"Of course I did. I had to replace your flowers, right? Besides, I miss you. How are you feeling?"
"Aw, I miss you too, sweetheart." She moved to place her other hand over mine, giving it a squeeze. "I feel better." The lie came easily to her, and I forced a smile in return. We both pretended to believe it, it was easier than accepting the reality that she was slowly dying, battling for whatever years she could.
I thought of the photos in my bag, of the half-siblings living in luxury while my mother wasted away in a county hospital.
I wanted answers, to find out what she'd known, but I bit my tongue. I didn't want to stress her out, or cause tension between us right now. Not when she was here, when her life was no longer promised. The treatments didn't seem to be helping so far.
"The doctor mentioned a new treatment," she said, squeezing my fingers weakly. "But it's experimental. Insurance won't cover it."
My heart sank. Of course they wouldn't cover it, they'd been so difficult to get help from already, what little we'd succeeded in getting. It was like they wanted us to die sometimes. "How much?"
"Too much." She waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it."
But worry was all I did these days. Worry about the mortgage on our small house, one we'd taken out to cover her medical bills, bills that continued to grow and had eaten all her savings up. She'd paid my tuition, having set aside money just for me from the payments my father had sent, and every day, I wished I'd never gone away to college. That she still had the money to pay for everything. To save herself.
Instead, I'd gotten my Bachelor's degree in Accounting, wanting a strong career to grow in, one she'd supported me for Too bad her health had plummeted not long after I'd graduated and started working, and then with her diagnosis, I'd come home. In my hometown, the only work I could get to support us was in the local accounting firm, which paid nowhere near what I'd been offered in the city.
I worked night shifts as a waitress where I could to try to stay on top of the growing bills. The house my mother had been only years from paying off fully had been sold, and we'd downsized. Even then, it wasn't enough, and with her cancer not going into remission, we'd had to take out a mortgage, her insurance failing her.
"I'll figure something out," I promised. I had to.
She'd been my rock, the woman who'd done everything for me, helped me become who I was, loved me with everything she'd had. Who'd taught me to ride a bike and to cook, who'd wiped away the tears after my first high-school heartbreak, who'd read to me before bed as a child and promised to protect me always. She was everything to me. All I had.
And I had to protect her now, had to save her.
She studied my face. Even diminished by illness, she could read me better than anyone. "You look tired, sweetheart. Are you working too many hours at the firm?"
"I'm fine." I forced another smile. "Just busy with tax season." She didn't even know about my waitress job. She'd scold me and tell me to quit it if she knew, and I couldn't afford to do that.
We talked about nothing important for the next hour—where she was in her book, her favorite nurse, the show she'd started watching, my fictional problems at work. I didn't tell her about finding my father's obituary or his other children. She'd spent years insisting he'd loved me, us, in his way, that he was always busy. I couldn't bear to tarnish whatever comfort those beliefs gave her now.
When visiting hours ended, I kissed her forehead and promised to return tomorrow.
"Elena," she called as I reached the door, glancing at the pink bouquet beside her. "Thank you for the lilies, they're beautiful. I also loved the pink ones."
I know.
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
Outside the hospital, I waited until I climbed into my car before I let the tears come. Fourteen years. He'd been dead for fourteen years, and we'd struggled the past few years while his "real" family lived in luxury. The injustice burned like acid in my chest.
My phone buzzed with a text from my boss, reminding me about the Johnston account due tomorrow. I wiped my eyes and started the engine of my cheap, rusting sedan—my downgrade to help cover costs. The life of Elena Peters didn't stop for grief or rage or the discovery of half-siblings who'd never have to worry about insurance coverage.
The unfairness of it all crushed down on me. My mother had worked hard most of my life, never complaining, never missing a bill payment. She deserved better than that damned sterile room, better than experimental treatments we couldn't afford.
"I'll figure something out," I promised her as I pulled out of the parking lot. "I always do."
It was past midnight when I finally called Ivy. I sat on the couch we'd had since childhood, our small home too quiet and empty without my mother's presence. I'd taken to rarely being at home if I could help it, not wanting to feel the loss of her already even though she still breathed. I wasn't ready to lose her, and the thought was crushing.
"What's wrong, is it your mom?" Ivy answered quickly despite the ungodly hour. She used to answer these late calls with 'someone better by dying', but ceased after my distraught call about my mother's cancer. It was a small change, but it reminded me just how important my mom had become to her as well.
"She's still fighting, but… my father… he's dead."
Rustling sounds met me as she presumably sat up. "Wait, what?"
"Anthony. My father." The words felt strange to say out loud. "Died fourteen years ago."
"Shit, Elena." Her tone softened immediately. "I'm coming over."
