Page 4 of Heartsick & Lipsticks
SKYE
“I thinkmy boyfriend is cheating on me. Should I go through his phone?”
I rolled my eyes and did my best to tune out the podcast Callie, my fourteen-year-old, had requested Alexa play. I hoped that she’d lose interest in the relationship-slash-advice show that was told from both the male and female perspectives, mainly because I thought the male on the show was an asshat.
My opinion of him was based solely on the execution of his advice. I agreed with his take on things. It was just thewayhe said it that rubbed me the wrong way. It was comically obvious that Nick, the male cohost, suffered from main character syndrome. He was the hero in every story and loved the sound of his own voice. Which I supposed made him good at his job but really rubbed me the wrong way.
“Tabitha, if you feel like you need to go through his phone, then you should talk to him.” Nick fielded the question first. “There’s clearly an issue there if that’s where your mind is going. Suspicion is either based in insecurity on your part or in reality and something is actually going on. Just ask him. I think upfront and honest is always the way to be.”
“I disagree,” Selena Grace, the female cohost, replied. “If you tell him you’re suspicious, then he has time to cover his tracks.”
“Cover his tracks? That sounds like you have some serious trust issues,” Nick replied. “If you are with someone that you worry is covering their tracks, I would say the relationship is already over. Either trust him or end it.”
This was the perfect example of me agreeing with his point of view in theory but not with his delivery. He didn’t have to be so blunt. The world wasn’t quite as black and white as he made it out to be.
I did my best to tune out the podcast and tried to go into my place of zen. Today was the first day of my two-week vacation. It was a staycation where I had planned dental appointments, home repairs, and a lot of Netflix binges. But first on the agenda were home repairs.
I grabbed the wrench from my toolbox as I lay on my back under the sink and tightened the wing nut. When I did, it stripped, causing water to spray in my face.
“Pft!” I sputtered as I turned and reached behind my head to turn the valve off.
The plumbing in this building was horrific, and getting the property management company to fix anything was, pardon the pun, a pipe dream. There was no central heat or air. The walls were paper thin, and I was in an ongoing war with the cockroaches who had taken up residency and were battling me for squatter’s rights.
But it was a rent-controlled three bedroom apartment in San Francisco with a secure parking space in the underground garage. Since I didn’t feel like sharing a room with either my mother, who lived with me full time, or my teenage daughter, and I had a vehicle in a city where parking could easily cost the same or more as rent for a studio apartment, this was home.
I sat up and was wiping my face when a familiar ring tone sounded over the advice podcast. When I looked down at my phone and saw it was my supervisor calling, my heart sank.
I knew that Sonja wouldn’t call me on vacation unless it was important. I picked up the phone expecting to hear that one of my patients had passed. As a hospice nurse, the outcome wasn’t surprising. But even after twelve years in the field, I still felt the loss of each and every one. My brain flipped through all of my current patients. I had fourteen, and two were in their final days. I hoped it wasn’t Brian, his daughter wasn’t going to be able to fly back from the UK, where she was attending school for another week because of finals. I’d thought for sure that he’d be able to hold on.
“Turn it down.” I called out to Callie before I answered the phone. “Hey, Sonja.”
“Hey Skye, I know you’re on vacation, but I have an emergency continuous care assignment.”
“Sonja, I don—”
“Before you say no, just hear me out. First of all, it’s an emergency. Reba’s husband had a stroke last night.”
“Scott? Is he okay?” I’d worked with Reba for about six years. She’d moved from Austin, Texas, to the Bay Area for her husband’s job. He worked in tech. The couple had four sons, two of whom were still at home and two who were in college.
“He’s stable, but she needs to take time off.”
“What about Leslie?”
“Leslie is covering your patients while you’re out, and she’s still part-time because of the baby.”
Right. I’d forgotten that she’d only come back part-time after having Henry.
“It’s triple pay.”
“Triple pay?” Nights, holidays, and overtime were time and a half or sometimes double time. I’d never had a pay rate triple before. “What insurance approved that?”
“It’s not covered by insurance. It’s being paid out of pocket.”
“By who? A millionaire?”
“No,” she stated flatly. “A billionaire.”
In hospice, we cared for people from all different walks of life. I’d treated people who lived on the streets and people who lived in mansions. I’d had more issues with people with money questioning every move I made and every piece of advice I gave. They always had a friend they wanted to run things by. And when I was unable to do something they wanted, they were always the ones who threatened to get me fired. I would never classify all wealthy people in one broad stroke, but from my personal experience, they were the most difficult to treat.
