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1
HANNAH
It’s official. I hate my life.
Normally, I’m a pretty positive and happy person, but these last six months have been absolute hell. I feel like I’ve been dragged through the wringer then chewed up and spit out. Multiple, soul-crushing times.
With a weary sigh, I punch out on the clock in the diner’s back room, untie my apron and stuff it into my bag. I’ve been on my feet for the past eight hours and they’re aching because I’ve been running around like a mad woman, trying to serve customers and deal with being short-staffed all day. I can’t wait to get home and soak them. When the diner gets busy, it’s good because the time goes by fast, but it’s also bad because now I’m exhausted. Like bone-deep weary and I feel like I could sleep for an entire week. No, scratch that. I could sleep for a month. I’d planned to go through my mom’s things, but I don’t have the energy for it. Mentally or physically.
Last week, I lost my mom, my closest confidante and very best friend, to cancer. It’s the worst-damn disease and watching someone you love slowly lose her battle and waste away to nothing—into someone you barely recognize—is the most awful thing in the world. I wouldn’t wish the painful experience on my worst enemy.
God, I could use a break. Shoving my ponytail off my shoulder, I duck out the back door and it occurs to me that no matter how hard I work or how many extra hours I pick up, I won’t be able to pay back the money I borrowed any time soon. Hell, any time this century.
However, when your mother has cancer, but not insurance, a daughter does what she has to do. After hearing about my money problems, a friend at the diner, Ray the cook, connected me with a shady guy he knows who hooked me up with a loan. I didn’t think twice, just signed the dotted line on some papers, cashed the check and made sure my mom got the best care available. Treatment is insanely expensive and she battled hard for the better part of last year. Last week, hospice stepped in, provided the necessary painkillers and everything else she needed. After crying my eyes out, knowing there was nothing else I could do, I forced myself to say goodbye as she died.
Shit. The salty sting of tears threaten once again and I try to swallow them down. It’s impossible, though. I’ve been grieving since way before she died. Technically, since the terminal diagnosis. Of all the people to get lung cancer, why her? She never smoked a cigarette in her life. The sick irony of it all hits me like a sucker punch. Chemo and radiation only did so much for her. The cancer metastasized fast—from her lungs to her liver and finally, to her brain.
Swiping a tear off my cheek, I hustle across the street before the light changes to “do not walk.” Luckily, my apartment is only three blocks away, but my feet are screaming with every single step.
Almost there, I tell myself. Then you can soak your tootsies in a nice warm tub of sudsy bathwater. After that I’ll fall into my bed and temporarily forget all about my life and the humongous debt hanging over my head, weighing me down. It’s truly suffocating, but I had no idea who the loan shark was or the kind of man I was dealing with, only that I needed money fast. But Ray told me a few stories, after I borrowed the money, of course, about what happened to people who didn’t pay Dexter Creed back. No one has come looking for payment yet, but I’m so edgy and it feels like I’m living on borrowed time. And that’s a damn scary place to be.
Paranoia sets in and I force myself to speed-walk once I reach my block. The sooner I get safely in my apartment and lock the door, the better I’ll feel. All sorts of thoughts fill my head about movies where the person doesn’t pay back a loan shark on time. Mafia stuff where they send enforcers to warn them and they break their arms and legs. Or, they seal their feet in a block of cement and toss them off a boat so they can sleep with the fish. Hugging my arms across my chest, a shiver runs through me. And it isn’t because of the slight chill in the late spring air.
Normally, I love May. Everything is suddenly and completely alive again. The plants are green and the flowers are in full bloom. April’s rain showers have gone away and they leave so much beauty in their wake. It’s still not hot yet and I can open the windows and get a nice, refreshing breeze. I live in Brooklyn, so it’s not nearly as expensive or crowded as Manhattan, but it’s definitely come a long way from where it used to be.
However, I’m not feeling the beautiful May vibes right now. Instead, I keep looking over my shoulder because I have the strangest sensation that someone is following me. Yet, every time I’m brave enough to look back, there’s no one there. Just me and my overactive imagination. Which, I suppose, is a good thing.
