The Fake Fiancée

Chapter 4

A decision is very important and powerful. Am I dreaming? Why did I agree to help? Life and its curve balls.

“I will help you”.

This statement took a lot to get out of me. I did not want to agree with Edward's proposal; I was blackmailed with emotions. I replay the balcony conversation in my head, my eyes tearing up and the street looking blurry.

“I don’t want my father leaving this world when it’s in chaos. All of us. It’s too much.

You can relate, can you not?” He said.

Mom.

Hospital bed.

Scattered letters.

My hollow, aching heart is quite afraid of losing her.

I felt my resolve chipping, one crack at a time, until finally, the layer of ice I’d coated myself with when Edward drew up to me resolved like a warrior ridding themselves of their armor. He unknowingly had put my stance down. I had gained sympathy for him. Her death date is nearer than I refuse to accept. She is leaving me worried and anxious.

Her pain is like a heavy weight pressing on my heart. It's a mix of fear, sadness, and helplessness, all tangled together. Every moment is a struggle between hope for recovery and the harsh reality of my mother's illness. I feel overwhelmed by the uncertainty of the future and the desire to do everything possible to ease my mother's suffering.

The door creaks as I open the door to Cassie's apartment. She is not around; there is a vague remembrance of her going on a date with me. She had a date with her boyfriend earlier and is yet to return. I began to feel sick to my stomach. I found my way to my bed and pulled the covers over my head at two a.m. This morning.

I barely managed to get a few hours of sleep before coming to meet my mother at the hospital. It helps to talk to her. She doesn’t respond, but saying my issues aloud makes them feel lighter. The sound of my voice always seemed to soothe her. She also loves her hair being smoothed out. I place the comb down on the bed, then twist her hair up into a bun and pin it.

“There, that looks good, eh?" I glance up at her reflection in the mirror.

“Thank you, dear,” she smiles at me. There’s a twinkle in her eyes, and she seems so like the mother I once knew.

Then, her forehead wrinkles. “You look so much like my daughter. What did you say your name was again?”

My nose stings. Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I will not cry. I will not. “It’s Estella ma,” I manage to choke out. “My name's Estella.”

“That’s my daughter’s name. What a coincidence.” She laughs. “I must tell her the next time I see her. I’d tip you for your help, but I don’t have money. I’ll have to ask my daughter when she comes by.” Her lips turn down.

“It’s okay; don’t worry. You don’t need to tip me.”

She's silent for several minutes before her forehead furrows, and she laughs. “Of course, I don’t need to tip you. You’re my daughter, silly girl.”

“Mom!” I burst out. “Mom, you recognize me?”

“Of course, I recognize you. I’m so happy you’re visiting us. Eric should be home very soon—” Her gaze grows vacant. She stares through me, and I know I’ve lost her.

I don’t know if it’s worse when she doesn't recognize me at all or when she's coherent for a little while and then forgets who I am. And she thinks my father's alive. It's not an unusual occurrence.

On a good day, she’s coherent enough for us to have a normal conversation. There have even been a few days when she’s been her cheerful self throughout the entire visit, though those days have been dwindling, of late. She grows more withdrawn and confused as the day wears on, which is why I prefer to come in the early part of the day to see her. How much longer will I be able to do that? How long can I keep pretending that the mother I knew isn't all but gone in the flesh?

The ball of emotion in my throat grows bigger. I swallow around it and scan her features—pale cheeks, thin lips, and hollows under her eyes. Vestiges of her beauty cling to her features and if I stare hard enough. And how do I repay her? Not being able to pay for her to remain in the home she’s grown to love.

"I’m such a selfish daughter." I swallow down the tears that threaten to overwhelm me. "I’m so sorry, Ma, I wasn’t able to help. I’m sorry I was too self-involved to realize the true state of your health. But I promise, we’ll find a way. I’ll take you home. It’s a flat I share with Mira, but you can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch and find a way to pay all the bills.”

I play the night again in my mind. The beautiful stranger offered me money to help him. Presently, the money is the catch, bills would be paid, and food would be available. There would be a heating bad in the apartment - too good to be true.

I have agreed to this foolproof plan. “Can I have your number?” He asked.

I was a bit skeptical. What if he is a serial killer or a drug cartel owner? The request was very absurd.”

“What do you need it for?” I questioned back.

“Since you have agreed, we need to meet up. My lawyer will draw up a contract for us. I need your consent legally bound and the payment details explained.”

“Oh.”

“Can I have it, please? I will contact you by tomorrow and arrange a meeting plan, and meet my parents.”

This is too good to be true, I had given him my number and he had promised to contact me today. Hopefully he does. I drift asleep with these thoughts.