I keep trying, keep reminding people she’s in the wrong place, but each month that passes meets with less hope she’ll be able to be moved.
They’re waiting for her to die, so they don’t have to field my phone calls any longer. The awareness makes me warm with a dull anger, but there’s nothing more I can do, except be there for her.
Something my courses and work don’t leave a lot of time spare for.
As I wait at the bus stop a few houses down from the retirement units, my mind drifts back through the years since her diagnosis. She’s always been tougher, offered more of a fight than the doctors expected. Each time the cancer struck, she struck back, handling the increasingly aggressive bouts of chemotherapy to beat it into retreat.
But it always returned, like a stalker who’d found their fixation. Once my mother got the diagnosis, she never clawed her way to the freedom of remission. The cancer is her longest staying companion.
By the time I was fifteen, she wasn’t able to care for herself any longer, let alone me. Although it devastated us both, I was bundled into the care of Oranga Tamariki, the Ministry for Children. I stayed under their supervision until earlier this year when I aged out of the system at eighteen.
It wasn’t as bad as we both feared. A couple fostered me along with some other late arrivals. The family was a good enough resting place that I still call Astrid—my foster mum—occasionally, and I remain close friends with Ben, a teenage boy who was under their roof for nearly as long as me.
The flat I’m currently in is partially subsidised by the department, a way to transition foster kids into adulthood with limited support. It’s a godsend—albeit one I’m always terrified will be stripped away from me. Finley is an even bigger gift. As someone who’s always struggled to make friends, to make one so easily and so unexpectedly is a treasure.
As I clamber into the late-arriving bus and take a seat, my mood sinks. I hug my arms across my chest and close my eyes, pretending it’s the lingering embrace of my mother.
A trick that doesn’t fool me one bit. It’s only after getting off at my stop and walking home that I find the energy to paste a smile on my face.
“You’re late,” Finley tells me the moment I’m through the door. Her riotous hair—as a platinum blonde she’s forever dabbling with streaks of colour not seen in nature—seems even more varied than it did this morning.
“No, I’m not. For what?”
“We’ve got a new flatmate.” And my hope for long showers is gone. “She’s pretty.”
My previous coffee is already long forgotten by my bloodstream. I flick the kettle on as I stare at my lesbian flatmate with open suspicion. “No hooking up inside the house. That’s part of the rules.”
“What?” Finley’s faux outrage twists her face into a grimace. “Where are these rules? I demand to know what’s in them.”
I point to a fridge magnet with an illegible scrawl across it in wipeable marker.
“That doesn’t count,” she immediately retorts. “Anyone could scribble on that. Unless there’s an official form on official letterhead, I refuse to comply.”
“Is she in the room right now?” I ask, eyes narrowing at Finley’s continued high volume.
“Yes, and in answer to your next question, yes, that’s why I’m talking loudly. So, she knows we don’t bite and—”
“And our conversation is completely asinine.”
“There are no arses involved at all. Believe me, I’ve been keeping tabs.”
As usual, five minutes into a conversation, and Finley has me in stitches. I bite my lip to stop laughing and say, “Instead of talking loudly at me, why don’t you knock on her door and ask her if she wants a hot drink?”
Finley stays right where she is, hopping from foot to foot.
“Are you nervous?” I ask, gleefully. My flatmate usually has such mountainous confidence that I’m resigned to never getting the upper hand. “Are you scared of the pretty new girl?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps, colour flaring along her cheekbones in direct contradiction.
“Fine. I’ll knock on the door. You make the coffees.” I walk halfway to the bedroom door, then creep back to whisper, “What’s her name?”
“Lily,” comes a voice from behind me, sending my heart into my mouth and leaving my nervous system lodged somewhere near the ceiling.
“Nice to see you again,” Finley says, recovering first. She sticks her right hand out, twiddling a lock of her multicoloured hair around her left forefinger and sucking her cheeks in until her bone structure looks practically regal. “I’m Finley and this here’s Rosa.”
It takes half a second to see what Finley means about her being pretty. The mousy hair and rumpled clothing make her look like a street urchin. It takes a few moments for the overall picture to hit right, showing her as quietly gorgeous instead.
“We were just talking about flat rules,” I happily announce while spooning out my coffee and pushing the container of instant towards the new girl. “Finley thinks we should be able to hook up with our flatmates and I’m against. Want to be the deciding vote?”
