Page 3 of Betting Blind
I’m rewarded with a smirk. “He’ll be sending my alimony check any day now.”
“Keep dreaming!” I tease as I grab a blanket off the back of our old suede couch and cover her. None of our furniture particularly matches, but it’s all been handed down from different generations from both my mom and dad’s side. She sits in her usual corner of the living room in her recliner, beaming up at me, and my heart softens at the sight of her.
Despite her frail frame and obvious disability, she is gorgeous. Her brilliant green eyes are similar to mine and always analyzing. She stays sharp by reading and writing, doing puzzles, and keeping up with the news. She was a history teacher once upon a time, and the abundant knowledge she possesses sparkles in her eyes when she speaks. Her thick, graying brown hair is swept up above her head and wrapped around the pencil she always has handy for her sudoku puzzles.
“Good morning, Momma,” I say with a tender smile. Even after the wreck, becoming disabled, and losing the love of her life, she somehow still finds a way to see the positivity in life.
She uses her left arm to move her damaged right arm out of the way and leans forward to grab a glass of water off the small table beside her. I quickly move to help her, but she swats at my hand when I reach for the glass. “Quit your fussin’,” she scolds me. “I’m no lame horse.” I hide my smile at her stubbornness—a trait I inherited from her.
The wreck left her right arm and femur shattered and in need of multiple surgeries, which required the placement of metal rods, in addition to various plates and screws. We keep a wheelchair around in case I ever need to move her quickly, but she does fine with her cane, too. She tires out from the exertion of dragging her leg, and I’m constantly worried that I may come home and find her sprawled out somewhere with no one to help her—which was what prompted me to hire Deborah in the first place.
“I’ve got to go to work at nine today, but I’ve arranged for Deb to come over around one o’clock and get you some lunch.”
“Hmph.” She may complain, but I know she doesn’t mind. Deb and Momma are like cackling hens when they get together. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m fine, baby? You don’t need to center your entire life around me. I can manage on my own.” I start to interject, but she raises her good hand to cut me off. “First and foremost, you need to find a job that you love. I know Bruce has done a lot for us, but you’re not happy at that diner, and I know it. I want you to behappy,Cassidy,” she pleads. There’s no point in arguing with this woman. She knows me better than I know myself.
“I’m happy right where I’m at.” While I know she isn’t pleased by my response, I dismiss her disappointment with a kiss on the cheek and make my way back upstairs to get ready for my shift.
I pass the hanging letterbox on the wall right outside of the kitchen. It’s a catch-all for bills and coupons, and I stop to sift through it for a moment. There are at least fifteen different letters addressed toGlenda A. Smithwith red late notices stamped on the outside. The medical bills from her most recent surgery resemble lead in my hands, weighing them down as I try to sort through each one.
For years, she had a physical therapist who would come to the house and work with her, but when their company went under, Momma was left stranded. We’ve seen numerous surgeons and doctors for all sorts of problems she’s faced, like sciatica in her lower back, throbbing achy joints, painful hardware—and they’ve all told us the same thing: if she doesn’t stay active with therapy, then these issues are only going to worsen.
We’ve been trying out different companies and individuals for the last four months, but unfortunately for us, we’ve had zero luck in finding someone affordable or reliable. I finally resorted to looking up videos on the internet for her to at least have something to reference for the things she can do on her own, but ultimately, she needs a trained professional.
Up the worn, carpeted stairwell hang pictures of our family and distant relatives I’ve never met. I stop for a moment to admire a family portrait of my parents and myself. I trace my fingers lightly over Dad’s feathered blond hair and smile at what was surely known as a porn-stache back in the day. His eyes glitter with warmth, and though I’m a tiny baby in this picture, we appear blissfully happy.
I’m saddened that I have so few memories of him. From what Momma has always told me, he was an incredible father, husband, and friend. “I wish you could give me a little guidance,” I whisper to his smiling image.
