“With the care your grandmother requires, I’m not sure her needs are being met here. She should be put in a more permanent home meant for long-term patients. And with your funds, I’m not sure it’s possible.” The doctor looks up from his clipboard.
Everything always comes down to money.
Want to know how much I have? If you grabbed a euro, lit it on fire, and threw it in the trash can, that would summarize my bank account.
Every last euro I’ve made has either gone toward paying for my grandma’s care or bills. Adulting is hard, but adulting with debt is the hardest.
Abuela warned me about getting a degree from an American university, but I didn’t listen. I wanted to follow my father’s wish of me attending a school in the US, only to learn how dreams look better on paper. What should have been the American dream has turned out to become my recurring nightmare of high-interest rates and excessive loans. Hell, the loan I took out for my degree could feed a small country for a month.
The ache in my chest builds as I look over at my grandmother—the only connection I have left to my dad. I’d do anything to keep her happy and healthy for as long as she will live.
Her glassy eyes find mine. “¿Marisol?”
“Sí. Estoy aquí.” I shove the bitter feeling of resentment toward Abuela down. Having a relative with Alzheimer’s Disease has a funny way of making you crave simple things like not being called by your mother’s name. The notion makes a dark cloud take up a spot over my head, but I fight the sadness at the reminder of my parents.
While I despise the bitterness about my abuela confusing me for my mom, I love looking like her. People say I’m a spitting image, with curves, dark hair with a natural wave, and average height. The only reminder of my father I’m left with is my brown eyes and long lashes. Abuela used to say it was the best of both of them.
I face the doctor. “How much more do those facilities usually cost?”
“Right now, you’re looking at an estimated 4,000 euros per month, give or take.”
The room spins as I process his words. That’s an extra 48,000 euros a year I don’t have. I’m barely making ends meet with my small Monaco flat the size of a child’s shoebox.
“We can have her stay here for another month while you sort everything out, but you’ll need to find other arrangements. Her condition has deteriorated rather quickly, I’m afraid, and our staff isn’t equipped for her. The trial didn’t work.”
I fight the battle to keep the tears at bay. “There’s nothing else you can do? No other medicine you can try?”
“In these cases, no. I’m so sorry, Ms. Gonzalez. I recommend enjoying the time you have left and getting her settled somewhere that can take care of her until…”
“Right.” I bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying something I’ll regret.
“If you wanted to consider moving back to Mexico, the services there are much cheaper. You could find a nice facility with your limited funds.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Nothing says a good plan quite like quitting my job and moving back to the same country my parents were murdered in. Sounds like a future as bright as the apocalypse.
The doctor leaves the room with a tense goodbye, giving me privacy with Abuela.
“Nena, how is Eduardito?” Abuela grabs onto my arm with a frail hand. Her words feel like she took a razor blade to my heart.
“Good. He’s busy working.” He hasn’t worked since thirteen years ago, but who’s counting.
Stop being bitter, Elena.
“Why do you look sad? Tell him to stay home more with you and baby Elena. I told him to work less but he doesn’t listen. He’s stubborn like his father.”
I let out a deep breath, continuing on as if I’m my mother. There’s no reason to remind Abuela how I’m not her daughter-in-law and her son is dead. The last time I mentioned it, she cried before threatening to kill the murderers herself. It took two nurses and a shot of something powerful to put her down. I realized that day how I was truly alone in my pain. Abuela can’t handle the truth, and in the end, there’s no point. The two thugs who wanted to earn the respect of a low-life gang leader by killing an ambassador died before ever seeing a court of law. That’s how Mexico works. Seeking retribution is pointless, with its broken system filled with corruption and death.
For another painstaking hour, I spend time watching TV and eating lunch with her. I give Abuela a kiss on the cheek before saying goodbye. Once I step outside the facility, worried thoughts of how I’ll afford the costs of her living arrangements consume me. I don’t know how I’ll go about helping her while staying afloat.
Option 1: Move Abuela into my apartment and become her full-time nurse while working from my office-slash-bedroom.
Option 2: Move back to Mexico AKA the seventh circle of hell.
Option 3: Become a stripper even though I was born with two left feet and a nasty case of stage fright.
