by Lauren Asher
Ever since I was a kid, my brain’s like a hamster on a wheel, focusing on the same issues over and over again. With anxiety comes panic attack symptoms. They hit me, with my knees nearly buckling, my chest feeling tight, and my fingers shaking to the point of uselessness.
The panic attacks started a couple of years ago, putting a damper on my mood and productivity. They usually hit when I’m stressed to my maximum like when I’m dealing with my parents or if I become overwhelmed with the future. They’ve progressively gotten worse over the past year. After one discreet attack last year in the middle of a race that McCoy labeled a “technical malfunction,” I decided pills were my only solution. I didn’t want to go to therapy, so I found an American doctor who would fix my problem without sharing my feelings. Now, Xanax keeps me sane enough to ensure my race car doesn’t end up in the nearest wall during every race.
I count the panicky feelings as my penance for living my life to the fullest while my mum suffers. The shit happening to me is a constant reminder of Mum’s similar symptoms. Huntington’s Disease is a bitch like that, stealing moments from her year by year. It makes her weak and feeble. My role model and light of my life experiences the worst kind of medical prognosis, yet here I am living a lavish life with F1. Panic attacks and anxiety seem small in comparison.
But you know what the professionals say: a couple of Xannies a day make the worries go away.
I swallow back the pill before exiting my room, no longer in the mood to hang around with my shitty thoughts. My footsteps echo off the marble floors as I walk through our luxurious home. The bright walls match the light tones Mum chose, creating a welcoming space I find hard to leave at times. Hotel rooms I live out of each week fail to compare.
My mum smiles at me as I enter the kitchen built for a chef. “If it isn’t my favorite son.”
“I’m your only child, which means I’m automatically the favorite.” I walk over and place a kiss on the top of her head before taking a seat across from her.
“You’ve always been a cheeky little thing who can never take a compliment.” Her shaky fingers pull at her blonde, straight strands.
I’m the loving result of my mum’s Swedish heritage and my dad’s Black Londoner genes. Kids used to call me a mutt. Although it used to bother me, I’ve since learned women dig the pouty lips from my dad and the fused hazel eyes from both my parents. Not to mention the soft curls I currently have cropped at the sides while unruly at the top.
“I apologize. Where are my manners?”
“Probably lost somewhere between here and Monaco. Jackie brings up your casino night every year like clockwork.”
“That story has outlived Prince Harry’s Las Vegas trip. I’d like to say I’m possibly the rowdier Brit after all.” I lift my brows up and down.
Our family maid, Jackie, places my breakfast and tea in front of me. “Even though your mother treats you like her little prince, you’re anything but a royal.”
“Ouch. You’ll be kissing my boots once I’m knighted.” I wink.
“By who? The bottle server at your VIP table doesn’t count.” Jackie crosses her arms as she leans against the kitchen island.
My mum lets out a loud laugh. “Do you have to leave in a week?”
“You’re the only one I’d ever consider quitting F1 for, even if it was for a whole two seconds.” I shake my head at her.
“That’s one second better than yesterday. Imagine if I keep you here for months, then I’ll probably get my way eventually.” My mum lifts her teacup to her lips. Her trembling fingers cause the liquid to slosh before half the contents spill onto her hand and dress.
“Shit. Let me help you.” I grab my cloth napkin and mop up the spilled tea, swiping away droplets from her pale skin.
“How embarrassing.” She sighs.
My heart aches at the resigned look on her face. I sense a wave of panic building in my chest, the burn making my lungs hurt with each breath. Xan, please feel free to kick in any time now.
I exude a calmness that doesn’t match my accelerated heart rate. “What did the doctor say yesterday?”
She sends me the smallest smile. “You don’t need to fuss over me.”
“Mum…”
She gives me the sassiest eye roll, replacing her distress. “Okay, fine. He said we can monitor the recent issues I’ve had with my mood and movement. But overall, I’m doing pretty well. They have high hopes.”
