Page 47 of Leave It to Us
“Really, Yvonne? Is that what you think? Is it really me messing up just because I do something you don’t approve of? Damn, Yvonne! I get so tired of you complaining about everything I do, judging me according to one high-ass standard you and Mama set without any regard for who I am or what I might want for my life.
“That’s why I don’t come to the house to sit with Mama or go to any appointments with her. If you’re the only one who ever does anything right in her eyes, then you should be the only one she has to deal with. Lord forbid I force her to see me and all my failures,” Tami finished.
Yvonne was speechless. Her eyes had gone even wider with shock, and she yanked her hands away from Lana’s hold, clenching her fingers as rage seemed to bubble inside her. “You know what? You’re absolutely right. Why should you help take care of the woman who gave birth to you, who kept a roof over your head after your precious father left us? Why should you give a damn about anybody other than yourself?”
Yvonne stormed out of the kitchen before Tami could respond, and when Tami looked to Lana to give her the answer, her other sister just shook her head.
“I’m done with this tonight,” Lana said. “This shit is never going to be right between us, no matter who dies or how many houses we fix up.”
Chapter 18
YVONNE
Nowshewas the one with the headache.
Yvonne sighed as she came out of the en suite bathroom and walked over to her nightstand. When she was home in the city, she always brought a glass of water upstairs to her room in case she got thirsty in the middle of the night. Shealwaysgot thirsty in the middle of the night. In the weeks she’d been here on the island, she’d done the same, but since they’d packed away most of the dishes, she’d been bringing a bottled water upstairs with her instead. After opening the drawer, she pulled out the makeup bag she used to carry her medications. She sat on the side of the bed and put the bag beside her, dragging the zipper open slowly.
This was her morning routine—at least, it had been for the past year. She got out of bed, went to use the bathroom, washed her hands, and afterward, sat on the closed toilet seat to say her morning prayers. Then, after thanking the Lord for all the ways she’d been blessed, she reached for her medication bag. She had the steps memorized now, and even though she was in a different location—a different state, actually—this morning, she was about to do the same thing.
Because what else was she going to do? Not take care of herself? Not do the things that the doctors said she needed to do to remain as healthy as possible? The questions were a moot point; she knew she didn’t really have a choice.
Not in this, nor in anything else.
If she didn’t take care of herself, who would take care of her mother?
The throbbing stretched across her forehead, traveling behind her ears and down the back of her head. Stress headaches. She’d had them since she was a teenager, although she hadn’t known what they were called back then. All she’d known was that her head was hurting, so she’d take some aspirin and go on about her business. It wasn’t until her sophomore year in college when she’d felt dizzy after class that she’d gone to the nurse, who subsequently suggested she see her primary care doctor. That was the first doctor to tell her something more was wrong than just a normal headache. He’d explained other measures for her to relieve stress and recommended a specific over-the-counter medication instead of the generic aspirin she’d been taking since she’d lived with her mother.
For years, that had been all that was medically wrong with her. The hypertension diagnosis came when she was in her early thirties, right after she’d finished her master’s degree and begun applying for school principal jobs. Another pill had been prescribed for that. Then, last year at her annual exam, her doctor had informed her that she had type 2 diabetes.
Part of her had wanted to crawl into a corner and cry, because the last thing she’d wanted was to have to take more pills—and worse, the daily insulin shots. But that part wasn’t allowed to breathe, as she still had responsibilities. She had her job and all the people in that school who depended on her to do it well. And she had her mother, who depended on her for ... well, everything.
As she pulled the alcohol swabs and the insulin pen from her bag, she sighed. Now she had another thing to add to her list. Her sisterswere depending on her to see this renovation through to completion. They needed her here to do her part in helping to get this house ready for sale. But they didn’t need or want her for anything else. Tami had barely spoken to her in the last few days since their blowup after the impromptu pajama party, and anytime Lana wasn’t helping them with some task around the house, she was closed off in her room, doing who knew what.
She’d thought they could at least get through this renovation without alienating each other all over again, but she’d obviously been wrong.
Stress wasn’t kind to Yvonne. It manifested in not only the headaches but also in blood-pressure spikes and changes in her eating habits, which in turn messed with her daily blood-sugar numbers. And that would require more insulin and possibly other serious consequences. Closing her eyes to the thought, and the way she often felt helpless to fight against any of these circumstances, she whispered another prayer—this one for strength—because so often, she didn’t know how she would make it through a day on her own.
When that was done, she took a deep breath and began the process of taking care of herself first. She opened one of the alcohol swabs and then set it down while she removed the cap of her insulin pen. She swabbed the rubber stopper at the tip of the pen and then attached the needle. Tears sprang to her eyes as she moved through each step. Her vision was blurry as she checked the name and expiration date on the pen and then performed the test shot, waiting until she saw the drops of insulin spring from the needle tip.
By then, warm tears slid down her cheeks, and she sniffled, willing her hands not to tremble. Clearing her throat, she set her dosage on the dial at the opposite end of the pen and then opened the second alcohol swab. She pulled up the T-shirt she’d slept in and swabbed a spot on her stomach a few fingers away from her navel. Then she grabbed the pen inone hand and gripped the wet spot of her stomach in the other, quickly performing the injection before dropping the pen back to the bed.
Then she just sat there and cried.
Not because the injection hurt—she’d become used to that recurring pain in the last twelve months, just as she was used to the tips of her fingers feeling raw where she had to stick three times a day to check her glucose levels. No, the reason she cried this morning was totally different. It was a helpless cry, a cry of pity that Yvonne forced herself not to indulge in too often. But after these last few days, and especially after last night’s call, she couldn’t help it.
“Hello? Vonni?”
Her mother’s voice had come through low and slow a little after ten when Yvonne’s phone had rung.
“Hey, Mama. Is everything okay?” She’d sat straight up in her bed when she saw the name on the phone screen.
“No, but I guess it is what it is,” Freda had said in a gruff voice.
Breathing a sigh of relief because her mother didn’t sound any different than normal—thus, she believed there wasn’t a real emergency—Yvonne had dropped a hand to her lap and held the phone to her ear with the other one. “What are you doing up so late? Where’s Ms.Rosalee?”
“She’s in there sleepin’ on the couch. I told her she couldn’t lay upstairs in your bed or mine.”
Yvonne had rolled her eyes at that. She’d given Ms.Rosalee permission to sleep in her bed, but of course the woman would’ve done whatever Freda said. Everybody seemed to do what her mother told them to do. Except for her sisters.
