Page 57 of Don't Go
I sat at the kitchen table. I had a cup of coffee I'd made and not drunk. The medical reality landed on me. It landed every time Beau Cross wasn't in the front of my brain — which had been less often than I liked. The cardiologist'sspring window isn't medically defensible.The cardiologist'scontingencyplanning.The cardiologist's letter to the foundation, which I'd asked him to write, and hadn't heard back about.
I picked up the phone, and I called the foundation.
The intake coordinator picked up after one ring. She was the same coordinator I'd been getting for fourteen months. I knew her name. She knew mine. We had the relationship of two women who had been through a marriage and a divorce together.
"Sabrina."
"Hi, Margaret."
"I'm so sorry — "
"You don't have her on the schedule?"
"Sabrina, I — the medical review committee is — "
"You don't have her on the schedule?"
A long pause.
"No."
"Did you receive Dr. Reyes's letter?"
"We received it. It is — being processed."
I put my elbow on the table. I put my forehead in my hand.
"Margaret, I've walked my daughter to school four times since Dr. Reyes wrote that letter. Each of those four mornings, she has held my hand harder than the last. I have a daughter whose cardiologist has put in writing that the spring window isn't medically defensible. I have a foundation that is processing the letter. Tell me what you want me to do with that information."
"I — Sabrina — I'm so sorry — I don't have anything for you today."
"I know." I sighed.
She said politely, "I'll call you the second I do."
I hung up.
My shift at Half Past was slow.
The bar was half-empty. The weeknight regulars were in their corners. The string of overhead bulbs was on the dim setting because someone had told the manager it saved money.
I was working faster than I needed to.
I was making drinks before customers had finished ordering them. I was rotating the bottles on the back shelf for the third time. I needed to keep myself busy. If my hands stopped, my brain started, and my brain had been running the same loop for two weeks.
I hadn't checked my phone all day. I had it buried in the bottom of my purse under the receipts, the lipstick I never used, and the half-empty pack of gum. I had taken to letting it stay buried, and I'd been telling myself this was discipline.
A guy came up to the bar.
Late twenties. Decent shoes. Shoulders up. He sat on the stool in front of me. It felt like he'd been holding something in for hours and had come here to put it down.
"Whiskey, neat."
I poured, slid, and rang.
He stared at the glass. Then looked at me. "Sorry. Can I — can I ask you something?"
"I'm working."
