Chapter 1

1

SERENA

M y heart hammers faster as I read the notification on my phone. I look up in disbelief and meet Caylee's eyes.

"I passed. Look!" I show her my screen.

"Passed? You got a freakin' 94%. You were afraid you wouldn't pass. Meanwhile, it looks like I'm taking medical terminology again next semester. Quit waving your score under my nose. It's like you're dancing at my funeral."

She rolls her eyes heavenward and returns the favor, showing me the notification of her posted exam grade. Hers is not a passing score. I don't know what to say. We met when we started the nursing program at the same time. She's funny and sweet, and we sit together when we're in the same class. I'm not sure how to reassure her to keep trying. This is the second final exam that she's failed.

"Be honest, you bombed the test on purpose so we can finish together, cause you know I have to take a semester off, right?" I say as lightheartedly as I can.

"Yeah. That's me, such an awesome study buddy that I sat down for the test and forgot every word I ever knew. I even blew the multiple choice. You'd think I could guess better than that after three semesters of classes," she says with drooping shoulders.

"Hey, you'll retake it next semester, show them who's boss. We meet back here in the fall and pick up where we left off, right?" I say brightly.

"Serena, I swear to God," she says, "I have no clue how you look on the bright side all the time. If I tank one more final, my parents are gonna stop paying my tuition. I have to get it right."

"Call me if you want me to quiz you on anything. I've saved all my notes. I'll scan them and send them to you if you want," I offer.

"Ugh. You're so nice," she groans and hugs me. "You'll text me, right? I'm gonna miss you."

"Of course I am, and it's just one semester."

"How many breaks have you taken for your old man so far?"

"In nursing or in life?" I joke weakly. "It's no big deal. I've got time and he needs my help right now. I love my dad."

"You must. You're like the model daughter. My parents would trade me for you in a heartbeat."

"No way!" I say loyally, "they love you for who you are."

"They're ready to cut me loose, and I'll have to give back-alley Botox injections to make ends meet. I'll be sitting in my car with the windows down and a little sign that says, ‘unlicensed Botox & fillers, no ID, cash only' and make my patients hold a flashlight so I can see where to stick the needle."

I can't help but laugh. "It's not going to come to that, I know it," I say.

"I'll have to get a regular job. Cause you won't catch me using my hard-earned degree to clean bedpans for minimum wage that's for sure."

"You can do this. We both can. Text me, okay?" I say and hurry to my car. I don't want to be late for my shift as a nurse's assistant.

I rush into the hospital and duck into the locker room and change into scrubs, pull my hair into a tight ponytail. I take extra care scrubbing my hands and under my short nails even though I wear exam gloves for practically everything. I stow my purse, clip on my ID and go to the nurse's station for my schedule. After I greet Lara, the charge nurse for this shift, I see that I'm changing cath bags and helping a lady learn to change her ostomy bag.

"Then you can clean out 617," Lara says, "and take everybody some fresh water, check their output."

"Will do," I say.

My brightest smile is in place as I go to see Mr. Webster and change out his catheter bag. I remind myself to check his tubing and make sure he's not lying on it again. Just as I finish up in there, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I remove my gloves, drop them in the proper trash can, and slip into the restroom to check my phone. It's my dad and he's left a voicemail. When I listen to it, my hand goes to my chest involuntarily like those women in old movies who gasp and clutch their pearls when they get shocking news. I wish this were just a movie I was watching.

I shut my eyes. To my shame, my first thought is, they're going to fire me for this one. I can't even keep a job doing the grunt work of a hospital unit part time, because I leave my shift. I hate that I'm not dependable, and this firing will follow me to the next job I try so hard to get and keep. I'm sick about it. I remind myself that my dad took care of me, and it's my turn to take care of him when he needs me.

Stomach twisting in knots, I tell Lara in a rush what's going on. I say I'm sorry about eight times, but the grim line of her mouth tells me that sorry isn't going to cut it this time. I grab my stuff from my locker and don't bother changing out of my scrubs. When I get home, I throw the car door open before I've even shifted into park.

He's exactly where I know he'll be. Sprawled in a kitchen chair because it's the first seat he came to when he walked in from the garage. He doesn't go to the bathroom to clean up or even the couch to get comfortable. It's the kitchen chair, head thrown back, legs flung wide, dried blood on his face. His location is where the similarities end. This isn't like the other times. Nothing prepared me for how bad he looks.

He's lost money on cards and horse races, on Super Bowl point spreads and March Madness brackets. My dad's tried handicapping the vice-presidential nominations and everything in between. I've never seen him this beaten up, both eyes swelling shut, blood matting his hair on one side near the temple. Too near the temple. I drop to my knees beside him.

"Daddy?" I say, my voice shakier than I'd like it to be, scared despite my medical training. He stirs and makes a noise. He flexes his left hand, hanging down beside him, as if reaching for the phone he dropped after calling me. "I came as fast as I could. Can you open your eyes for me? What happened?"

