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“And there is your cup of hot sugar,” I teased right back, and we tapped our paper cups together before heading through the hallway to her office. “How are things going this week?” I asked once I sat down on the other side of her desk.
Maria was myonlyfamily, but she had an extended one of her own that included as many children in need as she could home. She’d started out small, but had eventually expanded her offices to include a certified estate where those who couldn’t be placed in a foster home right away could stay and have some sense of stability before they transitioned to the next.
“Same day, different people in need,” she said, settling behind her desk.
I sipped my black coffee, sighing as the intensity hit my tongue. The caffeine wasn’t medically proven to help with my headaches or the voices—in fact, it was supposed to hinder them—but somehow, a strong cup always dulled the ache behind my eyes.
“How are you, honey?” Maria asked, concern crinkling her warm blue eyes. Her dark hair was up in a bun, not a strand out of place, and she looked perfectly put together in a cream-colored pantsuit. The woman had always radiated this warmth and exuberance I’d tried to mimic throughout my life, but I’d never be able to master her sense of style.
“I’m…” I blew out a breath before hiding behind another sip of coffee. Maria had taken me on as her own after my mother passed. One of the rare kids who she’d raised in her estate and never moved out. I loved her, thought of her as family, which made the words tangle in my throat. She was the only one I had to tell about my condition, and even though she likely already suspected, I had to give her the truth. “I’m dying,” I blurted out the words.
“Child,” she said, shaking her head. She set down her coffee and rounded the desk to take the seat right next to me. Her hands gripped mine. “Is it like you suspected?”
I nodded. “Just like Mom.”
Emotion churned in her eyes, but she kept her chin held high. “When do you start treatment?”
“I’m not,” I said, and she flashed me a chiding look. “Don’t look at me like that. I won’t spend the last days I have going through treatment.”
“But, Grace—”
“No, but Grace,” I said. “Maria, you know if there was hope that I would survive this, I would absolutely do treatment.” Her eyes softened. “But there is no surviving this. Eventually, it will kill me. Skipping treatment merely gives me time without being eaten alive or zombified by drugs. Time to do the things I’ve always wanted to.”
She nodded, releasing my hands. I leaned back in my seat, sighing.
“I just wish I hadn’t wasted so much time getting my doctorate. I’ll never have clients now or feel the satisfaction of helping someone find the tools they need to navigate their mental health.”
I’d wanted to set up my own private practice right here in Maria’s offices.
That dream dissolved into a mist, along with any others I may have entertained over the years, like owning a dog.
Maria, for the first time in the history of forever, looked at a loss for words.
“Should’ve dated more too,” I said, just to fill the silence. “Danced more. Ate more.” I shook my head. “Traveled more. Instead, I spent my life worrying about making money, juggling two jobs just to pay for my college degree that is now useless.”
I’d already quit my barista gig and my bartender gig.
“Grace, you’ve never been one to feel sorry for yourself,” Maria said, but I could still see the grief building in her eyes, like she was already feeling my loss despite me sitting right next to her.
I wished it were different, wished I wasn’t causing her this kind of pain, but she deserved to know. It would’ve hurt worse if one day she simply found out I’d passed without telling her about my condition.
“Now, you’ve been dealt a shitty hand, my love,” she continued. “You really have. You were meant for much more than this, but we can’t roll back time, now, can we?”
“Wouldn’t that be fun?” I grinned at the thought.
“If you could, what would you do?” she asked.
“I’d worry less and have more fun,” I answered immediately.
I spent so much of my life in a constant state of worry—worry over what would happen to me if Maria ever grew tired of me and got rid of me, worry over pulling my weight, never being a burden to anyone. Worry over money and school and boys and all the things that were just exhausting. And fear, so much fear. Fear of spiders and heights and roller coasters and anything that put my body at risk of harm. Joke was on me—my body had done that just fine on its own.
“I’d go bungee jumping and skydiving and I’d eat all the dessert. I’d worry about calories less and try new foods more. I’d travel to all those places I’ve dreamed about—Italy and Paris and Ireland.”
Maria gave me a soft smile, then patted my leg. “Then what the hell are you doing wasting time here in my office?”
I gaped at her, but her smile deepened. “I love you, Grace. If I could take you to do those things, I would. But I’ve got people here who need me.”
“I know that,” I said. “I would never ask you to.”