I throw out the idea of moving back to Mexico. That option is both terrible for my mental health and my job, thus solidifying my reasoning against it. Abuela needs my help, which means keeping my job on this side of the hemisphere. I’ve spent years making European connections in the F1 world, and I refuse to give them up. With Elías’s help and relationships with teams, I built a small business representing athletes.
Are there bigger firms that can do my job? Of course.
Are there firms willing to bend over backward to help their clients, no matter the time and situation? Definitely.
But those firms can’t offer the kind of care I do. I only take on a few clients at a time, building up their social presence and putting them in the best light with an individualized plan. With Elías’s referrals, I’ve built a steady base of loyal clients. It’s nothing compared to a large PR company, but it’s all mine. I built it from the ground up, and I’m not willing to part ways by moving back to Mexico. That feels like giving up, and Papi taught me to never give up, no matter how hard everything gets.
I walk back to my pathetic flat that’s one year away from being condemned for structural instability. Self-pity doesn’t suit me, but I deserve one night of drowning in my sorrows.
I consider calling Elías, but choose against it because he is busy with F1’s pre-season checks. Even my best friend can’t help me out of this mess. Dishing my financial woes to Elías always results in him offering me money. Even though I refuse, he does what he can, connecting me with other F1 companies to work on their PR. His referrals then recommend me to others, which has helped me build my brand as a reputation fixer.
Last year I had my biggest break yet after one of my newer client’s recommended me to McCoy, a legendary F1 team. I was hired to help one of the top racers, Liam Zander, with his reputation. While that job was a highlight for me, it had an expiration date once Liam switched teams.
The walk back to my flat ends too quickly. I walk up the rickety steps and enter my studio apartment. My wallowing continues as I skip dinner, take a shower, and flop onto my bed. Done with putting off the inevitable, I pull out my phone and reassess my bank account.
It takes less than one minute to understand how screwed I am. I throw my phone toward the end of my bed as hopelessness destroys my positivity. “God, I know we’ve been on bad terms lately, but I’d be eternally grateful for a lifeline right about now. I’ll take anything. And let’s be real, I could use a miracle or three. I think I’ve paid my dues,” I whisper up to the ceiling.
My head pounds as I come to terms with my situation. I mourn my abuela and the loss of her memory. Another year, another failed trial. The last connection to my old life is slipping through my fingers and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Abuela will never meet my kids, let alone remember me anymore. Grief wraps around me like a cloak.
I hate when the sadness comes in, like a dark fog stealing away my happiness. The feeling grips onto me with invisible talons and holds me hostage. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, my whole life turns upside down.
My phone buzzing interrupts my thoughts. I move to grab it from the corner of my bed. An unknown number flashes across the screen, and I answer without hesitation. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Elena Gonzalez?” A male’s voice greets me.
“This is she.” My voice cracks.
“Great. My name is Connor McCoy. I was given your contact information because you worked for Peter McCoy last year. I’m not sure if you’re up to speed with everything, but he had to take a permanent leave of absence, so I took over his position. I know the season is about to begin, but I need your help with a PR project.”
“What type of project?” It takes everything in me to control my voice, not wanting it to reek of desperation.
McCoy only has two racers. Elías, who is new to the team after Liam left last season, and the other…well…I know enough.
“We want to hire you for a private job. It requires a lot of your time, including an exclusivity contract and a non-disclosure agreement.”
“What are the stipulations?” I remain nonchalant despite my body buzzing with anticipation. At this point, if it doesn’t involve removing my clothes, I’m all for it.
Hell—even that sounds tempting after checking my funds.
“We would be paying you eight thousand euros per month for ten months, starting this March. Plus, a bonus of twenty-thousand euros if you can make it until the final Prix the first week of December.” He makes the second sentence sound like a prayer. “We want you to work solely with Jax Kingston. The job would include keeping an eye on him and helping positively boost his presence in the media.”
One-hundred thousand euros? For that kind of money, I’d do just about anything.
“I have a few clients I would need to check in with. If that’s okay, then I can absolutely help with whatever you need.”
Connor breaks down the main parts of my contract, listing everything I need to do throughout the race season. His plan is smart and well-thought-out. I say yes with little trepidation, knowing I can’t resist the answer to my prayers.
Not all heroes wear capes. Turns out some rock badass tattoos and a McCoy race suit.
