Preview - At His Beck & Call
There is 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. But what’s the point? They won’t do anything about it.
I roll over on 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 against 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 clock ticking above us, 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 for so long, 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 rectangles from the lattice 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. A separate bedroom is essential for me. I need to be able to lock my door when I go to sleep at night.
Pulling on some thick woolen 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 and two pairs of pants hang from the rack, representing the entirety of my meager wardrobe.
That’s all I have. We left everything else behind.
I read through the letter again. I don't understand a lot of the words and medical jargon, but the surgeon's recommendations are pretty 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 caffeine.
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 be into the 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 seat, I close my eyes, considering the worst-case scenario.
Should I 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, or contacting him at all, is an absolute impossibility.
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 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, or even the third 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.
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 silence of the apartment, and the faint sound of my son’s breathing, it’s clear I might have won the war, but the battle is still 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 pictures 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 has sent, along with a short video of the woman kicking every bike until they were all on the ground.
New Yorkers are a different breed.
My look at Bethany’s profile picture. She’s radiant, 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 one of the slaves who kneel at her feet.
I stare at the flashing cursor, swallowing nervously.
Am I really going to do this? There’s no way Bethany will ever agree.
Clicking on the message field, I start typing.
LISSA: CAN WE MEET TOMORROW?
Three dots appear immediately.
BETHANY: YES! LUNCH NEAR YOUR WORK?
LISSA: PERFECT.
BETHANY: EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?
I put down my phone without replying. This isn’t something I want to share in a text message.
The idea of telling my best friend that her godson, and 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 sniff, holding back the tears shimmering in my vision.
No. I am not going to fall into despair. I am 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 belly in the foreground, an endless ocean behind her. Another photo shows a Michelin-starred restaurant with an intricate dish in front of her and a large glass of wine. The next is a beautiful cocktail on a beach in Thailand.