Page 56 of At His Beck & Call

“Hey, baby, did you sleep okay?”

He nods, yawning and sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “Are we having pancakes for breakfast?” he asks hopefully.

“You can’t have pancakes every day, Hen. We need to make sure you get good food, remember?”

“Just one?”

I sigh. I really am a pushover with this kid. “Alright, but we have to leave soon for the hospital.”

His little face doesn’t change; he just nods. It makes my heart ache to think how brave he is. Ever since we found out what was wrong, and he knew he was going to have surgery, he’s been quiet and thoughtful about it all.

I roll out of bed, smiling at the sound of his little footsteps pattering behind me.

“The puppy’s name is Steve,” he says as I start pulling the ingredients for pancakes out of the cabinets.

“The yellow puppy you told me about?”

He nods, sitting down at the table. “Gregory said it went to the bathroom behind the TV and the TV exploded.”

“Wow,” I say, laughing. “I think we’d need a bigger place if we got a dog, Hen. It would be kind of tiny in here, don’t you think?”

He looks around the apartment and smiles. “I like it here.”

“I’m glad, sweetie, I like it here, too,” I lie. I hate this apartment. I hate the smell as you walk in the front door, I hate our neighbor who smokes all day, and I hate the couple upstairs who scream at each other from dawn until dusk.

But I love my son, and being away from his father is better for both of us.

I swallow hard as I try to fight the fear in my chest. I can’t get the thought of a lonely operating room out of my mind, Henry’s tiny body lying on the bed with men and women staring down at him as they cut him open.

I wipe at my eyes, hiding my tears from him as I whisk the pancake batter.

“Can we have chocolate chips?” he asks.

“I don’t think we have milk chocolate, sweetie, just dark, last time you didn’t like that as much.”

“Youlike them, Mom. Put chocolate chips in for you.”

I twist around and blow him a kiss. He beams at me, and I add so much chocolate into the pancakes that we’ll probably both be in a sugar coma by the time we see the doctor.

The hospital lobby is enormous, with thick metal struts across the roof, bustling staff walking over the floor, and a high, glossy finish to everything.

Henry and I travel up to the third floor to meet with the doctor, but the closer we get, the quieter Henry becomes.

I can’t even imagine what it’s like for a six-year-old to process what he’s about to go through, if he even can. I feel useless and stupid for not having prepared him better, wishing I could make all this go away and just take him home.

His face is pale as we leave the elevator, but the hallway we step into has a huge picture of three cheerful bullfrogs in front of us. One of them has a speech bubble next to his mouth welcoming us to “The Jungle Wing,” and they’re all giving a thumbs-up.

Henry looks at them, then up at me.

“They look silly,” he says. “Bullfrogs don’t have thumbs.”

“Is that right?” I ask, smiling.

“And that one has a cowboy hat on.”

“Oh, well, all bullfrogs have cowboy hats, Hen,” I say, winking down at him as he giggles. “How else can they ride the dragonflies?”

Some of the color is returning to his cheeks as we walk up to the receptionist, who shows us where to go. There are two small waiting rooms to her right, both painted in bright colors with red and green chairs.