Room and Board

By Daniel Kamin

Room And Board

Above what used to be a bar but now only served ghosts and mice, Anna sits in her chair by the window and waits for the sun to rise.

Beat the sun, and beat the day.

Her father would trumpet the slogan—and so many more—as he marched about the house, so proud of his little achievements. The man who was one good remark away from turning into a motivational speaker.

Maybe he’d be proud now. She beats the sun, beats the newspaper delivery at her building’s front door, even beats the homeless man who pulls back a few boards and sneaks into the empty bar at night to sleep.

Beats them all, what a wonder.

Standing is the hardest. Maybe falling asleep is, though it never was until the chemicals pumped through her. They said it’d be easier to sleep. If she would’ve been a drunk used to upchucking all over herself as she lay in bed, sure, it would’ve been. Anna presses her hand against her chest, surprised at how little pressure there is, how weak her fingers could be. The port on her arm begins to sing with its sweet aches.

Her cane helps her push up enough that she can waddle about to the kitchen and grab a banana she’ll just stare at and tell herself she should eat. There’s a stir from the second bedroom, a tussle of sheets and clothes, legs fighting pants to see who’ll win.

Beat the pants, beat the day.

She frowns with her new saying, wishing it was more like her father’s. He could’ve worked for the inspirational department at Hallmark.

Jonathan stumbles from his room, his shirt gripped in one hand and hands pressed against the doorframe as though he’s the one on chemo. ‘Course, he probably pumped other chemicals into himself last night, a dumb thing to do before work, but Anna didn’t care. Didn’t say anything when he staggered in last night past midnight. Only slightly turned her head from the couch, let the same episodes of Friends she’d seen a million times be her white noise. Her new roomie would rarely say a word. That’s why she picked him.

The outpouring of support made her sicker than any of the treatments. Her mom and dad wanted her to move back home, her brother thought the fresh air at his summer home in upper Michigan would do the trick, her sister saying the desert air, somewhere in Arizona, would fix her up. She’d been dazed at how nothing much had changed, remembering the stories of how consumption patients would be told to go to the desert or maybe somewhere with fresh air. All sure-fire remedies. What Anna needed was her condo and staying in the city, close to work, close to the life she had to bury before her body jumped in after.

“Hey,” he mumbles. His shaggy mop of brown hair finds a life of its own and swings when he only sways. “What time is it?”

“Early.” She glances back at the window. “Might as well sleep another hour before you’ve gotta go to work.”

He grunts and turns, their usual matter-of-fact conversation out of the way for the day, but he stops, turns, comes back, and plants himself on one of the barstools hugging the peninsula. His hand forces his head up, a sleepy David without the charm.

“Hard to sleep,” he says in a near whisper, “when you’ve drunk too much.”

She knows the feeling, savors it when she’s wrapped around the toilet and begging for it to end. It brings back her time at college. Not the craziest, but it was college, all the same, back when she’d beg for the nausea, the vomiting, the pounding headache to go away. ‘Course, they did. That gave them a certain level of pleasure. A tough-it-out kind of spirit that only made her stronger.

Beat the booze, beat the day.

“Sometimes, it’s just hard to sleep.” Anna shuffles her way to the couch. Her slippers slide across the hardwood, and she has the distinct feeling this is it, this is her life forever. If she survives, her feet won’t work like they did. If she kicks it, well, then cancer beat the day. She sees it in slow strokes. The life of a permanent nursing home resident escaped from the institution, shuffling her way nowhere.

“I’ll get ya the rent tomorrow.” He begins to work around the kitchen in measured steps, almost as if mimicking her. “Tomorrow is ok?”

“Tomorrow is a world away.” Anna flops on the couch, a choir of soreness crescendoing through her body. She’s momentarily sick, ready to toss the couple of crackers stored in her stomach for safekeeping, but it passes.

Daniel Kamin's first novel, RUBY OF THE REALMS, was published by Black Rose in 2010. He has published a short story in eFANTASY in 2012 and in Aphelion in December 2019. His novella GINGERBREAD MEN AND TOAD'S WART was released by The Wild Rose Press in October.