Damage Control - ARC by Mary Jeddore Blakney

pain,’ people assume you
mean narcotics—especially since sometimes I’m ‘not really there,’
as you say.”
    “Right?” she half-squealed. “Duhhhh… But it’s
not from drugs. I can just imagine the shape you’d be in, if you
did do drugs.”
    “Yeah,” said Brooks drily. “My head would be
attached to my kneecaps, maybe.”
    “Dad! You know what I mean. Oh, but I did
straighten her out. I mean, I told her you get these headaches,
like migraines or something, and your back is messed up. And I told
her you should be taller than you are but your neck-bone is like
out of joint or something, so you’re not.”
    “That’s right, I’m not taller than I am. It’s
not really out of joint, though. I guess if it were, I’d be dead. I
don’t think anyone could survive that. Maybe…maybe I’d just be
paralyzed, though.”
    “Oh, what is it, then?”
    “I guess they call it ‘out of
alignment.’”
    “Oh. That sounds like a car.”
    “Yeah. That’s what’s wrong with me." Brooks
ran a hand over his balding head. "My tread is wearing thin, and I
need to get re-tired.”
    “Or retard.” Guin refilled her plastic cup
from the bottle of store-brand cola they'd brought with them. “Oh,
did I tell you Shannon joined the Army? Or the Air Force, I guess.
Yeah, the Air Force.”
    “You did tell me. She was going to be a cook,
but there was a bonus for some kind of weapons job, so she took
that instead.”
    “Oh, guess I did. She goes to Basic next
week. She’s excited.”
    “I bet she is. Wow, did you see that?” asked
Brooks in amazement. He was staring, literally, into space. “No,”
he said, after a pause, “you didn’t see it: you’re facing north.
Move your chair,” he suggested, “it might happen again.”
    “What might happen?” Guin asked, looking for
a good place to put her plate down so she could turn her chair
around. She didn’t notice her dad, sitting there holding his hand
out for it.
    “Let me hold your plate,” he said, “before
you put it on the floor and walk in it.”
    “Oh, so I have to put on the floor and walk
on it after you hold it, then?” She grinned. Usually he was the one
to make cracks like that: she was giving him a taste of his own
medicine. She handed it to him and moved her chair, slowly so the
cola wouldn’t slosh. “What am I looking for, again?”
    “They used to call them shooting stars,”
Brooks responded bitterly, carefully holding both plates level and
wishing he had a hand free to take a swig of his water. The fries
were deliciously salty.
    “Oh, cool,” she said, oblivious to his tone.
“I like shooting stars. You should have made a wish.”
    “I did.”
    “Really?” she asked, settling back into her
chair and taking her plate back. “Brooks Massilon actually wished
upon a star? I can’t believe it!”
    “You shouldn’t believe it. I didn’t wish upon
a star. I was just wishing, and then it happened.” He took a long
draught of the cold water.
    “What were you wishing for?” she asked him,
“Or was it private?”
    “I was thinking about health insurance,
actually.”
    “Oh.” She was silent for a moment, then she
said, “No wonder you sounded sad.” Maybe she hadn’t been so
oblivious, after all, even if she still didn’t get it. “Didn't you
get on Medicaid?”
    “They turned me down because I'm ineligible.
I have a job.”
    "But you can get insurance from your job,
right?"
    "No, I haven't been there long enough.
There's a ninety-day waiting period before you can get
benefits."
    "That's a long time to wait."
    Brooks shrugged. "And it's doubtful they'll
keep me that long, either. I've missed two days this week. I may be
unemployed already."
    "Think of the good side," said Guin. "At
least if you are, you can get Medicaid. And then you can go to the
doctor and get better, and get a job you can keep."
    "Tried that," Brooks replied with a bitter
chuckle. "Got booted from the program for noncompliance. Not
attending all their