“Is that good news then? Maybe it’s not as bad as they think.”
Her trembling hand cups my cheek. “Well, they say I can potentially live a few years longer than expected.”
“So, you’re talking another fifteen years with us, give or take?” I resent how uncertain my voice sounds.
“It’s not a sure thing. I wish I could give you more information, but that’s all I have.” Her smile wobbles.
I push my plate aside, no longer in the mood for food. “And what did he say could fix the tremors?”
“The only thing we can do is monitor how bad they get. Oh, and he said to help with stress, my son should stop being stubborn and get—”
“Nope.”
“But—”
“The answer is no.” I sigh. “I’m sorry. I hate to disappoint you, truly, but there’s no point.” My hands shake beneath the table.
“I can’t help trying. Whenever I go to the doctor, I worry about you. I think of how anxious you get and the pills you started taking last year. Benzos aren’t even good for you, so don’t try to downplay it. I wonder if the shaking is because of—”
“Mum, please stop worrying about me.” My voice comes out in a whisper. Shit, I hate how she can get to me like no other, but I need to stay firm. “Can we please drop this conversation? Let’s enjoy the last week before I have to go. I don’t know how soon I can make it back with Liam gone and everything changing at McCoy.” My voice reeks of desperation, rasping and cracking as I look at her with wide eyes.
“I will, for now, but only because I fall for your puppy eyes every time. That’s how you ended up with four cavities by five years old.”
“I’ve always been a charmer.” I shoot her my most dazzling smile, hoping to ward off all her worries about the topic.
“Trust me, I’m quite aware of your Daily Mail headlines. You’ve tempted me to bleach my eyes one too many times.”
I cringe. “Sorry, Mum.”
“I look forward to the day you meet the right kind of woman and put those club days to rest.”
I laugh. “Meeting and committing are two very different things.”
“With that smart mouth, who could resist you?”
Jackie grabs my unfinished plate. “Any woman who thinks with her brain rather than her clit.”
Mum stifles her laugh. “Jackie, you’re awful.”
“I say it like I see it.” Jackie shrugs before heading toward the sink.
“Now after ruining my appetite, the least you can do is make your mum happy. You know what I love more than anything.”
“Dad?”
She snorts. “Good one. It looks like you got your jokes from me after all. Kind sir, please take me away to our spot.”
“Only for you.” I stand and offer her my tattooed hand.
She leans on me as I lead us through the house into the main living room. The grand piano gleams in the center of the space. I set her down on a comfortable chair before I sit on the piano bench, turning to look at her.
She claps her hands together and smiles. “The best decision I made as a parent was forcing you to take those lessons.”
“Really? Of all the options of things you’ve done, that’s the best?”
“Oh, yes. Your father can’t carry a tune to save his life, so you’re the next best thing.”
I smile as I turn my back. My fingers lightly run across the ivory keys before I begin playing the Jurassic Park theme song.
My mum’s voice carries over the music. “I can’t even say I’m mad about how you rejected learn
ing the classics for this kind of music.”
“Once a rebel, always a rebel.”
“Don’t I know it. Who do you think you got it from? You grew up listening to bedtime stories of me ditching my family without a second glance back.”
“You were a rebel with a cause. That’s the best kind.”
“And don’t you forget it.” She winks at me. “Play me Clocks next. I know you love it, too.”
I lose myself in the music. Like a valve, I shut off my thoughts, letting the worries of my life float away with the melody.
The tune is hauntingly beautiful, echoing off the high ceilings. My mum smiles the entire time. She makes my whole visit worth it despite the ache in my chest every time she struggles.
Life resumes once I cover the piano keys and help Mum up the stairs to my parents’ room. Her shaky legs and cane rip my good mood away from me, replacing happiness with despair.
That night, after Mum becomes tearful after dropping her fork three times during dinner, I text some old party friends about hitting up a club. And like nothing, my foul mood gets washed away with alcohol and bad decisions.
2
Elena
“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 dat
e 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.