Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I’ll consider other options to save my eyesight later. Right now, I need to focus on the two big pots cooking on the stovetop, one with rice and one with black beans, which is the one I move to stir now. I’ve also got huge foil packets of seasoned chicken, peppers and onions, and pineapple on the Blackstone griddle out back. “You want to hang out a bit and take a plate?” I offer, never stopping my constant motion of stir-season-stir. “I’ve got pineapple on the menu,” I sing playfully, knowing it’s one of her favorites.
Nessa and I met when I was doing my own grocery shopping and she was completing a list for an online service. After a bit of talking while we walked the aisles together, we made arrangements for her to work off-app and do my daily shopping and delivery for a flat fee. Since then, we’ve become close friends, talking every morning, and she occasionally lets me feed her lunch. More rarely, she lets me send a plate with her for her mom, who she takes care of in the evening when her sundowning gets to be too much for her daytime aide to handle.
“Thanks, but I’ve gotta run. Kathy already made me late, I need to be home by three, and my goal for the day is three-fifty. Minimum.” Her eyes are jumping around almost as much as her hands, telegraphing that she’s nervous about that goal.
“Let me help get you on your way, then.” I pull my phone from my back pocket, stirring the rice now with my other hand. A few clicks, and I pay Nessa’s invoice, plus tack on a little something extra. Her phone dings, and she glances at it.
“Girl, W-T-F? You don’t have to do that. I wasn’t begging for handouts,” she argues. She’s a hardworking hustler, but she’s proud and doesn’t want charity. To be honest, I can’t afford to be charitable. But in this case…
“Call it an annoyance fee for Kathy’s shit. I can’t do it every day, so if we need to figure something else out for deliveries while she’s getting the pool done, let me know.”
She shakes her head, grabbing an end piece of leftover pineapple off the cutting board. “Nah, now that I know, I’ll plan accordingly. Might move you up on the schedule, though, so that I’m out of here before the swarm descends.”
It’s not a question, but I nod, anyway. “Yeah, of course. I’m always up, so whenever you want to come by. Anytime, day or night.” I’m not only talking about when she makes deliveries now, but when she needs a friend.
Nessa and I both have complicated families, hers more so than mine in some ways. While my mother takes care of my father for the most part, Nessa doesn’t have that luxury. Her mom has early onset dementia and requires constant supervision, so while the aide is there, Nessa works her ass off to support them. And when the aide leaves, Nessa works her ass off to keep her mom safe. She takes zero time for herself, something I understand because I’m the same way. I’m up before dawn to prep beans, rice, and whatever long, slow cooks I’ve got for the day. As soon as Nessa arrives, I move on to veggies. Then, I’m cooking and serving lunches. After the rush, I clean up and plan for the next day, crashing early because I’ve got to do it all again tomorrow.
I think we’re besties partly because anyone else would give up on us as a friend. But we understand each other. We get that hard work is the only way forward sometimes, especially for people like us who are struggling every day to make ends meet and keep the proverbial fires from getting so big they burn us to ash.
“Thanks,” Nessa says, pressing her lips together as she fights the emotions she doesn’t have time to deal with right now. Is she touched about the extra money? Or the offer of emotional support? Probably a mix of both. “Last night was better. I think the new meds and music therapy are helping.”
Nessa’s usually pretty matter-of-fact about her mom’s health, which isn’t something that can be cured, but rather, has to be managed as best as she can. Still, I hope her assessment of the meds and therapy is true and not wishful thinking.
“Good, I’m glad!” I inject excitement into my voice, even though I’m still worried about both Nessa and her mom. She’s walking toward the door, so I drop the lid back on the rice and follow her. “Get that money today, girl. And watch out for the guys next door.”
Now that we’re by the open door, I can hear machinery running and men yelling out to each other. Maybe new customers, at least temporarily?