Страница 22 из 72
“Don’t push me, Sy,” I beg, knowing he’s my weakness.
“I'm not pushing. I’ve given you time for that to settle in. I think your time is up.”
“Sy—”
“Your act is not working for me. That smile you hide behind doesn’t fool me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I step out of his space, needing a moment to breathe.
“This perfected act of yours. You think you have everyone fooled.” He shakes his head. It’s a slow shake, which makes me forget the panic that’s rising. Slowly, anger takes its place.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. How dare you!” My voice rises and at the same time heat floods my cheeks.
“Come on, baby. You can do better than that,” he smirks, setting my blood on fire in frustration.
“Fuck you!”
“There she is. I’m starting to see her,” he whispers, his eyes shining with excitement. “The real you is still in there. I just have to piss you off to convince her to come out.” His voice is low and filled with amusement, making me angrier. My hands go to his chest, an impulsive reaction to his accusation.
“I’m here. I’ve always been here.” I push hard, but his hands come to my wrists, trapping them in his grip.
“You might think you’ve been here, but Holly, you’ve been missing, and I’m not going to let you do that anymore.”
My defenses fall, his hands on my skin unraveling me. “I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t want this pressure. I’m not brave enough,” I foolishly admit. I don’t know why I cave to this man, admitting truths that don’t need to be voiced. I’ve done so well keeping my shit together, yet now he’s in my face for one day, I’m giving in.
“You don’t need to be brave, Holly.”
“Sy,” I murmur, trying to pull out of his grasp, but he holds on tighter, forcing me to forfeit.
“Holly, don’t say anything. Just trust that I’ve got you. Let me help you, okay?” His grip on my wrists loosens, but I don’t have the strength to fight him anymore. I stand before him exposed, stripped back, my body begging for comfort, for affection, for the touch of another. His hands move down mine, and his fingers part my own, locking them between his. The warmth of his touch takes some of the panic away.
“Let's just start with di
PAST
Sy
“Do you know that sharks rarely get cancer?” she asks from the window as she soaks up the morning sun. Her question jolts me, keeping me stuck in the same position for a few minutes as I process her words. I’m not surprised at her random fact about sharks. It’s her favorite topic, but the cancer word has my full attention. When we first found out about the cancer, Katie didn’t want to label it. In her mind, labeling Keira’s disease was giving it power, so we decided to tell Keira she had special blood that needed important medicine to make her better. At the time, it was appropriate. She was five years old and didn't need to know the ugliness of what cancer was. As the years went by and with the cancer returning, we never called it what it was. Always just her special blood that needed more medicine.
“I didn’t know that,” I answer her question, coming back to the moment.
“It says it has to do with the 'epigonal organ' they have. We don’t have it.” She continues to read from her Shark Dictionary we bought her last month.
“I did not know that either, sweetheart.” I keep my voice level and as calm as I can manage.
“Do you think when I see God, I should tell him that people need the epigonal organ?” she asks. Her tone is so serious it takes me a few seconds to figure out how to answer her and not scream in anger. She's been asking questions like this the last week. I
“I think that would be a good idea,” I reply, the only thing I can say at this moment. I want to get up and put my fist through the wall, scream at the top of my lungs at the injustice, but none of it will take away the fact that my daughter is dying. The special blood that needs more medicine just isn't going to cut it anymore. My daughter has cancer. She's going to die.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Holly
“I have a nine o’clock with Dr. Elliot,” I tell the young receptionist.
“Take a seat,” she smiles and nods over at the quiet waiting room before going back to tapping away on her keyboard. It’s the morning after Sy walked me to work, hung around all day and then proceeded to buy me di
“Holly,” Dr. Elliot calls from her office, breaking me from my thoughts.
“Hi.” I stand and make my way into her office. Her room is not what I was expecting when I first walked in last month. I had this vision that I would walk into a stuffy room, lie back on a leather couch and tell her all my worries and have her feel sorry for me.
“Take a seat,” she says, motioning to the sofa across from her armchair. Placing my bag down next to me, I sit back into the cream suede sofa. I take a pillow from beside me and place it on my lap, relaxing into the comfort of her room.
“How have you been, Holly?” she inquires, sitting across from me. Her pencil skirt and blouse are so neatly pressed I wonder how she manages to pull off her perfect look. Her blonde hair is blow-waved into a neat bob style, just like every other time I've come, and her perfectly applied lipstick complements her outfit. The woman is so well put together; she makes me look like a hot mess.
“I’m good,” I answer as I fold my hands together, stopping myself from fidgeting. I always hate this part. The niceties of how my week was, before getting into the real reasons of why I come here once a week. Insecurity eats away at me as the sadness attempts to consume my thoughts. I started seeing Dr. Kendal Elliot when I didn’t even want to get out of bed. I didn’t understand why I was so upset, why I kept pushing everyone away. My family didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to help me grieve. It wasn’t until I had a visit from Nix that I realized I wasn’t coping. The badass biker telling me I needed to pull my head out of my ass was enough to get me up and moving. I stood there and cried for what I had become. He held me while the waves of emotion washed over me, and then pulled out his phone and made my first appointment.
“Want to start with a page from your book?” Dr. Elliot smiles, returning me to the present moment. She knows how much I hate this part. I’ve tried all my tricks to get out of it, leaving my notebook at home and begging her to read it out for me. I hate the anticipation of it, of listening to the words pour out of me when I’m feeling most vulnerable.
“Sure,” I reply, knowing the quicker this is done, the quicker we can move on. Taking a deep breath, I flip to my most recent entry in the diary I’ve been keeping for the last few weeks.
“I didn’t really get much down,” I lie. This journal is filled with so much shit, I just hate repeating it.
“That’s okay. Let’s hear what you have,” she counters. If I weren’t about to let her into my darkness, I would smile at her persistence.