A Night Of Regrets

The sun had just barely pierced the horizon as Joy trudged down the busy city street. The scanty coat could hardly protect one from the hard nipping of the autumn wind. The street bristled with blowing horns and the perpetual hum of people hurrying off to wherever it was that was theirs. It was a city overwhelming in its vastness, a place which seemed to have somewhere to be for everyone-except her. She picked up the first shift of the day at the greasy little joint on the corner of 5th and Main. The old neon sign, buzzing faintly alive, seemed to greet her as she approached; her stomach twisted into that too-familiar cocktail of exhaustion and dread. "You're late," Sal said gruffly, already ushering her through the kitchen door. He didn't look up from his clipboard, greasy apron perpetually clinging to the curve of his belly. "Sorry Sal. The bus was-" "I don't wanna hear it. Just get to work." She bit her lip and nodded, wrapping an apron about her waist. And early in the day, too; already she could feel its weight fall across her shoulders. She did the diner chores in order mechanically: refilled cups of coffee, wiped counters-all with a forced smile for the customers. Each one of them just seemed so far removed from her world, so enveloped in life. It was hard not to envy them. By the time her lunch finally rolled around, her feet were throbbing so she slipped out the back door of the diner, sinking down onto the cold steps behind to pull out her phone and dial, knowing there was only one person she ever called on break. "Hi, Mum," Joy whispered when the line finally connected. "Joy, sweetie, are you on break?"-the frail but warm modality of her mother's voice curled the edges of Joy's lips upwards. "Yeah, just a few minutes. How are you feeling today?" Joy knew the answer yet asked all the same, hoping against hope for some miraculous response. "About the same, honey. The pain's not so bad today, though." Her mom tried to infuse some optimism into her voice, but it came out no thicker than her frail body. Joy shut her eyes, picturing her mom lying in that old, worn bed in their small apartment. She had once been such a vibrant carrier of life, but this recently diagnosed illness had robbed her of all that, and left only the hulk of a woman that Joy used to know. "That's good," Joy replied, equal optimism in her voice. "I'll be home as soon as I finish up here and then after the shift at the convenience store. I'll bring dinner, okay?" "You work too hard, Joy. You should be resting, not worrying about me. I hate that you're running yourself ragged because of me." "I'm fine, Ma," Joy lied as her chest stiffened with the dead weight of those words. "I'll be fine. Don't you worry about it." Her mother sighed soft on the other end of the line. "Just promise me you'll take care of yourself. That's all I ask." Joy nodded, though her mom couldn't see that. "I promise." That had been their way for several more minutes: her mother avoiding the appearance of struggle, and Joy trying to believe she could keep it that way. By then, she was done with her break, and her heart stood heavy with that familiar sting of guilt. She tucked her phone back in her pocket, standing up, and wiped at the pool of tears welling up in her eyes, threatening to spill. The rest of that shift dragged itself to three o'clock-the hour of release. Joy was free-at least from job number one. On the corner was a convenient store; she entered inside greeted at once by the warmness emitting from no other than the owner herself, Mrs. Patel-fair but overworked. "Oh, Joy, thanks for coming in." Mrs. Patel said wearily, smiling. "I can use the help today. It's so busy; it's a weekend rush." "Of course," Joy answered, sliding behind the counter and snatching her apron that was always kept there. "Anything special that I need to attend to today?" Mrs. Patel shook her head. "Nothing out of the ordinary. I am expecting a shipment that should be in any moment now, and I will need you to help me unpack it." Joy nodded, although the thought of moving heavy boxes after standing most of the morning further agonized her legs. At least this way, she would not lose the job altogether. Every penny was vital. Time flew and in that store's lousy light, Joy's brain did a little gallivanting-rent due in two days and, notwithstanding the fact that she worked her fingers to the bone, she was still not certain she could make enough for it. The landlord had threatened eviction twice, and being homeless with an ailing mother was just about the last thing she needed. "Can I get a pack of smokes?" It was the client's voice, hoarse as gravel, that snapped Joy out of her trance. She turned to face a man in his late forties, attired in a beat-up leather jacket, with an expression screaming all over him-trouble. "Yeah," she returned and turned around with the pack behind the counter, ringing him up. "Rough day?" he asked when he finally caught her worn expression. Joy smiled tightly, as she had to all of those, as they continued asking questions. "Just another day." He nodded and tossed a couple of crumpled bills onto the counter before heading out into the morning. Joy watched him go, her mind racing once more. The weight of it all-the mother's illness, the bills, the eviction threat that always came-linked onto her like a boulder. The sun was no longer out than it had been when she'd left the convenience store. Star-like city lights twinkled across the sky as she hiked several blocks backward in the direction of her apartment. "Ma?" she whispered as she entered the apartment. The now-familiar smell of disinfectant and stale air hit her nostrils, an ache in her heart. "In here, sweetheart," she heard her mother's voice weakly from the bedroom. Joy entered, smiling despite exhaustion. Her mother was even smaller today, and the skin sallow and paper-thin. Yet she smiled back-the warmth in her eyes never faded. "How was work?" her mother asked. "Same as always," Joy said, dropping into the chair beside the bed. She leaned forward and took her mother's hand in her own, holding it lightly. They sat for a while in silence, the burdens of the world at large passing them by beyond their small apartment.