Sacrifice

by Adriana Locke

  “You’re the moodiest son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever met,” she says.

  “You don’t mind that when you’re getting the cock.”

  “Whatever.” She takes off, leaving Will and I alone. I glance over my shoulder and spot Adam and Dane at the bar. They nod but seem to sense my mood and don’t get up.

  I take a long pull of my beer.

  “Is something actually wrong or are you just being an asshole for fun?” Will asks.

  “I wish.”

  “So?”

  I lean back and rest my hands on the table. I consider whether to tell him or not. I think about all the things we’ve been through together. He was a part of so much craziness with Gage and I back in the day. Finally, I say, “Everleigh has cancer.”

  The sound of that being said out loud is just mind-blowing. It obliterates a piece of the numbing sensation I’ve felt since finding out. It chips away a chunk of the possibility that maybe it’s not real.

  Will’s eyes grow wide. “What?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aw, fuck. Man, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  “What is there to say?”

  He clears his throat and I can see him trying to come to terms with the news. “How’s Julia?”

  “How do you fuckin’ think she is?”

  “Dude, just askin.’”

  I rub my forehead. I want to rip something in half, make something fucking feel what I’m feeling. It’s a sensation I haven’t felt in a while. It’s the same feeling I used to get as I stood on the mat and watched the guy across from me bounce up and down to psyche me out or, more likely, talk himself into actually walking across the mat. It’s the same overwhelming urge I’d get when some asshole would run his suck in the neighborhood and Gage wasn’t around to talk sense to anyone.

  The problem with this is that I like this feeling. It’s one feeling I know what to do with, how to manipulate. I just don’t have anything to be on the receiving end of my rage tonight.

  I take another drink. I try to talk sense to myself, remind myself that going ape-shit crazy isn’t going to fix jack shit.

  “Really, is there anything I can do to help? Shit, you guys have been through more than one family should have to take.”

  “Do you think if there was something we could do that I wouldn’t have already fucking done it?” I grit my teeth, feeling my jaw pulse. “She’s all the family I have, Will,” I say, washing over the fact that we are, by blood, distant cousins. It’s some sort of strange coincidence that our fathers were cousins, but Will’s family are not people I’ve ever known more than acquaintances. “I’ll do whatever I have to do to make her okay. She has to be okay.”

  “Maybe it’s something they can just take care of? Can they just, I don’t know, kill it? Get it out of her or something?”

  “I don’t know. Jules is taking her Monday, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah.” I spin the bottle between my fingers, watching the liquid slosh inside. “I left last night before we could discuss the rest.”

  “You didn’t call her today?”

  “I stayed late. I stayed with Ever for a long time and just let Jules have some time to herself. By the time I left, she was asleep and I didn’t want to wake her. Today, I . . .” I shrug again. “I called but I guess Ever was there or something because she didn’t seem to want to discuss it.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s understandable.”

  “I guess. But damn it, Will! I know shit happens in life, but this isn’t fucking fair. I was so busted up when I got hurt. I remember thinking, hell, I remember thinking yesterday!, how unfair it was. That I should’ve been fighting.” I bite back a laugh. “But that’s fucking nothing. This, what’s happening to Ever, this is unfair.”

  “I’m sorry, Crew. Really.”

  I shrug and turn my sights on the television. I don’t want to think about this if I can help it. I’ve mulled it over a million ways and I feel so fucking helpless.

  “Now for the news that’s dominated the Mixed Martial Arts headlines today,” the announcer on the television says. “Raul Reyes defeated Antonio Pampas in the NAFL’s Fight 106 last night. The winner of that fight was slated to take on Hunter Davidson in just three months in Boston. It was announced today, Bruce, that Reyes has pulled out of that fight already.”

  “Yes, Mike, it’s a pretty shocking revelation that’s shaken the MMA community. Davidson’s camp is thirsty, wanting to keep their guy fighting while he’s hot. They know the best contenders in his weight class are Reyes and Pampas. With Reyes dropping out, Davidson has effectively cleaned out the division. There’s nobody left to challenge him.”

