Page 9 of Castaway Whirlwind
Layla - 3 years later
After nine years since starting my period, I’ve found a doctor who’s willing to listen to me instead of blowing off my pain, and I’m scheduled for laparoscopic surgery two weeks from today. Depending on what the surgeon finds, I’ll have my official endometriosis diagnosis, and we’ll know how severe it is.
On top of the student loans I’ve started paying back for my first two and a half years of college before I had to drop out, I’ve had to dip into my savings too many times to repair my car since buying a new-to-me reliable car is something I can’t afford right now. Add in the hikes in rent, health and auto insurance premiums, and the general cost of living, it’s beenhard, to say the least.
But, finally, the finish line is within sight. Having worked at Granny’s for several years and any other odd job I can find on the side, I’ve saved enough money to not only pay the high copay the hospital requires before they’ll even perform my surgery, but also cover my half of the bills while I take time offfrom work to recover.
So of course within two days of each other, not only does Steven total his sports car after another vehicle “came out of nowhere” when he was zooming down the interstate and swerving around other vehicles too fast, but I also get a call from the hospital that my insurance denied the prior-authorization for my surgery, which was canceled, claiming it’s not “medically necessary” and that I haven’t explored enough—aka,cheaper—treatment options.
I have never felt more defeated than I do now after speaking to the hospital’s billing department and being given only an estimated out-of-pocket cost. Four figures if the “elective” surgery is quick and easy and I’m able to go home the same day. Potentially five figures if it’s more severe and requires any overnight hospital stays. With my luck, I’m betting on the latter, which would require missing more work than I can afford to as well.
I’m slow as molasses, trying not to cry at the diner when half of my tips depend on a bubbly personality. It’s also a battle to not yawn in front of Russell when he’s seated in my section at five o’clock in the morning, working my sixth twelve-hour shift in a row after begging Harold for more hours.
I fill his coffee mug and set the pot down on the table, along with a small carton of the protein shake he likes to use as coffee creamer that I keep stocked in the employee refrigerator for him. “Good morning, Russell,” I say, holding my notepad, waiting a beat to see if he’ll say it back. He doesn’t. “The usual?”
Russell nods, his hands wrapped around his steaming mug, staring down at his coffee as if he can read the future in it. He hasn’t looked me in the face or said more than a few words to me since I threw up in his office and bled all over his truck. Idon’t blame him. He still leaves me outrageous tips, and I still have to return them to him. And when I do, he’ll point to his office or some other part of the warehouse, and I get to cleaning and organizing.
It’s a system that works well, allowing me to keep his money without taking advantage of him. So I don’t push him for more conversation. Don’t tell him that it hurts to feel invisible around him. I don’t tell him that I miss hearing him call medarlin’the way my dad used to. Haven’t told him that when he held me and tried to take me to the hospital, it was the first time I’d felt like someone really, truly understood and cared about my problems.
After my shift at the diner, I head to BT to clean the warehouse’s employee breakroom, earning the one hundred dollar tip Russell left for me. When that’s done, I heft a large box into Russell’s office, then go back out to my car and return with a couple plastic grocery sacks with my purchases from the dollar store and the new mini coffee maker I bought.
I kneel on the floor after taking a box cutter from Russell’s desk drawer and dumping everything out. Carefully reading through the instructions several times, so tired that I can barely comprehend the words, I start assembling the wooden pieces of the coffee bar with several drawers together.
Russell swings open the side door, making me jump just as I finish pushing the furniture into the far left corner next to his filing cabinet. He comes to an abrupt stop with his hands on his hips. “What are you doing?”
I plug in his coffee maker, then fill the top drawer with a few different sized mugs, two reusable tumblers, and a two-hundred-pack of coffee filters. “The coffee Jared stocks in the breakroom is nasty. This is your favorite blend, right?” I ask,holding up a bag of ground coffee beans.
His lips are set in a grim line when his gaze flicks from the coffee bar to the mess I left on the floor. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
I blink back a few tears of exhaustion and start emptying the top drawer into one of the plastic bags, having to force the words out when I say quietly, “Sorry. I, um, don’t think I can return the furniture, but I can take the rest back.”
He moves closer. “Stop.”
I drop my arms and hang my head.
He takes the bag from me, sets it on his desk, pulls his wallet from his back pocket, then tries to hand me another hundred dollar bill. When I refuse to take it, he shakes the bill and asks with an impatience he usually only reserves for other people, “Why won’t you ever let me help you?”
This is the longest conversation we’ve had in years and, of course, he’s annoyed with me.
“I’m engaged, and you’re not my dad,” I say in a flat voice. “It’s not your job to help me.”
His mouth tightens. “Well, Steven’s doing a shi-oot job of it. Look at you,” he bites out, waving at my face, finding fault in my appearance. He might as well have slapped me and knocked me sideways.
Swiping the tears I can no longer hold at bay, I dig my keys out of my tote bag and speed toward the lobby door.
He darts in front with his hands up to stop me. “I didn’t mean it that way, Layla. You’re beautiful,” he lies by way of apology, his voice distressed, trying to make me feel better. “It’s just that you’re so pale, and the dark circles under your eyes—”
I swerve around him without a word, staring at my sneakers,then drive home on autopilot, praying my car doesn’t stall on the side of the road. In the morning, when I get ready for work, I pull up a video online and follow the tutorial on how to better apply my concealer and bronzer.
* * *
I’m floored when I find a new model silver sports car in my driveway with temporary tags from the dealership, praying it belongs to one of Steven’s friends who drove him home after work.Please, please, let it belong to one of his friends.
The screen door accidentally slams closed behind me when I enter the house, swinging my eyes around, hoping Steven isn’t alone. But he is, and my stomach drops to my feet.
“Tell me you didn’t buy a brand new car,” I plead to Steven, who is seated on the brown pleather sofa with a beer in his lap, watching football on the seventy-five-inch TV screen I told him was way outside of our budget, but that he purchased anyway.
He takes his eyes off the screen for a millisecond. “Chill, woman. It’s not a big deal.”
