TWO WEEKS TO FOREVER

ZARA SIMON My father left when I was ten and my baby sis, Priscilla, was barely four. I remember watching from the window, my small hands pressed against the glass, not understanding why Daddy was taking all his things and why mummy was shouting at the top of her voice. He didn't say goodbye. Just got in his car and drove away. And my mother, still beautiful but furious and devastated, turned to look at me standing there by the window, in my pajamas and said: "This is all your fault." I didn't understand then. I was ten. But she spent the next fourteen years making sure I understood. “You ruined my body. You ruined my career. You destroyed my life.” Those were the words I grew up with. A soundtrack to my childhood. She said that I took away her dream of becoming a model. She was on the verge of hitting it big when she got pregnant, and it took a toll on her. And when she gave birth to me, I had destroyed the figure she worked so hard to build. She'd say them when she was drunk, which was often. When she was betting away the grocery money, which was always. When I couldn't give her money because I'd spent it on food and medicine for Priscilla, or on anything that would keep my baby sister alive. But the painful truth is, I wanted her to love me, I really wanted to be loved, if not by anyone, at least, by the woman who birthed me. I needed some form of validation through that love. I worked hard. I tried. I had worked three jobs by the time I was sixteen, waitressing, cleaning houses, stocking shelves at a convenience store. I'd come home with cash and lay it on the table like an offering. Like maybe this time, this amount would be enough. This time she'd look at me and see a daughter instead of a mistake. She never did. She'd take the money without a thank you, even demand for more. There were times she threw my things out on the street when I couldn't provide more money. I would beg… not necessarily for me, never for me—but for Priscilla. I'm like her mother figure. I would've left, but not yet. Not when she was so young and sick and needed stability more than I needed dignity. So I stayed. And worked. And bled myself dry trying to earn something that was never mine to earn in the first place. But, I've grown accustomed to the situation and I don't need my mother to love me anymore, I just need to survive long enough to save my sister. “Zara?" Priscilla's voice pulled me back to the present. She's sitting at our tiny table, chemistry textbook open in front of her, she is looking at me with those eyes that are too knowledgeable for a teenager. Eyes that have seen too much. "Hey, Pris." I forced a smile. "How's the studying going?" "It's chemistry. It's going terribly." She grinned, but there were shadows under her eyes. She's been tired lately. That kind of tiredness that sleep doesn't fix. My heart ached. "Want me to quiz you?" I asked, moving to our tiny hole we called a kitchen to put on water for tea. "Nah. I need a break anyway. How was the job hunt?" I didn't turn around. I can't let her see my face. "Good. Promising. I've got a few leads." Lies are so smooth on my tongue now. The truth is I've applied to twenty-three places in the last week. Restaurants, retail stores, offices, anywhere that might hire someone with just a high school diploma and a work ethic that borders on desperate. But Twenty-three applications equals Twenty-three rejections. We need someone with more experience. We're looking for someone with a degree. We'll keep your application on file. (They won't. They never did.) The kettle started to whistle, and I poured water over the same tea bag I had used that morning. The water barely changed color. "Zara…" Something in Priscilla's voice made me turn. She was holding her inhaler, and her face had that painful look I dreaded so much. "When's the last time you used that?" I asked as I ran towards her. "This morning. But it's almost empty, and I'm feeling kind of..." She didn't finish. She doesn't have to. I could hear it, the slight wheeze in her breathing. The way her shoulders heaved up like her lungs were working harder than they should. "Okay." I kept my voice calm even though panic was already rising in my throat. "It's okay. We've got the backup, right?" She was silent instead, and I know what that meant. "Zara. I already used it yesterday. I am sorry. I really wanted to tell you, but you were already so stressed about the job hunt, and I thought…" "It's fine, darling." I already grabbed my jacket, checked my wallet. Forty-seven dollars. The refill costs sixty. "It's fine. I'll get it right now." "The pharmacy closes in twenty minutes." I checked my phone. It's 7:42. The nearest pharmacy is a fifteen-minute walk. I'll have to run. "Stay here. Lock the door. I'll be back in thirty minutes, tops." I was halfway out the door when Priscilla called my name. "Yeah?" "I'm sorry." My heart broke a little more. It's supposed to be my job to take care of her, and somehow she always ended up apologizing. "Don't be sorry. Never be sorry. I love you." "Love you too." Then I ran. I got to the pharmacy at 7:56, breathless, and almost collided with the pharmacist who was clearly getting ready to close. "Please," I begged. "I need a refill. Albuterol inhaler. For Priscilla Simon." The pharmacist, her name tag says DENISE— gave me a look that's equal parts sympathy and exhaustion. She's had a long day. We've all had long days. "Insurance?" "We don't have insurance." She sighed. Not unkindly. Just... tired. "It's sixty-eight dollars." "I have forty-seven." Denise looked at me. Really looked at me. She took in all of me, my secondhand jacket and my worn out shoes and I’m sure desperation was written all over my face. "She's fifteen," I said, hating the way my voice cracked. "She has asthma. Please. I'll come back tomorrow with the rest. I promise. I just need…she needs…" "Give me what you have," Denise said quietly. I stared at her. "What?" "Forty-seven dollars. Give it to me. And don't come back with the difference. Just... take care of your sister." My eyes began burning with hot tears. "I can't…" "Yes, you can. Take it before I change my mind." I handed over every dollar I had on me. Denise gave me the inhaler and a small, sad smile. "You're a good sister," she said. I really do not feel like a good sister. I felt like I was drowning, and every time I thought I'd reached the surface, another wave pulled me under the current. I took the inhaler, hugged Denise so tightly like she was a lifeline, she actually was. I needed every help I could get. I walked back out into the cold. I couldn't run again, I just walked slowly, letting the night air cool my face, as I figured out how I was going to feed us for the next three days with zero dollars. The math doesn't work. It never worked. Priscilla needed surgery. Real surgery. Not inhalers and emergency room visits and prayers that she'd make it through another winter. The doctor told me last month that her lungs are scarred from years of inadequate treatment. That if we don't do something permanent soon, the damage could become irreversible. The surgery costs three hundred thousand dollars. I make twelve dollars an hour when I can find work. The math isn't working. I had been doing math that doesn't work my entire life. When I got back to the apartment, Priscilla was asleep on the couch, the chemistry book laid open across her chest. I placed the inhaler on the side table where she'd see it when she woke up, then covered her with our one good blanket. That night, I made a decision. I'm done trying to survive on scraps. I'm done accepting that this is all we deserve. Tomorrow, I'm going to find a real job. Something that pays enough to matter. I don't care what it takes. I don't care what I have to do. Priscilla is going to get that surgery. And I'm going to be the one who saves her. Because if I can't do that, if I can't protect the one person in this world who actually loves me, then what is the point of surviving everything else? I looked at my sister sleeping peacefully for the first time in days, and I whisper a promise into the dark , with hot tears streaming down my face: "I'm going to fix this. I swear to God, I'm going to fix this." I just have to figure out how.