Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“Of course,” I reassure her, glancing over at my dad in his recliner. He has it fully cocked back, watching Wheel of Fortune, ignoring my mom and me. My mom immediately tries to defend him. “His back is terrible today, or else he’d do it.”
“I know, Mom,” I say gently, giving her a smile. Neither of us buys the excuse, but it’s the game we play every time I come to visit.
It sucks having parents who have seemingly turned old and infirm way before they should have. My parents are both disabled, yet only in their early fifties. My mom has chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, thanks to her years as a cotton textile factory worker. She’s never smoked a day in her life, but her lungs are shot. She’s dependent on oxygen now.
My dad has a bad back—worker’s compensation injury years ago—and while there are many things he can’t do, he can most definitely change out my mom’s small bottles of oxygen. It’s just a matter that he doesn’t want to, and, moreover, he knows I’ll handle it.
Honestly, I don’t mind, though. I love both of my parents—warts and all. My mom I hate to see suffering this way, because she was just always on the go and active. It kills her to sit in her house day in and day out, not being able to work or get out into the world as she wants.
My dad took to disabled life, not requiring much to keep him happy. As long as he had good TV to watch and a comfortable chair for his back, he was a satisfied man. While it doesn’t make him a bad person in my eyes, because I do indeed love him just as much as my mom, it just makes it glaringly apparent I got my drive and determination from my mother.
I come by several times a week to check on them. Each visit, I perform a household chore to keep their place clean and habitable. My mom doesn’t have the stamina to move around for more than a few minutes, and my dad doesn’t have the motivation.
“You need anything?” I ask my mom. “Want me to make you a cup of tea?”
She shakes her head, another smile. “I can totally do that myself. I just appreciate so much what you do for us, I’d never ask you to do for me what I can.”
“I love you, you silly goose,” I chide her, bending to kiss her cheek. “You raised me, which was no easy chore, so you should let me take care of you now.”
“You were a dream to raise,” she corrects. “Wasn’t she, Lyle?”
“Sure was,” he agrees, not even taking his attention from the TV. I glance at it, take in the tiled letters that Vanna White has revealed, and can see the answer clear as day. I won’t ruin it for my dad, though, and hold my peace.
“Okay, let me get the kitchen squared away, and I’ll get your bottle changed out,” I say.
This time her smile is grateful and apologetic. She hates me doing this for her, and I hate that she has to hate it. It’s not fair.
“Are you working tonight?” my mom asks before I turn away. Her expression is worried. “You work way too much.”
“No choice in that,” I mutter without any further explanation. My mom doesn’t need it. She knows that Caleb left me with a pile of debt when he… well, left me. What I don’t like is that she worries, so I say, “Actually… I got a new day job today. One that pays well enough I can ditch the Uber driving and blackjack dealing.”
“Really?” my mom exclaims, her eyes brightening. It takes so little to make her happy. “Tell me all about it.”
My dad actually shows some interest, taking the remote and muting the TV. His head swings my way. “Yeah… tell us all about it.”
And well, I’m actually kind of excited about it to be honest. This could be the start of an actual career for me if I can manage to find some joy in working for such an arrogant boor of a man. I’ve never been able to figure out what to do with the business administration degree I got six years ago. Could never determine my passion.
Still, it’s good news. I don’t have to work for Uber tonight, so I take a moment to chill with my parents. Plopping on the couch beside my mother, I tell my parents about my run-in with Declan Blackwood and how it netted me a job.
♦
“There she is,” Jeff calls as I walk into his bar. He grins from behind the worn wooden top while he mixes a highball. “You’re way overdue.”
Jeff Cordley is a high school classmate that had no higher ambition than to open up a bar. Which is a pretty big undertaking at just eighteen years of age. But with some seed money he had from his grandfather’s estate, he rented a dive location off the strip and set about making a friendly neighborhood bar the locals could hang out in away from the twinkling lights and tourists.