Page 10 of Haunted

I thought I’d buried the name, along with the man, nine years ago after he committed suicide inside his prison cell. Apparently, I was mistaken.

His motherfucking legacy continued to haunt me from the grave.

Henley

“I don’t see a reason to change your medication at this point,” Susan, the nurse practitioner at the Ritter Park free clinic, stated while clicking away on the keyboard of her mini laptop. “From what you’ve told me, you haven’t had a hypoglycemic incident this severe in some time. How often are you checking your blood sugar?”

My cheeks flamed, shame and an ounce of anger smacking against them like a slap to the face. Up until a few weeks ago, the answer to her question would have comeeasily. Three times a day. However, when my scholarship to Marshall was ripped away, I lost everything.

The one and only time I looked into getting health insurance, I nearly choked at the—so called—affordable cost. Since living out of my car once winter settled over Huntington didn’t seem like a viable option, I made an impossible choice. Saving up enough money to rent a cheap apartment overrode the need for medication.

“I haven’t been able to get the test strips in a while.”

She stopped typing, her kind eyes lifting to meet mine.

“What about the Lantus and glipizide? Have you been taking them regularly?”

Glipizide was a pill used to help the pancreas produce insulin, a hormone which lowered the amount of sugar in the blood, while Lantus was a daily injection and was a long acting insulin, since my body didn’t create enough.

“No,” I whispered.

I knew it was monumentally stupid, but I’d been rationing them both for the past month, only taking them every couple of days and not at their prescribed dosages. It was risky—potentially, even deadly—to self-medicate, but I figured a little here and there was better than nothing at all.

“I’m not here to judge, Henley.” She sat her computer to the side and folded her hands in her lap. “There’s a reason I chose this profession and it wasn’t for the paycheck I receive each week. I care, plain and simple. So, let’s you and me figure out how we’re going to successfully manage your diabetes.”

An hour later, I felt lighter, more in control than I had in a long time. Susan wanted to closely monitor my blood sugar levels over the next week or two before deciding whether or not to resume the Lantus. She excused herself from the exam room, only to return moments later holding atote bag filled with a new glucometer, a box of test strips, and a ninety-day supply of glipizide—all of which had cost me nothing, except my pride. After thanking her profusely, I left the clinic and began the three-block walk to the diner for my afternoon shift.

Over Easy wasn’t just a job, a means to an end, it was my sanctuary. The owner, Shirley Rae, along with two other waitresses, Betsy and Mitzy, who’d worked there since the place opened twenty-five years ago, took me under their wing. They reminded me of the women from the show Mom and Nana used to watch,The Golden Girls, though I was pretty sure Mitzy would’ve given Blanche a run for her money. At fifty-seven years old, the woman was a shameless flirt.

Making friends was something which never came easily for me, but with these three women it was as effortless as breathing. Although, it may have had something to do with the fact they never gave me any other option. The day I was hired, they welcomed me with open arms and a shot of Betsy’s home-brewed, apple pie moonshine. When my world crumbled to the ground around me, they did the same, even though they didn’t know the details.

Opening the wood-framed glass door, I stepped through the archway into utter chaos.

“Thank God you’re here,” Shirley exclaimed as she rushed by carrying two pots of coffee. “The new girl was a no-show.”

The diner was filled to the brim with customers, including a few who sat on a bench off to the side waiting for a table to open up. There was a line four people deep at the cash register, where Mitzy was furiously stabbing at the keys on the old machine, ringing up their meals.

“Move your tush, Henley,” Betsy called out from across the room.

Taking my cue, I weaved through the tables, pushing through the swinging door which led to the kitchen area. Sal, Shirley’s husband and full-time cook, mumbled a greeting as he flipped burgers on the griddle, beads of sweat dotting his bald head.

“Afternoon, Sal,” I returned.

Grabbing my apron off one of the hooks lining the wall next to the office, I quickly replaced it with my purse and tote before trotting back out front to help sort through the melee.

The soft hum of eighties music playing through the speakers on the ceiling blended perfectly with the low rumble of conversations going on around me as I cleared the first table of dirty dishes. Once finished, I moved to the next, my body on autopilot after years of the same routine.

“How’d your appointment go?” Mitzy questioned, seating a couple at the booth I’d, moments before, finished cleaning.

“Really good.”

The day after my stint in the hospital, I showed up for work, looking a little worse for wear. They’d taken one peek at me, cornered my ass into a booth, and wouldn’t let me out until I spilled the beans. Of course, they’d known all about my diabetes for years, as it was nearly impossible to keep a secret from those three, but I’d led them to believe it was under control. To say they were pissed would have been an understatement. I couldn’t imagine what they’d do when they discovered my living arrangements. All hell would undoubtedly break loose, but that was a worry for another day.

“Have you eaten today?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What did you have?”

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