Page 1 of At His Beck & Call

Chapter 1

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 surgicaltable, 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 evendying,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.