As I grab paper towels to clean some of the blood off him, and an ice pack from the freezer for the swelling distorting his still-handsome face, I run through my options. I have four hundred dollars, and that's all. My next paycheck will be my last for a while since HR is probably drawing up a letter of termination even now. I won't mention any of that to him. No reason to worry him when he's already down on his luck. I grab a towel and run warm water in a plastic bowl.

I try to assess if he's bad enough we need to go to urgent care or not. The copay on a visit is over a hundred bucks and that's without x-rays. Just looking at him I know he will need an x-ray. His right hand is laying across his stomach. The wrist is bent in a way that tells me I better ice it and wrap it quickly.

I get to work cleaning him up, dab antiseptic and liquid bandage on his cuts. He hisses when it touches him and does some moaning and cussing but doesn't offer any explanation. I know better than to pester him with questions at a time like this, but my heart squeezes at the sight of him so bruised and torn up. I can't keep the ice on his busted lip because I need both hands to bandage him. And nothing he is doing is helping.

When I gingerly wrap his right hand and wrist, he blurts out a stream of profanity and I start to get some information.

Because of his swollen lip and probably some loose teeth, as well as a severely bruised jaw, his words are garbled, slurred. I feel my own jaw clench in sympathy. I'm able to pick out ‘motherfuckers' and a distinctly sickening, ‘thousand dollars' before he coughs and then winces.

I'm so busy tending his visible injuries that I haven't checked his ribs. His reaction to that cough tells me they're cracked. I go get my tape, shove up his shirt on one side. I probe his ribs with my fingertips, find the sore spot and start taping. Surprising no one, my dad calls me something that sounds like ‘asshole' for my trouble.

Once his ribs are taped and his hand wrapped, I switch out the water in the bowl and try cleaning the blood out of his hair. I wrap a frozen eye mask around his head and secure it with Velcro to keep my hands free to treat his other injuries. I pry his lids open a second time to check his pupils. He doesn't have much of a concussion if any, thank God.

"Okay, you're patched up enough to tell me what happened," I declare, picking dried blood from his graying, once-dark hair. He grumbles, but I wait. I get him a drink of water and some ibuprofen.

"…lost some on March Madness…kept tryna win back enough to pay it off…" he mumbles.

"You've been in the hole for two months and betting on credit?" I say incredulously.

I shouldn't be surprised. I know that, but it shocks me. How a grown man can be so helpless and impulsive. Like any other addiction.

"How much?" I ask, my hands going still in his hair as I steel myself.

He rattles off a number.

"What?" I ask him to repeat it. I can't have heard him right.

"Ya heard me, sixteen thousand," he says irritably.

I drop the rag in my hand, which lands with a splat on my shoe. I feel like I've been punched in the face. It's never been so much before. My four-hundred dollars won't even buy us a week if it's the wrong people.

"Who?" I ask faintly.

"Philly Shapiro," he lisps, disgusted.

I reach for the other kitchen chair so I can drop down into it. My knees are about to give way. Philly Shapiro? I press my lips together. I won't yell at him, no recriminations. It has to be hard to admit this to his grown daughter, that he owes five figures to a notorious Mafia bag man. A guy who is not going to respond to excuses or sweet talk.

"How far behind are you on the payments?" I ask and my voice seems to float up out of nowhere. I feel like I'm having an out of body experience, floating above us near the kitchen ceiling, hovering as he lies the first two times, swearing it's just one payment.

"We talked about this. You want my help. You don't bullshit me," I say as firmly as I can manage.

"Such a hard ass like your mom," he says, not too fondly. "It was three payments I missed it, okay? I gave him fifty bucks on Monday. You'd think that'd hold him. It ain't like I'm the only guy that owes him money. Give a guy a little wiggle room I always say. We're only human."

This long speech of excuses takes it out of him, and he slumps down in the chair even more. I don't bother asking why he was home so early from his job at the factory. He took the day off to convince the Marino crime family to spare his knees and nads. The sorry sight before me got the message across loud and clear. They expected payment on time.

That pitiful amount I have in savings almost makes me howl with grief and frustration, but I reason that it will be better than nothing. I have something I can offer them at least until I work out a plan. I always work out a plan to pay back his debts, but the Mob doesn't take you to court for nonpayment. They take you to church, or they bury you behind one.

So much for only missing one semester so I can work full-time and earn enough to cover my tuition and his debts. I can't even think about it without wanting to wail.

This is the first time I look at my dad as a burden. He's worn out my patience and most of my good will. I'm twenty-four years old still trying to finish a two-year degree because I quit to pay off his debts. Working two jobs, eking out two or three credits a semester when I can. Passing pharmacology is supposed to be a sign my luck is changing. It's a hard course, and I was proud of myself for two seconds before the shit hit the fan again.

I'll figure it out. It's just so much worse this time. I need a plan.