  “That’s true, Bruce. It’s yet to be seen what the Davidson camp will do. They’ve released a statement saying Davidson has nothing to prove against Pampas, since he lost. There’s just no one else without going up a weight class.”

  “Absolutely. He’s gone through his opponents like a hot knife to butter. The only time he’s been stopped, even as an amateur, was in his last collegiate bout. This is definitely problematic for the Davidson camp.”

  “Well, we’ll have to hang tight and see what they do. We’ll be right back after a commercial break.”

  A highlight reel of Davidson’s victories flashes in time with their music. He’s flexing, doing back flips off the top of the cage, acting like a complete dumbass.

  I turn to look across the table and Will’s eyeing me warily. My blood is boiling hot, burning my veins as it pumps through my tension-filled body.

  “Is the world trying to piss me off?”

  Will leans back, giving me space.

  “Why can’t that motherfucker die? Why can’t he be sick? He’s a fucking disease to everyone that’s ever fucking met him!” I seethe.

  Any attempt at responding by Will is stopped by Adam. He gives me a tight smile, sensing my less-than-stellar mood, and talks to Will. I ignore them both, not in the mood to discuss stupid shit. I hear Adam talking about some chick he’s banging and it incenses me. He’s worried about some piece of pussy and my five-year-old niece is fighting for her life.

  Fuck this.

  I scoot back from the table, knocking over the drink menu. I turn down the hall and into the restroom. I kick at a closed stall door. It swings open, letting me know I’m alone.

  I growl into the air, the numbness completely fucking gone. I feel the pain, every fucking ounce of it, rip through me like fire through ice.

  I smash the paper towel box on the wall until it hangs by one screw. I hit it again and it falls to the floor. I fill the air with a string of profanities, trying to quell the fury ripping me to shreds. I kick the box across the floor, watching it burst open as it hits the opposing wall. I watch it spin in a circle before resting.

  My chest heaves, air rushing into my lungs, and I hope when I blow it out, I’ll feel a bit calmer.

  No luck.

  Still infuriated, I burst back through the door, not any more leveled than when I went in.

  I look down the hallway towards the front. The chimes ring as the two punks from outside walk in. They’re nodding their heads, the ass end of their jeans dragging the ground.

  They walk to the bar, the one on the right setting down a brown paper bag. They glance around, talking to one another in whispers. Jordyn talks to them a minute, but doesn’t approach the bar the same way she normally does.

  The air has changed. The vibe in the room is completely different. I can hear a tick of a bomb that doesn’t exist.

  Something’s off.

  Dane and Adam are sitting at a table by the door. As I start towards the bar, they catch my eye, sensing the same thing I am. They start to stand and I motion with my eyes for them to sit back down. “How ya doin’?” I level up to the bar beside one of the guys. He tries to brush me off, his eyes on Jordyn.

  “I’ve seen you on the television,” I say. “You’re a rapper, aren’t you? What’s your name? Quarter or something?”


  He ignores me and whispers something to his buddy. I act like I lose my balance and fall against the bar, bumping him enough to make him hit the brown bag. He turns to face me, scowling, and the bag opens enough so the nickel-plating inside catches the light.

  Pistol. Just like I thought.

  I find Jordyn watching us from the well. I shoot her a look and realization washes over her face. I nod subtly and she backs away, fear written all over her.

  “Get lost, you little drunk ass bitch.” The guy next to me pops his shoulder, trying to toss me off of him like he’s gonna intimidate me. I want to laugh so damn bad, but I don’t.

  Not yet.

  “Ah, I love that one song you sing,” I murmur, watching them both. Quickly, I scan the area around me. I spot a heavy beer mug to my right and I drag it to me.

  “GDFR” by Flo Rida begins to play across the speakers and I chuckle at the irony.

  It’s going down for real, all right.

  The paper bag crinkles as his hand begins to draw the pistol out. His eyes are still fixed on Jordyn.

