Page 40 of Sacrifice
“Doesn’t having a pussy make them your type?”
“You know my type: a little bit of sugar, a little bit of spice, and a hint of whore.”
“Have fun,” I say, shaking my head.
He laughs and closes the door behind him.
FIFTEEN
JULIA
I loathe waiting rooms.
They’re inhumane boxes of random people expecting bad news. You just eye each other but try not to make actual eye contact. You hear each other on the phone, crying, talking but try to act like you don’t hear any of it. You are all in there for some serious reason, maybe even life or death, and you have to maintain some sort of composure because if you totally break down, there are a bunch of strangers there that “won’t” be watching or hearing it.
I dig a notepad from my purse and try to keep my mind from going into a spiral.
I need to control what I can.
A theme of my life is feeling out of control, like the world spins and I’m always trying to catch up. I’ve battled that for a long time by taking care of the things that Ican.Sometimes it’s having the laundry done or the kitchen clean before bed, but those things allow me to feel as though I havesomesay in my life. Like Olivia said last night, I have to control what I can and let the other things go.
“Just think about it, Julia.”
“Olivia, I can’t do that to you. You do so much for us. I can’t move in with you.”
“Yes, you can. You need to realize how hard things are going to be and you’re going to need help.”
“I know, but I—”
“It’s okay to accept help. Especially now. You aren’t going to be able to work as much as you did and by living here, we can share the bills. I can take some of that responsibility off of you.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“I do. You can’t do this on your own.”
It felt like I was giving up, admitting defeat. But when I realized how many shifts of work I was going to miss and how much attention Ever was going to need, I realized I had to get real. Crew was right. I had to pick and choose my battles and cancer had already chosen me. War had been declared and I had to put all my resources towards it, even if that meant giving up a little pride.
I start making lists of hours I might be able to go into the office and hours I might be able to swing at Ficht’s based on the “cycles” the doctors have laid out. She’ll do a one-week on and two-weeks off rotation until we get her into the new therapy. While we want to hit it hard, we also need her body to stay strong and not be worn down from the treatment.
I grab a sip of the water bottle next to me and then start another list. This list covers things I need to get rid of before we move. I try to look at it objectively and not get as emotional as I did when doing this very same thing after Gage died and we moved into the apartment.
They’re just things. Things can be replaced.
It doesn’t make it any easier. Some of thesethingsare the last reminders of a life before things went bad in ways I’d never considered.
My purse shakes on the floor beside me, my phone ringing inside. I grab it and look at the screen. The number seems vaguely familiar. I think it’s Mr. Ficht.
“Hello?”
“Julia?”
I cup my hand over my forehead and squeeze my eyes tight. I consider just hanging up before anything else is said. I don’t know why she’s calling, but I know she’s going to want something. Although I normally have very little to offer her, I have even less now.
“Julia? It’s your ma.”
“Yeah?”
She snorts. “Well, don’t act so damn excited to hear from me.”
