Page 42 of Purple Hearts

“Don’t freak out,” I said, as quiet as a little girl. “But I might have one now. A safety net.”

“Like what?”

I swallowed, and lifted my hands. “I got married.”

“What?”

I found myself stepping away, scared, though the top of her poufy black hair came only up to my chin. Her cheeks flared red. “To who?”

I stammered quickly, “His name’s Luke Morrow. He’s a private in the army. We’re not in love, we did it for the benefits.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Are you serious? How long have you been planning this?”

I extended the time period, though it hardly made it seem more reasonable. “A week.”

“A week.” She stood frozen for a moment, staring at the floor. Then she started peeling off her latex gloves.

“It’s one thousand dollars extra a month and free health care! You saw the hospital bill after all that diabetes testing.”

More silence. She started fixing up the rolled sleeves of her polo. My gut burned.

“Wow, Cassie.” She gave me a closed-lip smile, and turned away. “Wow. Every day you surprise me.”

“Sorry I didn’t invite you. It was yesterday, kind of quick.”

She tossed her gloves in the trash, and slammed the lid closed. I jumped. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I’m doing this for you, so you don’t have to help me.”

“What you could do for me is get a stable job.”

“It’s health care and extra money every month. And it’s happening right now. Do you know how long it took me to get that paralegal job in the first place? And then it took three months for my crappy benefits to kick in.”

“But, Cassie, you’re lying to the army!”

“Couples do it all the time. We’ve got a story...”

She laughed, bitter. “What did you do, find him on the street?”

“He’s Frankie’s friend.”

Mom stepped toward me again, saying through clenched teeth, “Frankie Cucciolo?” I nodded. “Do George and Louise know?”

Mom still got together with Frankie’s parents for dinner every once in a while. I was tempted to tell her yes. Maybe if Louise approved, she would go easier on me. But I couldn’t lie.

“Why would I tell George and Louise?”

“Thank God.”

I started speaking to her like the doctor had spoken to me when I was diagnosed. Like someone being talked down from a ledge. “It’s very temporary. We have a schedule. We have a shared account. We’re going to get divorced when he comes back from overseas.”

Except now I felt like I was the one on the ledge, trying to convince my mother it was a good idea to jump. She’d never reacted this way before. Not when I told her I was going to college in California, not when I told her how much I was going to take in loans, not when I told her I was moving back in with her with nothing to contribute but a manic postgrad bitterness and a critical theory degree.

Mom sat down at the kitchen table. “This is insane.”

“Well, so is drowning in debt,” I said, shrugging her off. “Even when I was a paralegal. Even when I wasn’t sick. You can’t blame me for trying something different.”

Mom shook her head, breathing deeply, like she was trying to cleanse herself of what she just heard. “Not if it lands you in jail.”

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