  “Get the money outta the register,” his friend barks in an accent I can’t place.

  The guy beside me removes the gun from the bag. He turns it toward me.

  I raise the beer mug and smash it against his wrist. The sound of bones crunching rips through the room. The gun slams against the bar, skids across it and topples over the change collector, clanking against the floor.

  He screams like a little girl and tries to pull back. His hand is limp, the bones that normally hold it straight now disjointed.

  My left arm flies up under his chin. I take a fist full of his sweatshirt and jerk him across my body. His green sneakers pass by my eyes as he flies a good five feet in the air, slamming through a pub table against the other wall. The weight of his body causes the table to disintegrate and he crashes through it, napkin dispensers and advertisements caving in on top of him.

  Movement from his friend catches my attention. His eyes are wide, badass gangster to scared-shitless little boy in an instant. He’s moving backwards slowly, glancing around for an exit.

  The mug still in my hand, I sit it down. I watch my next opponent back against a stool. As his legs touch the fabric, his eyes go even wider, realizing that there is no escape. Not tonight. Not without being royally fucked up, anyway.

  I pull back like I’m gonna punch him in the face and he does what every guy does that’s watched too much fighting on TV. He hunkers to his right. Instead of punching him, I yank him towards me. His face is met with my elbow. It slams against him, driving his nose into this skull. I feel the bones cave and splinter under the force.

  His head knocks to the side, whole teeth and pieces of others fly from his mouth, rattling down the bar like someone just rolled dice.

  I release his shirt, his eyes about ready to bulge out of his head. He stumbles against the stool. His hands are shaking as they grasp at his already-swelling and bloodied mouth.

  My senses come back in full force, the silence in the room deafening. I can smell the fear on the guy across from me, the panic in the air as the patrons scattered about watch with bated breath. I’ve been in this position dozens of times and there’s nothing like it.

  I do a quick scan of the room. Jordyn is standing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hand over her mouth. Various people are standing around, mouths open. Will is still sitting in his chair, calmly sipping his beer. Our eyes meet and he chuckles, completely amused.

  “Yahtzee,” Will says, breaking the silence. I shake my head and he laughs, standing up. He walks over to the first guy, who’s lifting his head, trying to make sense of what’s going on. In one swift movement, Will’s boot meets his face. His head falls back against the floor. Will looks at me and shrugs. “Just needed to be sure.”

  I turn back to the Toothless Wonder. His arms are still out to his sides, the same position they were in after I hit him. He starts to fall forward. I hook my arms under his and catch him before he completely lands against me.

  “Was it worth it?” I ask, holding him up. He gurgles his answer, blood trickling down the side of his face. “You came in my fucking bar and scared my favorite bartender. That was a fuck-up.” His eyes grow wider, the gurgling picking up pace. I grin. “I think you need to learn a lesson.”

  He starts to yell but it never has a chance to escape his lips. The top of my head drives into his skull once, twice, three times, before I let him go. He melts to the floor.

  The bar goes wild. People start shouting and clapping. Jordyn collapses against the wall. I just stand in the middle of the chaos and try to get the adrenaline coursing through my veins to slow down.

  Will grabs my shoulder and laughs. “That was more entertainment that I expected to get tonight.”

  I laugh.

  “You’d probably have managed even if I hadn’t jumped in. But I couldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t want you to look like a pussy in front of your fan club,” he laughs, nodding to Adam and Dane.

  “You’re such a fuck-up, Will.”

  He roars with laughter and heads over to Adam and Dane. They have a cell phone aimed at the guy on the floor.

  “Dude! You just got knocked the fuck out by Crew Fucking Gentry! You’re gonna be famous,” Adam exclaims.

  Dane laughs. “I can’t believe it. We finally got to see him fight. He’s better than I even thought!”

  “That was epic. I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Adam says and turns to look at me with a look of amazement on his face. “You’re the man!”

  JULIA

  I line up the paint pots across the paper towel that lays down the center of the kitchen table. The top of the table is still a bit sticky from this morning’s pancakes, but I don’t really care. My mind is too preoccupied to worry, for once, about spilled syrup.

