At His Beck & Call (Sterling House #3)

1. Lissa

Lissa

There’s a dark brown stain on the ceiling. It’s been there since we moved in, but now it’s spread to the size of a dinner plate. I stare at it, wondering if I should tell maintenance. What’s the point, though? They won’t do anything about it.

I roll over in the bed, the scratchy sheets harsh against my skin as I take in the tiny form beside me.

Henry fell asleep a short while ago, but his little face is already relaxed, his legs curled up toward his chest, just like when he was a baby. His right hand is fisted in the sheets, clutching them to his body as if someone might wrench them away at any second.

Reaching out, I smooth a single blond curl away from his face, brushing the back of my fingers over his cheek. He looks so peaceful.

My heart clenches as I watch him, listening to the whir of traffic on the street outside, and two people screaming at each other from the floor above.

I don’t mind the noise; it’s the silence behind it that I can’t stand.

I sit up, making sure Henry is covered with the thick comforter before getting out of bed. I move to the door, leaving it open as I go out into the living room. He hates sleeping alone these days, a product of us only having one bed, and I want him to be able to see me if he wakes up.

I tiptoe out, the yellow light of the streetlamp falling across the floor in sharp lines from the blinds on the window. The tiny kitchen reflects the lights of the skyscrapers in the distance, the red bulb of the coffee machine winking at me in the darkness.

Our apartment is so small I can walk across it in ten steps, but it was the only one I could afford that wasn’t a studio.

Pulling on an oversized cardigan and some thick wool socks, I scoop my hair over one shoulder and walk to the kitchen table. A stark, white envelope lies on the surface where I left it this morning. It makes me sick to look at it.

The doctor has already called me with the diagnosis, but somehow seeing it in black and white is the most terrifying part. I glance back at the bedroom, but Henry hasn’t moved. He looks even smaller from a distance. Tiny and fragile.

The bed is the only piece of furniture in the room.

A garment rack on the opposite wall casts a long shadow, making it look as if a monster is leaning over Henry’s body, watching him sleep.

A few shirts, some pants, and a truly ugly suit hang from the rack, representing most of my meager wardrobe. We left everything else behind.

I read through the letter again. I don't understand much of the medical jargon, but the surgeon's recommendations are crystal clear. Henry has a tumor, and he needs something called a nephrectomy to fix it. They’ll remove one of his kidneys and the tumor at the same time.

The idea of that is so terrifying that my fingers begin to shake. My beautiful baby boy, knocked out and on a surgical table, being cut open. Nausea rises in my throat as I take some deep breaths, trying to calm my rapid heartbeat.

Lowering the letter, I rise and go to the coffee machine.

It’s past eleven, but I won’t be able to sleep anyway.

I want something sweet, and since there’s nothing in the refrigerator or the kitchen cabinets, I’ll have to make do with sugary coffee.

I reach for the regular coffee before deciding the decaf makes more sense.

I don’t need to add caffeine to my already overstimulated body.

The coffee machine begins to bubble, clicking quietly on the counter as I lean against the surface, staring at the far wall, biting my lip.

Alright. Let’s think about this logically. What do I know for sure?

The doctor told me that the prognosis for this type of cancer is very good. That’s important. In fact, if I could tattoo it on my arm, I would, just to reassure myself when things feel hopeless.

They caught it early, which also counts for a great deal.

Once the tumor is removed, Henry will have to suffer through chemo, but the outlook is excellent.

The idea of Henry getting sicker, or even dying, is unthinkable, and I refused to Google the life expectancy for kids his age.

I have to trust the doctors and believe they can save him.

My stomach flips.

And then there’s the cost of the treatment. The surgery alone will run tens of thousands of dollars, and that’s before the round of chemo the doctors said he’ll likely need. I can hardly make rent as it is.

Covering my face with my hands, I sigh as the coffee machine beeps behind me. I reach into one of the dark brown, beat-up cabinets and grab a mug, noting an unpleasant-looking black stain in the top-right corner.

Is that mold? Great… just what I need.

The cup I picked out has a drawing on it that Henry did when he was four. It’s a bright red flower, with three stick figures standing beside it and the words “Mom Dad and Me” written in shaky letters underneath.

I fill the mug almost to the brim, add cream and sugar, and go back to the table.

Lowering heavily into the chair, I close my eyes, considering the worst-case scenario.

Should I really call James?

I lean back in my chair, looking at my cell phone, which sits beside me. A voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my best friend Bethany is becoming louder the more I consider this forbidden line of thought.

The trouble with being separated from my past mistakes is that the reality of the events begins to blur. It’s easy to selectively remember our time together when James was a decent human being. When he would laugh at my jokes, throw Henry up in the air, and smile like we were happy.