Trudging the rest of the way up the stairs to my room, I drop the bills and notices onto the desk that sits against the far wall of my bedroom with a promise to get to them when I can. Just like last Friday, we’re sure to be swamped at the diner all day, only I’m hoping my evening doesn’t end with Juliana dragging me to another dive bar. I sigh; I’m already wishing for this day to be over, and it’s only just begun.
* * *
Ting. Ting. Ting. Ting. Ting.I slam my hand over the metal service bell on the front counter of Margie’s and narrow my eyes at the annoyance in front of me. A pudgy young boy, who appears to be about ten years old, is giving me a menacing scowl while his parents attempt to find their lost credit card to pay for their meal.
His mother reminds me of old pictures I’ve seen of my mom sporting the same feathered bangs and large-framed glasses popular in the late ’80s and early ’90s. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to inform her that her baggy mom-jeans are a trend better left in the past.
“Louis, honey, go get in the car with your father.” She gives me a tight-lipped smile as they turn to leave. She continues digging through her obnoxiously large bag, and I take the opportunity to quickly stick my tongue out at the boy. The look on his face to see a grown woman mocking him…priceless.
“I know I’ve got some cash in here somewhere—ah, there it is!” She hands me two crusty, crumpled-up twenty-dollar bills and meets my eyes expectantly.
I direct my attention away from her huge clip-on earrings and toward the red circle enveloping their total at the bottom of the receipt. Picking up the wrinkled bills in one hand, I rub the back of my neck with the other as I struggle to find the right words. “Your total is thirty-nine ninety-five, ma’am. Did you want to leave a tip?”
Her flat-blue eyes narrow to slits, and a muscle in her jaw tics. She leans over the counter slightly, gagging me with her perfume, and my eyes water with the stench of it. “You folks have some nerve letting illegals work around these parts,” she says just loud enough for anyone in earshot to hear. I half expect Jules to come flying across the counter from behind me, but she either didn’t hear her or can’t be bothered to care what this hateful woman thinks of her.
She stares at me for a long moment, daring me to counter her. When I don’t, she perks up, tapping the counter with her perfectly manicured nails. “Alright then,” she says with a smile so fake it would make Vanna White proud. “You have a real nice day, darlin’.” Adding a wink, she struts out of the diner, and I clench my fists so hard, my knuckles turn ghost white.
Juliana sidles up to me, shaking her head. “Oh, Cassidy, brush her off,” she says.
“No, Jules. She shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that! Didn’t you hear what she said?”
She nudges me with her elbow, trying to get me to relax and stop grinding my teeth so damn hard. “Yeah, so what? It’s nothing new. I’ve learned to let people like her have their misery; I’m going to keep being my awesome self.” She shimmies her chest back and forth toward me and a tiny grin finds its way to my lips.
Her laugh is loud and forceful, and I join her because I can’t resist. Watching her slip away back to her other tables, I take the woman’s dirty money and place it in the register. I’m certain this job is going to be the death of me.
Margie’s is an exact replica of a classic 1950s diner. Checkered flooring covers every square inch of the place, and gaudy blue plastic scattered with glitter covers every seat. I swear I hear the tiny bronze bell above the door in my sleep. This whole setup is ridiculous if you ask me, but it’s what Bruce likes, and it’s a staple in our town. If someone travels through this way, they are guaranteed to stop at Margie’s for some homemade, authentic southern classics.
Jules is a sight to behold as she effortlessly flits from one table to the next. We’ve always made a good team because she brings the party while I bring the smarts. She can take on six tables at a time like it’s nothing, but she’s shit at math, so I’m usually the one working the register and divvying up the tips at the end of our shift. I tend to mother everyone around here, and Bruce has always said I’d make a great boss one day.
Bruce is the sole reason we’ve stuck it out here this long. It doesn’t take much more than a few batted eyelashes, and the man is putty in our hands. Not to say that we take advantage of him, but it does make it hard to leave when we have such a caring and understanding boss.