  Tomorrow is the day of reckoning. It will make me or break me.

  Dear God, please let it be okay.

  In a number of hours, which I refuse to count because that will only increase my panic. I have to take Everleigh back to the hospital to get the finalized results from her tests.

  I know our lives will change forever once the sun comes up.

  I think the worst is not knowing exactly what we’re fighting. The possibilities are endless. I caught myself trying to Google things last night, but that only made it worse. I didn’t even understand the majority of what I read and what I did read, I wish I hadn’t.

  A cold chill lazily drifts through my body and I shudder, remembering some of the pictures and language that was used. None of that should be used in the same breath as a child.

  My child.

  I unscrew the lids and listen to her singing “Sugar” by Maroon 5 in her bedroom. It both breaks and heals my heart. I keep holding on to some thread of hope that’s she not really sick. That it’s a mistake. My grandma used to say that God would never give you more in a day than you can handle. If that’s true, this diagnosis can’t be right. Because I can’t handle it. Not my baby girl.

  I listen to her sing and I know that she’s dancing in that goofy way, like me, around her bedroom. I know her smile, the way her right cheek has a hint of a dimple, better than the back of my hand. I’m sure the sparkle in her little eyes is shining and I don’t want to dim that. Not now and not ever.

  That’s why I still haven’t told her.

  Even though she’s just five, the word cancer would scare her. I don’t want her to worry or be afraid of what’s to come. I know the feeling of being little like that and worrying about things that are way bigger than you are. I want her to have something I never did: the feeling of safety, of being loved, of knowing she has someone that will make it all okay one way or the other.

  Because, after all, this whole thing might be a mistake.

  I set a piece of paper and a watercolor brush by her chair and mine and call for her. She comes in, a wide smile and black circles under her eyes. My heart pulls in my chest. I try to focus on t
he good, on the grin, but I can’t help but see the bad.

  “Are we painting?” She climbs up in her seat and brushes her hair off her shoulders.

  “I thought maybe it would be fun. We haven’t painted in a while.”

  “I love to paint,” she says, dipping her brush into the tub of yellow. She swirls it around on the page. “At school, Mrs. Yeryar painted a tree. And we all put our thumbs in paint and put them on the tree like leaves. You know what I mean?”

  I nod, watching her rinse the brush off in the cup of water I placed between us.

  “It’s really cool. It’s like a rainbow tree! Mrs. Yeryar says it’s our class family tree. It’s very pretty.”

  “I bet it is.”

  She sets the paper aside and gets out a fresh sheet. Carefully, she draws a brown line in the middle of the page and then thickens it. Her tongue sticks out the side of her mouth in concentration while she drags her brush out to the sides.

  She drops it and dips her thumb into the yellow jar. She presses it very lightly against the paper. I hand her a tissue and she wipes off her thumb, appreciating her work. “Now your turn, Mommy.”

  I dip my thumb into the red paint and press it against the paper on the other side.

  Ever studies the paper. She grabs her brush and dips it in the blue paint. Her eyes are narrowed in total concentration as she draws a blue swirl at the top of the page.

  “That’s Daddy,” she says. “I made him a cloud so he’s high in the sky and can watch us.”

  My heart can’t take it.

  I stand up and kiss the top of her head. I take the sheet and lay it by the stove to dry. My chest has a complete hole gaping in the center of it, like my entire soul is bleeding out. Everyone I’ve loved in my life have left me or been taken away from me. My daughter should be an exception to the rule.

  “I’m going to paint a monkey,” Ever says, a laugh in her voice. “That’s what Uncle Crew calls me. Maybe I’ll give this to him!”

  “That would be nice.”

  Crew.

  I haven’t seen him since I left him laying in Ever’s bed on Friday night. He called yesterday, but Ever was standing next to me and I didn’t want to answer his questions in front of her. I was also a little embarrassed about having broken down in front of him and needed a little space between us again.