Page 13 of Sacrifice
Growing up in Dorchester, the streets were a hard place to be. With a mother working two jobs, Gage and I learned to scrap real quick. It was the survival of the fittest and we always had each other’s back. He never failed to back me up, regardless of what mess I’d gotten myself in.
And I got myself in some messes.
At some point, fighting became an acquired taste, a way to feel alive. Fighting was something I was good at, something that got me credibility and respect on the streets. If Coach D’Amato hadn’t broken up one of my fights in the parking lot of Shaw’s Supermarket when I was fourteen and introduced me to wrestling, God knows what would’ve happened.
Gage was more of a peacekeeper by nature. He’d avoid situations that he knew would probably result in a fight and try to keep everyone happy. My brother could bang with the best of them—he had one of the best right hands I’ve ever seen—but fighting wasn’t his go-to like it was mine. He’d fight if he had to, but he tried to keep us out of trouble.
But trouble was something that just found me.
And the stress of that probably helped kill my mother. And it’s what definitely killed my brother.
I sprint the last few yards home, feeling my lungs burn, my legs like lead. It’s a beautiful distraction from the ache in my mind.
* * *
JULIA
I warpthe sweater tighter around my body and pick up the ink pen. I can hear the people milling about outside. Their music is up entirely too high for this time of night.
I go through the numbers one last time. I will pay the rent in the morning for the next month and the minimum due on my credit card. That will leave me with just enough to cover groceries for the next week if I am careful.
I write out the rent check and then watch everything go blurry behind a wall of tears.
I hate this feeling.
I despise having to worry how I am going to feed my child. I hate the balancing game of “What can I afford this week?” I hate the hope I have that Crew will be by with a little charity because I don’t want to need it. I don’t want to depend on anyone, least of allhim.
The tears run freely down my face, and I struggle to keep them from becoming full-blown sobs. I’m so tired. I’m exhausted in every way, in ways I didn’t know existed a couple of years ago.
When I married Gage, we never had a lot, but he always made sure we hadenough.He was smart and worked hard. I worked until I had Ever and then he didn’t want me working, so he picked up a second job at night.
And then he died.
The loss of him was pure devastation on every level.
Not only did I lose my best friend and the best person I’d ever known, but my entire life changed, too. It took our savings and then some to bury him and even then, it wasn’t a burial I wanted him to have. He deserved so much more than I was able to give him. He gave me the world and I gave him a small stone headstone with a name and date on it. “Loving husband and father” is written in a canned script on his stone and, while this is true, it feels like such a slap to his face to have something so simple when he was so much more than that.
I think back to our house in Cambridge and the cozy life we had. How I’d have dinner made and he’d come home every single day and kiss me like it was the first time he’d ever kissed me.
The music outside drifts through the kitchen door, the vulgar lyrics shaking me out of my memory. I look around the room. The paint is peeling above the sink and the wallpaper is drooping in the corner. Reality hits me like a tidal wave, swamping me with more despair than I’ve felt in a long time.
An envelope with blue writing catches my attention, having hidden itself beneath another piece of paper. I pull it out and find the phone bill.
I let my head fall forward after checking the due date.
Gas or groceries next week?
I rest my head on the edge of the table, letting my tears fall to the floor. I feel like I’m failing at everything. I work as hard as I can for what? To barely make it? If it was just me, that would be one thing. But it’s not. I have Ever to take care of, to be a role model for. What am I showing her about life? That you just grin and bear it? Because I’m certainly not showing her how to conquer anything. I’m not showing her what a family feels like. I’m not giving her the traditions I wanted, the full, warm life I always dreamed my child would have. The life I didn’t have.
I’m tired of fighting it. It would feel so, so good to let go and justfall.To give up and cry, to throw in the proverbial towel. Because without Gage, what’s the use?
And then I see her in her little green Tinkerbell nightgown, clutching her tattered monkey in both arms. She’s watching me fall apart, her eyes wide, her hair a mess.
“Mommy? You okay?”
I wipe my eyes, trying to rid them of any signs that I’ve been crying. I feel guilty for even allowing myself to think the things that just crept into my mind. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Hard or not, I will keep fighting for her.
“Yeah, baby. Come here.” I sniffle.
