is a faded shade of blue. A few more washes and I worry that it’ll also turn white or fall apart completely.

A glance at the TV makes me scoff. “Did Catherine put the news on for you?” I ask, knowing full well that Dad can’t respond. He hasn’t responded for months now.

I pull up one of the torn, red leather chairs—a point for them not being white—and put it by his bedside. Dad’s eyes barely track my movements. They almost flick toward me before going back straight ahead.

His blond hair has been freshly combed away from his face. He has a few days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. I need to talk to Janet about that before I leave. Dad never liked having stubble. He’s always been clean-shaven.

“I promise I’ll put your movie on in a minute. There’s something I want to tell you.” I reach out and grab one of his hands. I feel the warmth, a reminder that he’s still there, but he doesn’t squeeze my hand back. That’s okay. He’s still my dad.

“I did it. Sort of. I got noticed by GRW. They want me to be pay-per-appearance right now, but it’s a start. I’m going to be on TV, pushed into some storyline that I haven’t heard anything about yet. But I’m going to prove to them that I’m worth it. Nathan’s going to have no choice but to offer me a damn good contract. I’m going to pay for the best care possible, and you’re going to get better. Then you’re going to come watch me. Front row. Like we always planned.”

Tears threaten to sting the corners of my eyes. This isn’t how I imagined telling him this. I imagined telling him over dinner and seeing Dad’s eyes light up because he gets to see me come closer to reaching my dreams. I don’t get that.

I blink back my tears. Seeing me cry stresses him out, and I don’t want to stress him out.

“You’re going to be able to see me on TV, so make sure you tell Catherine or Janet to turn GRW on on Tuesdays, okay?”

I almost laugh at myself; I’ll just leave them a note.

Leaning down, I press our interlocked fingers to my forehead. “I… I did it, Daddy,” I whisper. “I did it.”

Okay, no crying. Pull it together.After sucking in a few deep breaths and squeezing my eyes shut, I manage to get my shit together. When I look back up at Dad, I smile. “Okay, we can watch your movie now.”

Grabbing the remote to the TV, I flip to the output for the DVD player. With another press of the button,The Chainby Fleetwood Mac starts. It’s the one thing I know makes him happy these days. It doesn’t matter how many times we watch it. Something flashes in my dad’s eyes as I settle back in the uncomfortable chair, pulling my knees up to my chest and still holding his hand as we watch the concert movie together.

Chapter Nine

THEODORE

My feet are propped on Nathan’s desk. Occasionally, his eyes shoot me a look of complete annoyance, but he doesn’t open his mouth. His eyes flick away from me and go back to his computer, likely reading emails or planning to jerk off to the praise people shower him with online:Nathan’s such a good booker.Nathan’s been amazing at making sure stories have a payoff.

What-the-fuck ever. As if any of the good ideas belong to him. They all belong to us. Nathan just approves them and takes all the damn credit.

We’re in Burlington, Vermont this week. It’s Aurora’s first show. I’m surprised Nathan went ahead with it that quickly. I know she’s good, but I didn’t think she was ‘put on national television without a tryout’ kind of good. I also don’t really care too much because this works better for me in the end. My feet tap against the hardwood of the desk, my dress shoes shining under the fluorescent lighting.

Then a knock echoes through the small, make-shift office. Both Nathan and I perk up.

“Come in,” he calls.

The door swings open and Aurora walks in. She’s being a suck-up, wearing a GRW t-shirt that clings to her curves and a pair of leggings that do the same. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

I don’t pull my feet off of Nathan’s desk, but I let the shitty chair turn towards her so I can offer a little wave.

It throws her off. Those intense green eyes look briefly confused, but she tries to push past it. She focuses her gaze on Nathan instead of me.

“Hi, I’m Aurora.”

“She prefers ‘Rory,’ which just sounds very dumb, if you ask me,” I chime in.

Nobody asked me.

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