I know my father elected Cal to the board, but I want to scream that it’s not enough. It’s not enough for Cal to have the right to destroy what my father built. Just because Cal doesn’t see the clinic as being useful—maybe it’s not as glitzy andglamorous as the charity balls and traveling to foreign countries—doesn’t mean there aren’t people in this city who would be devastated by its loss.
Children not receiving the health care they need. Mothers and fathers going without to make sure their kids have it, only to leave behind single-parent households and orphans in their wake. At the clinic, I’ve seen people with something as simple as Type 1 diabetes on the brink of collapsing simply because they couldn’t afford their medication.
How frustrating, to have the diagnosis and know the treatment, but to line the pockets of someone else with your life.
“I appreciate that you’re willing to table the conversation,” I say, though I would much rather he take the conversationoffthe table altogether. “That clinic meant a lot to my father.”
Ronald nods and we say our goodbyes, and the second I’m off the call I let out a low, frustrated noise. The inheritance money is my only choice.
I can’t stop thinking about Juliette, the way she stomped out of my office. The flush on her cheeks and the flash in her eyes. And I can’t stop thinking about Gus—deserving the surgery, despite what the insurance company says. There’s no way she’d let me pay for it outright.
Juliette is the only woman that can step in on such short notice. I have until the first of the year to pull this off, and that’s just not enough time to find someone else.
Just the thought of doing that fills me with dread.
So how in the hell can I convince her to say yes?
Chapter 10
Jules
“Honey, please, just try not to get the peanut butter on your?—”
I turn the corner to find Gus sitting at the breakfast bar with peanut butter already smeared over his shirt. He gives me an adorable, lopsided smile and says, “Okay, Mommy. I won’t.”
He follows that with a thumbs-up, which is also covered in peanut butter.
Swallowing the frustration, I turn back into the hallway, throwing my towel in the overflowing hamper and reaching into the dryer, praying one of his school shirts will be in here.
“Yes,” I whisper, pulling out a little navy blue collared shirt that, while not ironed, is at least not covered in peanut butter. It’s not like I was going to win awards formost put togetherin the drop-off line anyway.
Really, it was my fault for giving him waffles and peanut butter unsupervised. Whose idea was it to make waffles a breakfast food for kids? Everything that goes on them—maple syrup, sprinkles, peanut butter—is sticky and messy. A nightmare.
“Up,” I say, after wiping his hands and face and pushing the remains of the waffle—which is fully desiccated—away from hislittle hands. He lifts his arms dutifully, and I slide the shirt over his head.
Muffled by the fabric, he asks, “Are you going to send my letter today?”
“Yes,” I say, carefully closing the tiny little navy button on his collar, and getting a whopping helping of peanut-butter breath as my prize. “I promise.”
At this point, Gus can dress himself, but on mornings like this I find myself slipping into a robot mode where I take over, not willing to spare the ten extra seconds it would take for him to put the shirt on backwards first, before finally turning it around.
I’m lucky enough to have a patient kid. I’ve seen the tantrums and fights other parents get into, but Gus has always been mild. Even a little spacey.
Which occasionally sends me into a worried tailspin. Is that dreamy look on his face due to the fact that his heart isn’t beating quite right? Or is that just his personality? Now, I scan him quickly, looking for signs that the worst has happened—that the little hole in his heart could rapidly turn into abighole without me knowing.
But he looks fine, squirming in his chair, ready to get down.
“Alright,” I say, glancing at the lime green clock on the oven. “We have to leave five minutes ago.”
“Mommy,” Gus says, while I kneel down and help him get his heel into his light-up shoe.
“Yes?”
“When will Santa get my letter?” Gus leans forward, putting a hand on my shoulder, and I resist the urge to just scoop him up and head to the couch, where we could snuggle and watch Paw Patrol together all day.
No—he needs to go first to Ettie’s, then to school, and I need to go to work, unless I want another full day of passiveaggressive comments about the company core values, one of which isalways be prompt.
That’s a shitty core value, in my opinion. But what do I know?
