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Mila
“What do you mean, you need me to pay in cash?”
The receptionist on the other side of the desk narrows her eyes at me. She’s tall and thin and exceptionally beautiful—but that’s nothing new in LA, where everyone looks like they’re going to audition for a modeling job or a movie role at any given moment. She’s wearing thin green cat’s eye glasses that slide down her nose a little, strands of blonde hair falling out around her face, and I wonder what she’s thinking as she looks at me. For someone working at a therapist’s office, she doesn’t seem to have a lot of empathy for my situation. She’s looking at me as if I’m an irritation, something to be dealt with as quickly as possible. Like I’m wasting her time.
“Your insurance doesn’t cover these services. Dr. Hargrave discussed this with you before, at your brother’s last appointment. And the usual payment wasn’t made. I’m afraid I’m going to need you to pay in cash before you leave.” She glances at her computer screen. “It’s three hundred and fifty for the hour.”
“I—” I swallow hard. “I don’t know if I can manage that today.”
I think of the roll of mostly dollar bills in my purse, left over from work last night. I’d planned on depositing it after Niki’s therapy session, so I could pay the rent. It’s already three days late. Utilities are due. I got a notice yesterday that my phone bill is on the verge of being turned off. Just thinking about it makes me want to curl into a ball and cry until my head aches, but that won’t solve anything.
The receptionist’s lips thin. No sympathy there. “I’m afraid that we won’t be able to schedule Nikolai’s next appointment if the bill isn’t paid today. And once a patient is taken off of Dr. Hargrave’s regular schedule, it’s very difficult to fit them back in. I’m afraid I can’t guarantee your brother future visits if you can’t pay.”
I take a deep, shaky breath, glancing at the hallway. Niki hasn’t come out of his session yet. I don’t want him to overhear any of this. Things have been difficult enough without him knowing about our financial struggles—or how difficult it is to pay for his therapy. He’s only eleven, but that’s old enough to understand if he hears. “Just let me make a call, alright?”
The receptionist nods, her expression still pinched. I step away from the desk, retreating to a chair in the waiting room that’s not near any of the other waiting patients. Quickly, I look for an all-too-familiar contact, feeling as if I’m holding my breath while it rings.
It rings again, and again, before it goes to voicemail. I close my eyes, feeling a small pang of defeat.
“Alfio—” I swallow hard. “It’s Mila. Please call me back. I’m not trying to pressure you—but the therapy bill wasn’t paid. We talked about it the last time—I know you’re a busy man. If you need something more from me, we can arrange it…” I bite my lip, trying not to think about what that something more might be. It doesn’t matter. If it means Niki is taken care of, it’s worth it.
Biting my lip, I quickly type out a text message. I know Alfio doesn’t like it when I call or text too much—he likes having me at his beck and call, but he wants to be the one in control. He doesn’t like it when I’m needy. But I’m too desperate to think about what the consequences might be.
Please at least text me back. I’m going to have to pay in cash for Niki’s therapy, and I won’t be able to cover the bills. I’ll have to pick up extra shifts, and I know how much you hate other men touching me. I’ll do whatever you need.
The text sounds as desperate as I feel, and I hate it. I hate all of this. But since Alfio took an interest in me, I’ve been able to take better care of Niki. I’ve seen improvements because of his therapy. And at the end of the day, that’s all that matters.
I’d sacrifice anything to make sure he’s safe and cared for. After losing our mother, I’m all he has left.
A minute ticks by, and then another. There’s no response, and I see the receptionist glancing at the clock, and then at me. In five minutes, the therapy session will be finished. If I haven’t paid by then, Niki is going to hear the conversation.
Taking another deep breath, I get up and go back to the desk, fishing out the roll of bills from my purse. I count them out, trying not to look at the receptionist, but when I pass the money over to her, I can see the judgemental look on her face.
“There. Can we schedule the next appointment now?” I try to say it sweetly enough to keep the tension out of my voice, but it’s difficult.
“Of course.” Her nose wrinkles as she looks at the cash, and then at me, but she takes it, turning back to her computer.
Five minutes later, just as she’s finishing up and printing out a reminder for me, the doorway down the hall opens and Niki comes out. He has his Batman backpack slung over one shoulder, and he’s not smiling, but I can see that he’s more relaxed than he was this morning. After the last year of being his sole caregiver, I’ve learned how to pick up on those little tells.
He comes straight to me, leaning into my side and wrapping his arms around my waist as I finish signing a release form to send to his school and take the reminder note. “Hey there, kiddo.” I reach down, ruffling his hair. “Want to go get some ice cream?”
Niki doesn’t say anything, but I feel him nod. I turn, guiding him out of the door of the waiting room and leaving all of that behind me. Now that he’s here with me, I need to make sure everything seems as if it’s alright.
Niki hasn’t spoken out loud since the car accident a year ago that killed our mother. He was in the car with her, trapped while the paramedics had to use the jaws of life to cut him out and retrieve her body. They were on their way to pick me up from ballet practice, and the guilt of that still lingers with me. I’d been in the middle of intense recitals leading up to a showcase, and my feet had been so sore that I hadn’t wanted to take the bus home.
I’ve channeled all that guilt into caring for Niki. But everything had been harder for him since the accident. He still hasn’t spoken, but I know the therapy is helping—there have been fewer panic attacks, fewer nightmares. It’s still not easy, but things are getting better. I have hope that in another year, he’ll be on the mend.
If he has to stop, I don’t know what will happen. It doesn’t matter what I have to do in order to keep Alfio paying for what I can’t afford.
There’s an ice cream shop a block away from Dr. Hargrave’s office, and Niki and I walk to it, his finger curled through the belt loop of my jeans. He’s done that every time we’re together for the past year—he always has to be holding on to me in some way. It makes having to leave him as much as I do so much harder.
I check my phone again, discreetly, as I push open the door to walk into the shop. I’m immediately hit with a wave of warm, sugar-scented air, and I feel a silent ripple of excitement go through Niki from where he’s standing, nearly pressed to my side.
There’s nothing from Alfio. Not even the most brusque of texts. I shove my phone back into my purse, feeling discouraged. He rarely goes for very long without responding. If he’s irritated with my having contacted him, he’ll threaten me in some way, or tell me how disappointed he is, starting off a game that I know all too well at this point—and one that will end with my begging for forgiveness and accepting his punishment.
It’s a game he loves. I’ve played right into it by contacting him with a desperation that sets me up for exactly what he likes. And there’s still no response—which unsettles me, anxiety seeping into my bones. It’s not the most rational feeling—he could be in a business meeting, or simply not in the mood to deal with me, which has happened before. But I have an instinctual, gut feeling that something is wrong.
It’s a feeling that’s rarely steered me wrong in the past.
