33
Istood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the door to the main house, willing myself to take the first step. I could hear someone moving around and the sounds of cooking in the kitchen.
I lifted my foot. Lowered it. Took a few steps back. Shuffled forward again.
I'd been at this for twenty minutes.
I had to tell my parents sooner or later. I wanted to put it off until later, but I knew I had to get it over with. I needed to book an appointment for the surgery within the next few weeks. The doctor said I wasn't in any immediate danger, but the longer we left it, the higher the risk of something going wrong.
I just didn't want to deal with the inevitable crying and anxiety and suffocating attention.
My mom would be the one who cried. She always tried to keep it from me, but I'd come to recognize that watery gaze and rapid blinking that meant she was holding back tears.
My dad would immediately go into anxious research mode. His hands would shake and his mustache would twitch as he demanded to know every detail of my diagnosis, expecting me to catalogue every symptom I'd experienced.
And of course, neither of them would let me out of their sight for more than five minutes until the surgery.
I moved away from the stairs and went to sit on the sofa. I couldn't deal with all that. Not yet.
It wasn't just my parents, either.
I had to talk to Tracey about my volunteering and the New Year's party. She'd have to find someone else to help her with it, because I'd still be recovering. She'd need to find replacements for all my volunteer shifts. Maybe she'd give them to Nancy and just hope the woman didn't keeping flaking out.
I'd also need to call the pet shop and try to arrange for some time off. As a part-time worker, I didn't get any vacation time or sick leave, but maybe they'd at least hold my job for me while I was away, instead of firing me on the spot when I explained I wouldn't be able to work for two months.
If I explained to them the severity of my condition, explained that it was medically necessary, maybe they would be understanding. Maybe they would give me a sort of leave of absence.
Or, maybe they would completely freak out and wonder whether I was going to drop dead in the middle of a shift and start treating me differently when I came back.
I hated that. I hated when people treated me like I was a bomb waiting to go off. It would have been better if I could keep my condition to myself. It was my own private business.
But if I didn't explain why I needed time off, maybe they'd refuse and I'd have to outright quit anyway.
There were no good choices.
I exhaled a deep sigh and closed my eyes.
A knock sounded on my door.
My heart leaped.
Only one person had ever come to my front door.
I tiptoed quietly to peek through the window.
It was Nathan.
My face went hot, then cold, feeling flustered and off balance.
Maybe I should have expected him to show up, after yelling all that stuff at him.
I took a moment to steady myself, then opened the door.
We stared at each other.
"My mom told me what you two talked about," Nathan said. "Can I come in?"
I moved away from the door, giving him permission without words.
