CHAPTER EIGHT
Kacey
“Hey, Ma,” I said on the phone. I still called home faithfully although I’ve done my best to hide where I’m from. After all, no customer wants to know that you’re from the ghetto in New Jersey, raised by a single mom in a hovel. Male clients want to pretend you’re an airline stewardess, someone sexy and mysterious who leads a glamorous life. In reality though, I was from an urban slum where gunshots rang out night after night.
“Kacey,” said my mom, wheezing slightly. “How’s life in the big city treating you?”
“It’s good, Ma,” I replied. I didn’t add that I’d barely come up with my rent money again. “How are you doing?” I asked.
“Good, good,” coughed my mom. With a worried frown, I shook my head. My mom really wasn’t sounding healthy. A couple years ago, she came down with severe asthma, probably from working in that cardboard factory for the last fifteen years. I spent a good chunk of my earnings paying for her medication and inhalers because the company’s health care plan was so terrible.
“How is your non-profit job?” asked my mom. I sighed. My white lies had grown to the point where I didn’t even know how to explain that I didn’t work at a non-profit, that I’d never worked at a non-profit, and actually danced in a club for cash instead. I mean, how do you tell your sick mom something like that?
“It’s good,” I mumbled, shame-faced. I was glad she couldn’t see me, there were tears stinging my eyes.
“Helping all those immigrants? President Obama has deported more people during his time in office than the past one hundred years combined,” she said, her voice sharpening for once.
That’s the thing about my mom. She’s actually incredibly well-read and intelligent, she just never had a chance in life. She got pregnant with me when she was sixteen by some sailor who disappeared, and her life kinda went downhill after that. She wasn’t able to finish high school, and without any family to help her out, we lived on welfare when I was a kid. Finally, my mom was able to land a stable job at the cardboard factory, and the state moved us into the projects. It sounds sad, but I was never so happy as to live in the projects because we had an apartment of our own, a step up from the shelter housing we’d been staying in.
“I know, Ma,” I said quietly. “The cases at the non-profit are really troublesome and sad.”
“And Kacey, have you started those law school applications yet?” my mom chirped, sounding brighter. “You know Auntie Grace offered to proofread your essays for you, she was an English major at UCLA.”
My throat tightened. My mom always wants the best for me, my current situation only underlining how far I’d fallen.
“Not yet, Ma, but I will,” I choked out. I wouldn’t be going to law school for a long time, but was too ashamed to tell my mom. Little did she know that I’d dropped out of City College to focus on dancing. I needed the money, and it was too hard to go to school, study, take the LSAT and apply to law school all the while stripping at the Donkey Club.
“Make sure you do, honey,” said my mom gently. “I hear law school applications have declined recently so this might be a good time to apply,” she continued. “You’re such a smart girl and we always stick together baby,” she reassured me. “I’ll find some way to help you pay for tuition, even if it means taking double shifts at the factory.”
“No Ma, don’t worry about it, I think there are tuition waivers for people who commit to careers in public interest, so it’s okay,” I said firmly. No way was my Mom going to work one more day than necessary in that stupid paper factory. It was killing her already, and I wanted her to retire asap.
“Well, keep your eye on the ball honey and you’ll get there,” she encouraged. “Are you still visiting next weekend?”
I smacked my forehead. Oh right, I’d promised to make the trek out to Newark next weekend. Dammit, it was going to be Fourth of July and guys usually tipped well on long weekends. But it was her birthday and I’d already promised to go.
“Yes, of course. Can’t wait Ma, see you then!” I said with fake cheer.
“Okay honey, I have a special surprise. I want you to meet my doctor, he’s been so good to me with this allergy stuff,” she started to wheeze.
Why would she want me to meet her doctor? I sighed. But I figured it was just easier to agree.
“Yes Ma, I can take you to an appointment, happy to drive,” I said. “Just take care of yourself in the meantime, okay?” I asked anxiously. I felt sad that my mom was alone in small, shabby apartment. I resolved to bring some flowers, or something colorful and nice. After all, she’d raised me against the odds and it was the least I could do.
But I could feel in my bones that something was off. And I only prayed that the doctor had good news for us … and not bad.