I know someone will be coming, though. Very soon. My best bet is they give me more time and they let me work out a payment plan. I don’t see why that would be a problem, especially after I explain what happened with my mom and why I needed the money in the first place. It’s not like I blew it all on a shopping spree or bought extravagant items like a car or house. No, nothing selfish like that. I paid for my mom to be comfortable in her final days. Anyone with half a heart would cut me some slack and allow me some extra time to pay the debt off. Wouldn’t they?
Although after everything I’ve heard about Dexter Creed, I question if he has an actual heart.
As much as I’m hoping my lender will be sympathetic, I seriously doubt Creed cares a whit about my circumstances. Why would he? I’ve never met him personally, but I have heard plenty of rumors and hearsay—that he’s a cold, calculating businessman who doesn’t forgive or forget. And, still knowing this, I took money from him, anyway.
God. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t thinking. I was too lost in taking care of my mother and overwhelmed by sorrow because I knew I was going to lose her sooner rather than later.
And now here we are. She’s gone, but never forgotten. The money I borrowed—all fifty thousand dollars—is also gone. I used it to pay the hospital and the specialists for medicine and treatments. Then I used what little I had left to bury her. And, sadly, that wasn’t even enough.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pretend my life didn’t change so drastically in the last six months. If I hope and wish hard enough, maybe I can open my apartment door and see my mom inside. Somehow step back in time. She’d smile, ask me how my day was and tell me she’d baked cookies and that dinner would probably be almost ready.
Not anymore, though. Now, it’s just me. My dad took off when I was still a baby, so it’s always been just me and my mom. I think this is why her death has hit me extra hard. She was truly my best friend and, without her, my life is never going to be the same.
When I reach the old brick building where I live, I pause and dig down in my bag, searching for my keys. Returning to a dark and empty apartment sucks. It’s a little depressing to be all by myself, but what can I do? I’m not in the right place to try dating, so maybe I’ll get a cat. Not like I have a lot of options.
Snagging my keys off the bottom of my cluttered bag, I stick them in the lock and twist. The old door creaks open and I step inside. The building is old, but fairly well maintained. Well, kind of, anyway. Sure, it could use a fresh coat of paint and when it rains, it smells a little musty, but I’ve always felt safe and I’m appreciative of the nice neighbors. When my mom was sick, a couple of the women on my floor brought me dinner a few times. It was a kind gesture. Trust me, the last thing on my mind had been cooking, so their thoughtfulness touched me. It had been nice and not many people go out of their way to be nice anymore.
Granted, Liza Dixon is a bit on the nosy side, but she’s older and lives by herself. Without much going on in her own life other than her soap operas, game shows and two cats, I think she lives vicariously through the rest of us. She always knows what’s going on with everyone in the building and is a bit of a gossip.
Oh, God. I’m going to turn into Eliza Dixon. The thought hits me hard as I stop to open my mailbox. I’m going to be a lonely, old cat lady with no family, no prospects, no future. One day I’ll die and no one will even know. I suppose someone will stumble upon my corpse eventually but, by then, the cat may have already eaten my face off.
Ugh. That settles it, I decide, reaching into the narrow slot for my mail. No cat.
Shoving what mostly looks like ads and bills into my bag, I shut the mailbox and head toward the stairs. I’m on the second floor and tend to avoid taking the rickety elevator whenever possible. It’s shaky, breaks down more often than it runs, and I always have an overwhelming sense of doom every single time I step into that dimly-lit cab. I always get the overwhelming and awful feeling that the cables are going to snap or something and I’m going to plummet to my death. Although, I guess it’s safe to say I’d probably survive a drop from the second floor to the first. However, the way my luck has been going recently, I don’t want to chance it or tempt fate.
No, thank you. It’ll be the stairs for me.
Swinging my bag over my shoulder, I hike up the slightly uneven wooden stairs, trying to ignore my aching feet. No matter how comfortable my shoes were when I first put them on, nothing is comfy after running around in them for over eight hours. The stairwell seems to go up and up with no end in sight. When I finally reach the top, I let out a little sigh. Almost there. There’s not much in my fridge and I’m contemplating heading straight into a bath followed by bed. I’ve lost weight because of the extra stress and anxiety, but I don’t let myself splurge on food or going out to dinner. Ever. It’s just a luxury I can’t quite afford right now and that’s okay. I suppose I could eat that packet of Ramen noodles in my cupboard after I soak my poor tired feet.