I can sometimes only remember the times when our relationship was good. That’s why I have the photos saved in the ‘hidden’ folder in my phone. Bethany insisted I never delete them.

Swiping my finger over the screen, I reluctantly open the Photos app and wait for the images to load. Swallowing, I stare at them in minute detail, reminding myself just why calling James about this is a really stupid idea.

The dark bruises across both my eyes are startling, the yellowing texture of my skin around my nose, and the dried blood on my face, unadulterated and raw. Even after a year, I can hardly believe the battered woman on the screen is me.

It shocks me every time. I buried this for so long—the repeated, endless violence of it. It was necessary to do so in order to survive. But that isn’t an option any longer.

I got out for a reason. It took all my strength, but I did it, and I am not going back to him. That had been the deal I made with myself. No matter what. Not now. Not ever.

I brush a finger over my own face on the screen, remembering the mind-numbing pain, the moment I woke up in a hospital bed with Bethany beside me, her eyes red and her expression grim. I had tried to speak, my throat hoarse from begging James to stop.

It took an hour for a doctor to come and see me, and I was in so much pain I thought I would die. While I slept, Bethany took pictures of everywhere I was hurt. It wasn’t the first time she had done so, but that attack—that overwhelming agony—woke something up inside me.

There was a listless feeling in my body in that hospital bed, like I could drift away and never return. That terrified me. I couldn’t leave Henry alone. I had to fight to escape.

My parents died in an accident when I was just five years old, and I lived with my grandparents until I started college. They were wonderful people, and I was so grateful they took me in. They’re both gone now, though, and I don’t have many people I can rely on. Except for Bethany.

Putting my cell phone face down on the table, I stare at the letter. I will keep reminding myself, every hour if I have to, that James is not my salvation. I will find another way.

I used to think that the decision to leave my husband was the hardest thing I would ever have to do. But now, listening to the faint sound of my son’s breathing, it’s clear I might have won the war, but the battle is yet to come.

Picking up my phone again, I open up my text messages with Bethany. We talk about a thousand different things every day.

The most recent messages are from a few hours ago, a silly exchange in which Bethany sent me a video of a woman pushing over a line of electric bikes outside Central Park. She had shoved them over while screaming like a banshee, and they all collapsed one after another, like dominoes.

I smile at the angry emoji Bethany had sent along with the video. Apparently, she’d had a tough day at work and had gone off on a co-worker.

I look at Bethany’s profile picture. She’s radiant, with dark hair falling over her tanned skin, white teeth flashing. So different from me, with my pale skin, limp hair, and doe eyes that are too big for my face. Bethany is a goddess, and I’m a mere mortal by comparison.

I stare at the flashing cursor, swallowing nervously. I’ve been thinking about this all day, but I still don’t know whether to do it.

There’s no way Bethany will think this is a good idea.

Clicking on the message field, I start typing.

ME: CAN WE MEET TOMORROW?

Three dots appear immediately.

BETHANY: YES! LUNCH NEAR YOUR WORK?

ME: PERFECT.

BETHANY: EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?

I click on her message with a thumbs-up emoji and put the phone back down.

This isn’t something I want to share in a text message.

The idea of telling my best friend that one of her favorite people in the whole world has cancer over a text is unthinkable.

I need to look her in the eye, even if I know all I’ll see is sorrow and pain.

I hold back the tears shimmering in my vision.

No. I am not going to fall into despair. I’m going to find a way to get through this.

I open Bethany’s Instagram, scrolling through the endless beautiful photographs, a familiar stab of jealousy hitting me squarely in the chest like it always does.

There are pictures of beautiful beaches, of her tanned body in the foreground, an endless ocean behind her. Another photo shows an amazing-looking, fancy meal and a large glass of wine. The next is a beautiful cocktail on a beach in Thailand.

Bethany has a lucrative job. An extremely lucrative job. Very few of her friends know what she actually does for a living. But I do. Beth doesn’t keep anything from me.

Her employer, Sterling House, has been paying for her lavish lifestyle for over three years, and she’s earned even more than James in that time.

My soon-to-be ex-husband works in finance, has loads of money, and lives in a world outside reality.

He often sneered at Bethany’s job as an executive assistant, never understanding what it was she did.

Bethany is the reason I got away. She helped me move, paid the security deposit for this apartment, and never gave up on me, even when I nearly went back to him—twice.

But I can’t rely on anyone else to save me any longer. James controlled my life for years, never allowing me to earn a living. I was trapped for so long that I forgot what it was like to be free.

The days of letting others prop me up are over, though. I won’t ever ask him for anything the rest of my life. I made that promise to myself, and I have to stick to it for my own sanity.

If I can persuade Bethany to help me one more time, maybe there’s a way to get the money I need for Henry without James ever knowing anything about it.